Then he knelt just there, with his right hand still clutching the spear, as if engaged in prayer.
And Tandy knew then without being told that the man kneeling yonder on the patch of greensward was the long-lost James Malone himself. But no one moved, no one spoke, until at last the Crusoe staggered to his feet. This he did with difficulty, moving as one does who has aged before his time with illness or sorrow, or with both combined.
James had turned to go, when, with a happy cry, Halcott sprang out from his hiding-place, dragging with him the small canoe and her paddles.
“Ship ahoy! James! James!” he shouted, “your prayers are heard. I’m here—your old shipmate, Halcott. You are saved!”
The captain sprang into the canoe as he spoke, and soon shoved her off.
They could see now, in a bright glint of sunshine, that James’s hair was long and had a silvery sheen. He gazed once more across, but shook his head. It was evident he would not credit his senses. Then he turned round and moved slowly and painfully back into the bush.
Tandy had not attempted to go with Halcott, though the canoe could easily have held two.
“That meeting,” he said to himself, “will be a sacred one. I shall not dare to intrude.”
It was quite a long time after he reached the island and disappeared in the grove before anything more was seen of Halcott.
Tandy had thrown himself on the beach in a careless attitude, just as he used to lounge on summer days on the poop of the Merry Maiden while slowly moving along the canal, and smoking now as he used to smoke then—smoking and thinking.