“Yes,” said my uncle, huskily. “It seemed to me that Garcia and another reached the canoe Tom was in—the gold canoe, Harry—and that then there was a desperate fight, which lasted some minutes. I had seized the paddle, and tried to make for where the struggle seemed to be going on; but first there was a faint, gurgling cry, and then utter silence; and though I softly paddled here and there I could find nothing. Harry, that canoe was heavily laden—the gold was a dead weight—”
“And it took down with it what was worth ten thousand times more than the vile yellow trash,” I cried bitterly—“as true a heart as ever beat. Oh, Uncle—Uncle! I have murdered as noble a man as ever breathed, and as faithful a friend. Oh, Tom—Tom!” I groaned.
I could say no more; but out there that night on the breast of the black, swift stream, with not a sound now but the sobs of the women to break the terrible silence, I—a woman myself now in heart—bent down to cover my face with my hands and cry like a child.
At last I grew more calm, for there was work to be done. I found that we had floated on to a kind of mud bank, and were aground, and I had to help my uncle to get the raft off, which we managed by drawing the canoe up alongside, and then getting in and paddling hard, with the effect that the raft at last floated off, and we retained our places in the canoe guiding the raft down the swiftly flowing stream.
Morning at last, to bring no brightness to my heart.
We paddled on, the little raft, buoyant as possible, following swiftly in our wake.
“Harry,” said my uncle, almost sternly, “I have thought it over during the darkness of the night, and I cannot feel that we have been wanting in any way. Poor lad! it was his fate.”
“Uncle,” I cried, throwing down my paddle, “I can bear this no longer. I must go back!”
“Harry,” cried my uncle, “you shall not act in that mad fashion. You have escaped with life, and now you would throw it away.”
“Is it not mine to cast away if I like?” I said bitterly.