wild and solitary parts, to see them, every
night before they lay down, kneeling under
the bright sky, saying their little prayers at
women's laps. At that time we men all
uncovered, and mostly kept at a distance.
When the innocent creatures rose up, we
murmured "Amen!" all together. For,
though we had not heard what they said, we
knew it must be good for us.

At that time, too, as was only natural,
those poor mothers in our company whose
children had been killed, shed many tears.
I thought the sight seemed to console them
while it made them cry; but, whether I was
right or wrong in that, they wept very much.
On this seventh night, Mrs. Fisher had cried
for her lost darling until she cried herself
asleep. She was lying on a little couch of
leaves and such-like (I made the best little
couch I could, for them every night), and
Miss Maryon had covered her, and sat by
her, holding her hand. The stars looked
down upon them. As for me, I guarded them.

"Davis!" says Miss Maryon. (I am not
going to say what a voice she had. I couldn't
if I tried.)

"I am here, Miss."

"The river sounds as if it were swollen
to-night."

"We all think, Miss, that we are coming
near the sea."

"Do you believe, now, we shall escape?"

"I do now, Miss, really believe it." I had
always said I did; but, I had in my own
mind been doubtful."

"How glad you will be, my good Davis, to
see England again!"

I have another confession to make that
will appear singular. When she said these
words, something rose in my throat; and the
stars I looked away at, seemed to break into
sparkles that fell down my face and burnt it.

"England is not much to me, Miss, except
as a name."

"Oh! So true an Englishman should
not say that!—Are you not well to-night,
Davis?" Very kindly, and with a quick change.

"Quite well, Miss."

"Are you sure? Your voice sounds
altered in my hearing."

"No, Miss, I am a stronger man than ever.
But, England is nothing to me."

Miss Maryon sat silent for so long a while,
that I believed she had done speaking to me
for one time. However, she had not; for
by and by she said in a distinct, clear tone:

"No, good friend; you must not say, that
England is nothing to you. It is to be much to
you, yet—everything to you. You have to
take back to England the good name you
have earned here, and the gratitude and
attachment and respect you have won here;
and you have to make some good English
girl very happy and proud, by marrying her;
and I shall one day see her, I hope, and make
her happier and prouder still, by telling her
what noble services her husband's were in
South America, and what a noble friend he
was to me there."

Though she spoke these kind words in a
cheering manner, she spoke them
compassionately. I said nothing. It will appear to
be another strange confession, that I paced
to and fro, within call, all that night, a most
unhappy man reproaching myself all the
night long. "You are as ignorant as any
man alive; you are as obscure as any man
alive; you are as poor as any man alive; you
are no better than the mud under your foot."
That was the way in which I went on against
myself until the morning.

With the day, came the day's labour.
What I should have done without the labour,
I don't know. We were afloat again at the
usual hour, and were again making our way
down the river. It was broader, and clearer
of obstructions than it had been, and it seemed
to flow faster. This was one of Drooce's
quiet days; Mr. Pordage, besides being
sulky, had almost lost his voice; and we
made good way, and with little noise.

There was always a seaman forward on
the raft, keeping a bright look-out.
Suddenly, in the full heat of the day, when the
children were slumbering, and the very trees
and reeds appeared to be slumbering, this
man—it was Short—holds up his hand, and
cries with great caution:

"Avast! Voices ahead!"

We held on against the stream as soon as
we could bring her up, and the other raft
followed suit. At first, Mr. Macey, Mr.
Fisher, and myself, could hear nothing;
though both the seamen aboard of us agreed
that they could hear voices and oars. After
a little pause, however, we united in thinking
that we could hear the sound of voices, and
the dip of oars. But, you can hear a long way
in those countries, and there was a bend of
the river before us, and nothing was to be
seen except such waters and such banks as
we were now in the eighth day (and might,
for the matter of our feelings, have been in the
eightieth), of having seen with anxious eyes.

It was soon decided to put a man ashore
who should creep through the wood, see what
was coming, and warn the rafts. The rafts
in the meantime to keep the middle of the
stream. The man to be put ashore, and not
to swim ashore, as the first thing could be
more quickly done than the second. The raft
conveying him, to get back into mid-stream,
and to hold on along with the other, as well
as it could, until signalled by the man. In
case of danger, the man to shift, for himself
until it should be safe to take him aboard
I volunteered to be the man.

We knew that the voices and oars must come
up slowly against the stream; and our seamen
knew, by the set of the stream, under which
bank they would come. I was put ashore
accordingly. The raft got off well, and I
broke into the wood.

Steaming hot it was, and a tearing place to