Then she forgot all caution and all indifference to her condition. She had heard her own language spoken by one of her own people!
“No; I am Portuguese. I am a prisoner,” she whispered eagerly.
“Why not escape then?”
“Alas; they would kill me. No one will help me.”
“I’ll find someone who will,” said the young man, who wore a naval commander’s uniform; and he ran to the cacique’s tent, Ascencion following him more slowly. In another minute both strangers reappeared, talking earnestly in a language which the girl could only suppose to be English, as the second sailor was very tall and of fair complexion. When they had almost reached her, the Portuguese officer suddenly touched his cap and set off running full speed back towards the river. The other beckoning to her, and addressing her gently in tolerable Portuguese, said:
“Is it true that you are a prisoner, my poor lass?”
The girl hesitated, for the cacique, who had guessed something of the import of the white men’s conversation, was laying his hand on the haft of his knife. But the Englishman noticed the action, and immediately began to finger his sword-hilt.
“Speak up,” he said; “there is nothing to be afraid of.”
Then, interrupted every now and then by indignant remonstrance or denial from the chief, Ascencion told her story.