"You think it's the easiest way to get rid of us—to give us what we ask for?"
She nodded, smiling.
"You are afraid, then?"
"Not for myself—but for you."
There was no wavering in her eyes. "I was not wanting my husband to find you here. He might think it was his duty to send word back to the Port. He might...."
"He'd try."
"Yes, he'd try. But you've got a sick man to think of and you're at the end of your strength yourself. Donald's a strong man, and he has no love for desperate characters." A flickering smile played about her mouth. "You must be gone before he returns. You can rest here to-morrow and then you would be better going. You can read the stick by the door. The cross marks the day he went, it will be five days since then to-morrow, and he may be back on the sixth, or the seventh day."
The man looked from her to the sapling pole by the door, counted the notches on it and his eyes returned to her.
"You've heard naught good of convicts that you should be treating me so," he said.
"No, it's terrible tales, I've heard of the things they do, and the things that are done to them."