“At last one can see,” cried Ned Land, who, knife in hand, stood on the defensive. “Yes,” said I; “but we are still in the dark about ourselves.” “Let master have patience,” said the imperturbable Conseil. The sudden lighting of the cabin enabled me to examine it minutely. It only contained a table and five stools. The invisible door might be hermetically sealed. No noise was heard. All seemed dead in the interior of this boat. Did it move, did it float on the surface of the ocean, or did it dive into its depths? I could not guess. A noise of bolts was now heard, the door opened, and two men appeared. One was short, very muscular, broad-shouldered, with robust limbs, strong head, an abundance of black hair, thick moustache, a quick penetrating look, and the vivacity which characterises the population of Southern France. The second stranger merits a more detailed description. A disciple of Gratiolet or Engel would have read his face like an open book. I made out his prevailing qualities directly:—self-confidence,—because his head was well set on his shoulders, and his black eyes looked around with cold assurance; calmness,—for his skin, rather pale, showed his coolness of blood; energy,—evinced by the rapid contraction of his lofty brows; and courage,—because his deep breathing denoted great power of lungs. Whether this person was thirty-five or fifty years of age, I could not say.