"No, we are English," said the man who held him.
But the voice was so strange, so wild, so utterly unlike any voice that he had ever heard, that it made his blood run cold. His skin crept, and his hair bristled.
"Then why do you hold me?" said he, when he got his own voice back. "I'm half dead, and my mate's worse than I am. Lemme go, do now."
And at a word from the man with the spear, Mandy's captor let go. The Baker went to Smith.
"They're English, old man," he said, "and it's all right. They must be miners, too, or something, I don't know what. By the Lord, my head's gone wrong I do think."
He looked up, and saw the big man who had ordered his captors to release him. He saw his great beard dimly, and like a flash there came back to him the great bearded white savage whom they had seen that day.
"If they are like that, why, the Lord save us," he muttered. "It's a dream."
But Smith was lying there dying. The thought of that brought his courage back.
"We can talk to 'em anyway," he said, and tried to get Smith upon his feet. One of the others helped him. And they went down to the river bank silently.
A little way further down the river than the place the billabong entrance lay were some rough canoes, and they put Smith in one and Mandeville in the other.