"So do I; and ef you want to say your prayers now, we hain't got nothin' else to do."
"I have said them many times; God can hear us even when we do not speak aloud."
"I s'pose so; well, I said mine, too; and that's a thing I don't do very often."
"I have no doubt they strengthened your arm, and made you feel brave."
"I dunno but they did; but I feel as though a leetle grain o' breakfast would strengthen my arm most jest now."
Fanny was not very well pleased with the manner in which her rude companion spoke of serious things, and she improved the opportunity to embody the prayer of her heart in words. It was a fervent utterance, and Ethan seemed to join her in spirit. Both of them were grateful—not abstractly grateful, but grateful to God for his mercy in saving them from torture and death at the hands of the savages.
They sat in silence for a moment after the prayer, and then Fanny suggested that they should prepare their breakfast. Ethan had brought with him a shovel and a sharp axe, and while Fanny was peeling the potatoes and cutting the bacon, he dug out a kind of fireplace in the side of the hill. Some dead branches from the tree supplied them with dry fuel. Fried ham and fried potatoes were soon provided, and they sat down to their morning meal.
"I should like this fust rate if we hadn't been druv away from hum jest as we was," said Ethan.
"It would be very pleasant if we could forget the poor people who have been killed and mangled by the savages," replied Fanny, sadly.
"I reyther like campin' out, and travellin' over the peraries, as we did when we kim up hyer."