“I don’t like to leave you,” said Don again.
“Ah! That’s right. Don, my lad, can you take hold—of my hand—and say—a prayer or two. I’m going—to escape.”
A thrill of horror ran through Don as he caught hold of the Englishman’s icy hand, and the tears started to his eyes as in a broken voice he repeated the old, old words of supplication; but before his lips had formed half the beautiful old prayer and breathed it into the poor fellow’s ear, Don felt his hand twitched spasmodically, and one of the chiefs shouted some order.
“Down, Mas’ Don! Lie still!” whispered Jem. “They’re ordering ’em into the boat again. Think we could crawl into the bush from here?”
“No, Jem; it would be impossible.”
“So it would, lad, so it would; but as he said, poor chap, we must take to the woods. Think any of these would come with us?”
Don shook his head despairingly, as he longed to look in Tomati’s face again, but he dared not stir.
A few minutes later they were once more in the leading canoe, which was being urged rapidly over the smooth sea, and it was a long time before Don could frame the words he wished to say. For whenever he tried to speak there was a strange choking sensation in his throat, and he ended by asking the question mutely as he gazed wildly in his companion’s face.
“Tomati, Mas’ Don?” said Jem sadly.
Don nodded.