At 4 p.m.the English vessel entered the bay of Espiritu-Santo.

At 5 p.m.she passed the entrance to Hillisboro Harbour, and at 6 p.m.weighed anchor in the port of Tampa Town.
The anchor had not reached its sandy bed before 500 vessels surrounded the _Atlanta_ and the steamer was taken by assault.

Barbicane was the first on deck, and in a voice the emotion of which he tried in vain to suppress-- "Michel Ardan!" he exclaimed.
"Present!" answered an individual mounted on the poop.
Barbicane, with his arms crossed, questioning eyes, and silent mouth, looked fixedly at the passenger of the _Atlanta_.
He was a man forty-two years of age, tall, but already rather stooping, like caryatides which support balconies on their shoulders.

His large head shook every now and then a shock of red hair like a lion's mane; a short face, wide forehead, a moustache bristling like a cat's whiskers, and little bunches of yellow hair on the middle of his cheeks, round and rather wild-looking, short-sighted eyes completed this eminently feline physiognomy.

But the nose was boldly cut, the mouth particularly humane, the forehead high, intelligent, and ploughed like a field that was never allowed to remain fallow.