Harry Grant’s story was finished amid a fresh shower of kisses and caresses from Robert and Mary. The captain learned now, for the first time, that he owed his deliverance to that hieroglyphic document that, eight days after his shipwreck, he had enclosed in a bottle and confided to the mercy of the waves.
But what did Jacques Paganel think during this recital? The worthy geographer revolved the words of the document a thousand ways in his brain. He reviewed his three interpretations, which were all false. How had this island been indicated in these damaged papers? He could no longer restrain himself, but, seizing Harry Grant’s hand, cried:
“Captain, will you tell me what your undecipherable document contained?”
At this request curiosity was general, for the long-sought clue to the mystery would now be given.
“Well, captain,” said Paganel, “do you remember the exact words of the document?”
“Perfectly,” replied Harry Grant; “and scarcely a day has passed but memory has recalled those words upon which our only hope hung.”
“And what are they, captain?” inquired Glenarvan. “Tell us, for our curiosity is great.”
“I am ready to satisfy you,” continued Harry Grant; “but you know that, to increase the chances of success, I enclosed in the bottle three documents, written in three languages. Which one do you wish to hear?”
“They are not identical, then?” cried Paganel.
“Yes, almost to a word.”
“Well, give us the French document,” said Glenarvan. “This one was spared the most by the waves, and has served as the principal basis for our search.”
“This is it, my lord, word for word,” answered Harry Grant.
“ ‘On the 27th June, 1862, the brig Britannia, of Glasgow, was lost 1500 leagues from Patagonia, in the southern hemisphere. Carried by the waves, two sailors and Captain Grant reached Tabor Island—’ ”
“Ha!” interrupted Paganel.
“ ‘Here,’ ” resumed Harry Grant, “ ‘continually a prey to a cruel destitution, they cast this document into the sea at longitude 153° and latitude 37° 1′. Come to their aid, or they are lost.’ ”
At the word “Tabor,” Paganel had suddenly risen, and then, controlling himself no longer, he cried:
“How Tabor Island? It is Maria Theresa.”
“Certainly, Mr. Paganel,” replied Harry Grant; “Maria Theresa on the English and German, but Tabor on the French maps.”
At this moment a vigorous blow descended upon Paganel’s shoulder. Truth compels us to say that it was from the major, who now failed in his strict habits of propriety.
“A fine geographer you are!” said MacNabb, in a tone of badinage. “But no matter, since we have succeeded.”
“No matter?” cried Paganel; “I ought never to have forgotten that twofold appellation! It is an unpardonable mistake, unworthy of the secretary of a Geographical Society. I am disgraced!”
When the meal was finished, Harry Grant put everything in order in his house. He took nothing away, for he was willing that the guilty convict should inherit his possessions.
They returned to the vessel; and, as he expected to sail the same day, Glenarvan gave orders for the quartermaster’s landing. Ayrton was brought on deck, and found himself in the presence of Harry Grant.
“It is I, Ayrton,” said he.
“Yes, captain,” replied Ayrton, without betraying any astonishment at Harry Grant’s appearance. “Well, I am not sorry to see you again in good health.”
“It seems, Ayrton, that I made a mistake in landing you on an inhabited coast.”
“It seems so, captain.”
“You will take my place on this desert island. May Heaven lead you to repentance!”
“May it be so,” rejoined Ayrton, in a calm tone.
Then Glenarvan, addressing the quartermaster, said:
“Do you still adhere, Ayrton, to this determination to be abandoned?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Does Tabor Island suit you?”
“Perfectly.”
“Now listen to my last words. You will be far removed from every land, and deprived of all communication with your fellow-men. Miracles are rare, and you will not probably remove from this island, where we leave you. You will be alone, under the eye of God, who reads the uttermost depths of all hearts; but you will not be lost, as was Captain Grant. However unworthy you may be of the remembrance of men, still they will remember you. I know where you are, and will never forget you.”
“Thank you, my lord!” replied Ayrton, simply.
Such were the last words exchanged between Glenarvan and the quartermaster. The boat was ready, and Ayrton embarked. Captain Mangles had previously sent to the island several cases of preserved food, some clothes, tools, weapons, and a supply of powder and shot. The abandoned man could therefore employ his time to advantage. Nothing was wanting, not even books, foremost among which was a Bible.
The hour for separation had come. The crew and passengers stood on deck. More than one felt the heart strangely moved. Lady Helena and Mary Grant could not repress their emotion.
“Must it then be so?” inquired the young wife of her husband. “Must this unfortunate be abandoned?”
“He must, Helena,” answered Glenarvan. “It is his punishment.”
At this moment the boat, commanded by Captain Mangles, started. Ayrton raised his hat and gave a grave salute. Glenarvan and the crew returned this last farewell, as if to a man about to die, as he departed, in a profound silence.
On reaching the shore, Ayrton leaped upon the sand, and the boat returned. It was then four o’clock in the afternoon, and from the upper deck the passengers could see the quartermaster, with folded arms, standing motionless as a statue, on a rock, and gazing at the vessel.
“Shall we start, my lord?” asked Captain Mangles.
“Yes, John,” replied Glenarvan, quickly, with more emotion than he wished to manifest.
“All right!” cried the captain to the engineer.
The steam hissed, the screw beat the waves, and at eight
