ir, is William Evans," replied the marooned man.

"And mine," said Roger, "is Roger Trevose; and these two men"--pointing
to them in turn--"are Jake Irwin and Walter Bevan."

"Thank you, sir!" answered Evans. "Yonder is my shelter, and when we
reach it I will give you my history up to the present, if you care to
listen to it, for I feel that I have not much longer to live; this last
month has compassed my death, so great have been the hardships that I
have been obliged to endure. After the storm has ceased somewhat we had
better go along the beach and collect any wreckage that happens to come
ashore. And I pray Heaven that some food may be washed up, for we have
very little here to go on with!"

A few minutes later they came to the "shelter", which was merely a deep
hole dug in the sand, and roofed over with palm branches and grass,
together with a few bits of plank and timber that had been washed up on
the beach.

"Enter, sir, and fellow-seamen," said Evans, "and to such poor
hospitality as I can offer you, you are most heartily welcome."

They went in, and the man made a fire with the help of his tinder-box
and a few dry sticks that he routed out from a corner. The fire was
soon blazing merrily, and they took off their clothes and held them
before the flames to dry. Whilst this was being done, the marooned man,
whose face even now bore the imprint of death, brought a little food out
of his scanty store, and some water, and the party sat down to eat and
drink. Then, when the meal was ended, they resumed their clothes, which
were now dry, and prepared to listen to the history of the ex-pirate,
which he gave to the accompaniment of the beating of rain over their
heads, and the tumult of the gale around them.

Meanwhile Cavendish had not forgotten these poor waifs; but, having
barely contrived to clear the shore with his squadron, was now being
driven away fast to leeward of the island by the furious gale, which as
yet gave no sign of blowing itself out.

CHAPTER NINE.

THE MAROONED MAN TELLS HIS STORY.

Crouching over the fire, the marooned man proceeded to tell his story.

"Well," he began, "I must tell you first that I was born in the year
1532, in the town of Monmouth, in Wales, of purely Welsh parents,
bearing the ancient name of Evans. In my early youth I kept about the
house and tended our flock of sheep, of which we had a great many, on
the dear old Welsh mountains. This life suited me well,