Don and Jem had the good fortune to be together in the largest and leading canoe; and as they sat there in silence, the strangeness of the scene appeared awful. The shore looked almost black, save where the moon illumined the mountainous background; but the sea seemed to have been turned into a pale greenish metal, flowing easily in a molten state. No one spoke, not a sigh was heard from the prisoners, who must have been suffering keenly as they cowered down in the boat.
Don sat watching the weird panorama as they went along, asking himself at times if it was all real, or only the effect of some vivid dream. For it appeared to be impossible that he could have gone through what he had on the previous night, and be there now, borne who could say whither, by the successful raiders, who were moving their oars mechanically as the canoe glided on.
“It must be a dream,” he said to himself. “I shall awake soon, and—”
“What a chance, Mas’ Don!” said a low voice at his side, to prove to him that he was awake.
“Chance? What chance?” said Don, starting.
“I don’t mean to get away, but for any other tribe to give it to them, and serve ’em as they served our poor friends; for they was friends to us, Mas’ Don.”
“I wish the wretches could be punished,” said Don sadly; “but I see no chance of that.”
“Ah! Wait a bit, my lad; you don’t know. But what a chance it would be with them all in this state. If it wasn’t that I don’t care about being drowned, I should like to set to work with my pocket knife, and make a hole in the bottom of the canoe.”
“It would drown the innocent and the guilty, Jem.”
“Ay, that’s so, my lad. I say, Mas’ Don, arn’t you hungry?”