"So you scoundrel," said Henry, placing his knee on Keona's chest, and compressing his throat with his left hand, while with his right he drew forth a long glittering knife, and raised it in the air,—"so you are not satisfied with what I gave you the last time we met, but you must need take the trouble to cross my path a second time, and get a taste of cold steel, must you?"
Although Keona could speak no English, he understood it sufficiently to appreciate the drift of the youth's words, even though he had failed to comprehend the meaning of the angry frown and the glittering knife. But, however much, he might have wished to reply to the question, Henry took care to render the attempt impossible, by compressing his windpipe until he became blue in the face, and then black. At the same time, he let the sharp point of his knife touch the skin just over the region of the heart.
Having thus convinced his vanquished foe that death was at the door, he suddenly relaxed his iron grip, arose, sheathed his knife, and bade the savage get up. The miserable creature did so, with some difficulty, just as the captain and his men arrived on the scene.
"Well met, Henry," cried the former, extending his hand to the youth; "had I been a moment later, my lad, I fear that your life's blood would have been on the sea-shore."
"Then it was you who fired the shot, Captain Gascoyne? This is the second time I have to thank you for saving my life," said the young man, returning the grasp of the captain's hand.
"Truly, it is but a small matter to have to thank me for. Doubtless, if my stout man John Bumpus had carried the carbine, he would have done you as good service. And methinks, Henry, that you would have preferred to owe your life to either of my men rather than to me, if I may judge by your looks."
"You should not judge by looks, captain," replied the youth quickly,—"especially the looks of a man who has just had a hand-to-hand tussle with a savage. But, to tell the plain truth, Captain Gascoyne, I would indeed rather have had to thank your worthy man John Bumpus than yourself for coming to my aid; for although I owe you no grudge, and do not count you an enemy, I had rather see your back than your face; and you know the reason why."
"You give me credit, boy, for more knowledge than I possess," replied Gascoyne, while an angry frown gathered for a moment on his brow, but passed away almost as quickly as it came. "I know not the cause of your unreasonable dislike to one who has never done you an injury."
"Never done me an injury!" cried Henry, starting and turning with a look of passion on his companion; then, checking himself by a strong effort, he added, in a milder tone, "But a truce to such talk; and I ask your forgiveness for my sharp words just after your rendering me such good service in the hour of need. You and I differ in our notions on one or two points—that is all; there is no need for quarreling. See, here is a note from my mother, who sent me to the bay to meet you."
During this colloquy, Dick and Bumpus had mounted guard over the wounded savage, just out of ear-shot of their captain.