“No, no; don’t ask now, Master Nic,” whispered Pete. “You aren’t fit to know now. I’m with you, my lad, and I swear I won’t forsake ye.”
“You—you will not forsake me?” said Nic, with a look of horror.
“Never, my lad, while I’ve got a drop o’ blood in my veins. Don’t—don’t look at me like that. It waren’t all my fault. Wait a bit, and I’ll tell you everything, and help you to escape back to the old country.”
“To the old country!” whispered Nic, whose voice was panting again from weakness. “Where are we, then?”
“Amerikee, among the plantations, they say.”
“But—but why? The plantations? What does it mean?”
“Work,” said Saunders, who had come up behind them. “Now then, look sharp, and eat your bread. You’ll get no more till to-morrow morning, and in less than half-an-hour we shall start.”
“Start?” cried Nic huskily, as he clapped his hands to his head and pressed it hard, as though he felt that if he did not hold on tightly his reason would glide away again.
“Yes, man, start,” said Saunders. “Can you two fellows row?”
“He can’t, sir; he’s too weak,” cried Pete eagerly; and the overseer’s face contracted. “But I can. Best man here with an oar. I can pull, sir, enough for two.”