“Ah, I thought that was what you meant, my lad. Didn’t you understand him when he spoke?”
“No—yes—I’m afraid I did,” whispered back Don.
“Yes, you did, my lad. He meant it, and he knew it. He has got away.”
Don gazed wildly in Jem’s eyes, and then bent his head low down to hide the emotion he felt, for it was nothing to him then that the English chief was an escaped convict from Norfolk Island. He had been a true friend and defender to them both; and Don in his misery, pain, and starvation could only ask himself whether that was the way that he must escape—the only open road.
It was quite an hour before he spoke again, and then hardly above his breath.
“Jem,” he said, “shall we ever see our dear old home again?”
Jem looked at him wistfully, and tried to answer cheerily, but the paddles were flashing in the sun, and the canoe was bearing them farther and farther away to a life of slavery, perhaps to a death of such horror that he dared not even think of it, much less speak.