The idea of that made the saw-miller go back to Cyril's bedside.
"Are you any better, my lad?" he asked anxiously.
Cyril could scarcely say he was; all his bruises smarted, and his bones ached. He looked up at Mr. Ellison without speaking.
"I'm sorry this has happened," said the latter, very feelingly.
"Oh, it doesn't matter about me," said Cyril quickly. "I don't mind being knocked about a bit. But the pity is that it has done no good—no good," and he sighed deeply, thinking of the hard, cruel hearts of the men, and the wrongs of the poor Indian women.
"You can't say that," said the master, "you can't say that. Some of the men will feel ashamed when they think over what happened. They will see you were in the right, and—well, I fancy the next time the poor squaws come they will not be treated so badly."
"If that is so," said Cyril, smiling in spite of his pain, "I shan't mind having been knocked about a little, Mr. Ellison."
The saw-miller looked at his bright, if discoloured, face, and felt it hard to say the next words. "I've made up my mind, my lad; you shall go straight away to England as soon as it can be arranged."
Cyril was very glad to hear that. It comforted him immensely in his pain to think that he might soon be on his way home.