When I had made him swallow a quart of rum he opened his eyes, looked
at the two of us with surprise, then, closing them again, murmured
almost unintelligibly a phrase, the sense of which we did not get
until some days later:

"Can it be that I have reached the end of my mission?"

"What mission is he talking about?" I said.

"Let him recover himself completely," responded Morhange. "You had
better open some preserved food. With fellows of this build you don't
have to observe the precautions prescribed for drowned Europeans."

It was indeed a species of giant, whose life we had just saved. His
face, although very thin, was regular, almost beautiful. He had a
clear skin and little beard. His hair, already white, showed him to be
a man of sixty years.

When I placed a tin of corned-beef before him a light of voracious joy
came into his eyes. The tin contained an allowance for four persons.
It was empty in a flash.

"Behold," said Morhange, "a robust appetite. Now we can put our
questions without scruple."

Already the Targa had placed over his forehead and face the blue veil
prescribed by the ritual. He must have been completely famished not to
have performed this indispensable formality sooner. There was nothing
visible now but the eyes, watching us with a light that grew steadily
more sombre.