He never said a word when they came to fetch him.
He was not a little anxious to know all about it, but such was his pride that he would have perished sooner than breathe a word.
As he was lowered into the boat, Harkaway just gave him to understand what he was going to do in a few hurriedly-chosen words.
"We are going to put you ashore here, Hunston; not that you have any right to expect the least consideration at our hands, but we do not wish to have it on our consciences that you have been badly treated by us. You will be left here, far away from any human habitation, where you can do no harm, at least, for some time to come. We shall leave you these provisions, but we have no arms or ammunition to give you."
Hunston listened silently—impassively to these words.
Not the slightest change in the expression of his countenance indicated that he heard the words which been addressed to him.
"You are going, and our ways through the rest of our lives may be widely separated. We may never meet again. It will be some gratification to you to know that you have once more most keenly disappointed me—that I would have given much to see the least signs of repentance in you—that the greatest delight would have been for me to say to myself 'At least I have conquered the evil in that man's nature by showing him a good return for his vicious acts, and turned a bitter enemy into a friend,' but that was a forlorn hope. May you live to repent your evil courses."
Hunston turned.
Not a word escaped him.
The boat pulled off from the vessel, and in the same sullen silence he was landed with his rations.