This was a signal that the conference was at an end. Turning swiftly, Joseph Morris walked back into the forest. Barringford and the others expected a shot or two, but nothing of the kind came.
“What did he say?” asked Henry, rushing up.
“He will give in to nothing,” answered the planter, with a sigh.
“And father—what of father?” questioned Dave. He could hardly utter the words.
James Morris stepped to his side and caught Dave by both arms.
“It’s too bad, my boy,” he said, tenderly.
“Then he is—is——”
“Yes, lad—he was badly wounded, so Jean Bevoir says, and died some time later.”
Dave staggered and sank down on a fallen tree. Never had he felt so miserable before. For days and weeks he had been hoping against hope—and now it had all been in vain. His father was gone, and he was left alone in the world.