"Haymoss! dear Haymoss!" he murmured, and seemed like to swoon away.
Turnpenny was by this on his knees beside his old comrade.
"Oh, Tom, to see thee in this sorry plight!" he exclaimed, pitifully.
He raised the prostrate figure. Copstone did indeed present a sorry spectacle. His clothes were completely in tatters, he was emaciated almost to a skeleton; his hair and beard hung long, straggling and matted.
"Tell me, Tom, me and this true friend, what has brought 'ee to this fearsome pass."
"I ran away; 'tis three months since. Three, I say, but I cannot tell; maybe 'tis four or five. I ran away from those devils; 'twas more than flesh and blood could endure."
"But whither, whither, Tom?"
"I had hope to fall in with a friendly folk—maroons or Indians; for such hate the Spaniards, and whoso hates the Spaniards must be a friend to me. But I found none, and I had perforce to take to the forest, and here I made shift to keep body and soul together with the fruits of the earth. Then I was stricken with the forest fever, and lay for nights and days shivering and burning by turns."
"Take time, dear Tom," said Turnpenny, noticing the other's gasps. "We be true friends."
"And here is wine from my store," said Dennis, producing a flask. "It will refresh you."