“You’ll shake hands, sir,” he said. “I’ve taken a deal of notice of you, different times.”
I held out my hand mechanically, felt it warmly wrung, and then had it seized in turn by the others, while I was struggling to speak words that would not come. At last though they burst forth.
“But the women and children!” I cried, as my heart seemed to stand still.
“Better than being butchered by those savages,” said Morgan, gloomily. “I’d sooner see my poor wife die than fall into their hands.”
His words silenced me, for I knew that they could expect no mercy. Then feeling utterly exhausted, I was munching a piece of bread, where I sat on a rough case, and sipping a little water from time to time, when just as the fire was at its height, with great waves of flame floating gently away from the great pine-wood building and illumining the wide clearing all round, I heard a familiar voice behind me say in his droll, dry fashion—
“What pity!”
“Ah, Pomp!” I cried, turning to him; “you there?”
“Iss, Mass’ George. When we go home again? Pomp done like dis place ’tall.”
“No, nor nobody else, boy,” said Morgan, sadly. “Hark! Hear anything?”
He seized his gun as he spoke, but it was only a hissing scream made by one of the water-soaked timbers as the steam was forced out.