I said to him:  “Your lady is in far better charge than mine, Sir, having Miss Maryon to take care of her; but, you may rely upon it, that I will guard them both—­faithful and true.”

Says he:  “I do rely upon it, Davis, and I heartily wish all the silver on our old Island was yours.”

That seventh starlight night, as I have said, we made our camp, and got our supper, and set our watch, and the children fell asleep.  It was solemn and beautiful in those wild and solitary parts, to see them, every night before they lay down, kneeling under the bright sky, saying their little prayers at women’s laps.  At that time we men all uncovered, and mostly kept at a distance.  When the innocent creatures rose up, we murmured “Amen!” all together.  For, though we had not heard what they said, we know it must be good for us.

At that time, too, as was only natural, those poor mothers in our company, whose children had been killed, shed many tears.  I thought the sight seemed to console them while it made them cry; but, whether I was right or wrong in that, they wept very much.  On this seventh night, Mrs. Fisher had cried for her lost darling until she cried herself asleep.  She was lying on a little couch of leaves and such-like (I made the best little couch I could for them every night), and Miss Maryon had covered her, and sat by her, holding her hand.  The stars looked down upon them.  As for me, I guarded them.

“Davis!” says Miss Maryon. (I am not going to say what a voice she had.  I couldn’t if I tried.)

“I am here, Miss.”

“The river sounds as if it were swollen to-night.”

“We all think, Miss, that we are coming near the sea.”

“Do you believe now, we shall escape?”

“I do now, Miss, really believe it.”  I had always said I did; but, I had in my own mind been doubtful.

“How glad you will be, my good Davis, to see England again!”

I have another confession to make that will appear singular.  When she said these words, something rose in my throat; and the stars I looked away at, seemed to break into sparkles that fell down my face and burnt it.

“England is not much to me, Miss, except as a name.”

“O, so true an Englishman should not say that!—­Are you not well to-night, Davis?” Very kindly, and with a quick change.

“Quite well, Miss.”

“Are you sure?  Your voice sounds altered in my hearing.”

“No, Miss, I am a stronger man than ever.  But, England is nothing to me.”

Miss Maryon sat silent for so long a while, that I believed she had done speaking to me for one time.  However, she had not; for by-and-by she said in a distinct clear tone: 

“No, good friend; you must not say that England is nothing to you.  It is to be much to you, yet—­everything to you.  You have to take back to England the good name you have earned here, and the gratitude and attachment and respect you have won here:  and you have to make some good English girl very happy and proud, by marrying her; and I shall one day see her, I hope, and make her happier and prouder still, by telling her what noble services her husband’s were in South America, and what a noble friend he was to me there.”