Mrs. Pordage, similarly, persisted in wearing her nightcap.  I doubt if any one but ourselves who had seen the progress of that article of dress, could by this time have told what it was meant for.  It had got so limp and ragged that she couldn’t see out of her eyes for it.  It was so dirty, that whether it was vegetable matter out of a swamp, or weeds out of the river, or an old porter’s-knot from England, I don’t think any new spectator could have said.  Yet, this unfortunate old woman had a notion that it was not only vastly genteel, but that it was the correct thing as to propriety.  And she really did carry herself over the other ladies who had no nightcaps, and who were forced to tie up their hair how they could, in a superior manner that was perfectly amazing.

I don’t know what she looked like, sitting in that blessed nightcap, on a log of wood, outside the hut or cabin upon our raft.  She would have rather resembled a fortune-teller in one of the picture-books that used to be in the shop windows in my boyhood, except for her stateliness.  But, Lord bless my heart, the dignity with which she sat and moped, with her head in that bundle of tatters, was like nothing else in the world!  She was not on speaking terms with more than three of the ladies.  Some of them had, what she called, “taken precedence” of her—­in getting into, or out of, that miserable little shelter!—­and others had not called to pay their respects, or something of that kind.  So, there she sat, in her own state and ceremony, while her husband sat on the same log of wood, ordering us one and all to let the raft go to the bottom, and to bring him stationery.

What with this noise on the part of Mr. Commissioner Pordage, and what with the cries of Sergeant Drooce on the raft astern (which were sometimes more than Tom Packer could silence), we often made our slow way down the river, anything but quietly.  Yet, that it was of great importance that no ears should be able to hear us from the woods on the banks, could not be doubted.  We were looked for, to a certainty, and we might be retaken at any moment.  It was an anxious time; it was, indeed, indeed, an anxious time.

On the seventh night of our voyage on the rafts, we made fast, as usual, on the opposite side of the river to that from which we had started, in as dark a place as we could pick out.  Our little encampment was soon made, and supper was eaten, and the children fell asleep.  The watch was set, and everything made orderly for the night.  Such a starlight night, with such blue in the sky, and such black in the places of heavy shade on the banks of the great stream!

Those two ladies, Miss Maryon and Mrs. Fisher, had always kept near me since the night of the attack.  Mr. Fisher, who was untiring in the work of our raft, had said to me: 

“My dear little childless wife has grown so attached to you, Davis, and you are such a gentle fellow, as well as such a determined one;” our party had adopted that last expression from the one-eyed English pirate, and I repeat what Mr. Fisher said, only because he said it; “that it takes a load off my mind to leave her in your charge.”