“Certainly there may be, sir, and therefore until daylight we will not begin.”
Mr Seagrave then went into the house; Ready desired William to lie down and sleep for two or three hours, as he would watch. In the morning, when Mr Seagrave came out, he would have a little sleep himself.
“I can’t sleep, Ready. I’m mad with thirst,” replied William.
“Yes, sir; it’s very painful—I feel it myself very much, but what must those poor children feel? I pity them most.”
“I pity my mother most, Ready,” replied William; “it must be agony to her to witness their sufferings, and not be able to relieve them.”
“Yes, indeed, it must be terrible, William, to a mother’s feelings; but perhaps these savages will be off to-morrow, and then we shall forget our privations.”
“I trust in God that they may, Ready, but they seem very determined.”
“Yes, sir; iron is gold to them, and what will civilised men not do for gold?”
In the meantime, Mr Seagrave had gone into the house. He found the children still crying for water, notwithstanding the coaxing and soothing of Mrs Seagrave, who was shedding tears as she hung over poor little Albert. Little Caroline only drooped, and said nothing. Mr Seagrave remained for two or three hours with his wife, assisting her in pacifying the children, and soothing her to the utmost of his power; at last he went out and found old Ready on the watch.
“Ready, I had rather a hundred times be attacked by these savages and have to defend this place, than be in that house for even five minutes, and witness the sufferings of my wife and children.”