How he had contrived to escape with his life seemed more than a miracle. Had Stewart been equally as fortunate? Who had brought him here? He looked up into the expressionless eyes of the old Indian who stood opposite.
“Where am I?” he asked in Cree.
The old chief started. Here indeed was undeniable evidence of the divinity of this strange being. He was a god surely. Did he not speak the language of their tribe, this stranger who had come from some shadowy land beyond the moon?
“Glorious one, do not fear. You are safe among friends. I give you my assurance and the assurance of all my people. We are deeply honored by your coming.”
“But who brought me here?”
“I did,” the man beside him spoke up unhesitatingly. “When the magic ship crashed to the earth, I bore you here in my own arms.”
“And my companion?” trembled Dick.
“He is dead.”
For a moment the young man could not speak. Something choked him. The memory of the valiant pilot was a particularly poignant one. In one sense of the word, Stewart had become a martyr in a noble cause. Like many another fearless flyer he had engraved his name in blood on the flaming altar of achievement. It was several minutes before Dick could trust himself to speak.
“Did the other ships come back to our rescue?”