Of all my long fierce journeyings, no part seemed half so long as the few minutes it took me to skirt round the fatal bog and reach the hand of my long-lost friend.
“Humphrey,” said he presently, after we had stood silent awhile, “I scarce knew thee. How rose you from the dead?”
“The God who parted us hath brought us together again,” said I. “Thanks be to Him.”
“Amen,” said he. “Therefore, while I lead you to the Don—”
“The Don!” cried I; “is he here then?”
“Why not, since the Rata came ashore weeks ago on these coasts?”
“And are the Spaniards all here too?” said I, with my hand feeling round my belt for my sword.
“Nay,” said he, smiling. “That is my story. Tell me yours.”
So I told him, and he listened, marvelling much. His brow grew black as thunder when I came to speak of the lost maidens. He wheeled round, and, laying his hand with a grip of iron on my arm, pointed to the black bog below us.
“Is it certainly Merriman who lies there?”