“There now, you ain’t in no condition fo’ to pester yo’self with worry.  You was fished up out of the Elk River by Mr. Cavendish,” Polly explained, still smiling and dimpling at him.

“When, ma’am—­last night?”

“You got another guess coming to you, stranger!” It was Cavendish who spoke.

“Do you mean, sir, that I been unconscious for a spell?” suggested Yancy rather fearfully, glancing from one to the other.

“It’s been right smart of a spell, too; yes, sir, you’ve laid like you was dead, and not fo’ a matter of hours either—­but days.”

“How long?”

“Well, nigh on to three weeks.”

They saw Yancy’s eyes widen with a look of dumb horror.

“Three weeks!” he at length repeated, and groaned miserably.  He was thinking of Hannibal.

“You was mighty droll to look at when I fished you up out of the river,” continued Mr. Cavendish.  “You’d been cut and beat up scandalous!”

“And you don’t know nothing about my nevvy?—­you ain’t seen or heard of him, ma’am?” faltered Yancy, and glanced up into Polly’s comely face.

Polly shook her head regretfully.

“How come you in the river?” asked Cavendish.

“I reckon I was throwed in.  It was a man named Murrell and another man named Slosson.  They tried fo’ to murder me—­they wanted to get my nevvy—­I ’low they done it!” and Yancy groaned again.

“You’ll get him back,” said Polly soothingly.

“Could you-all put me asho’?” inquired Yancy, with sudden eagerness.

“We could, but we won’t,” said Cavendish, in no uncertain tone.

“Why, la!—­you’d perish!” exclaimed Polly.

“Are we far from where you-all picked me up?”

Cavendish nodded.  He did not like to tell Yancy the distance they had traversed.

“Where are you-all taking me?” asked Yancy.

“Well, stranger, that’s a question I can’t answer offhand.  The Tennessee are a twister; mebby it will be Kentucky; mebby it will be Illinoy, and mebby it will be down yonder on the Mississippi.  My tribe like this way of moving about, and it certainly favors a body’s legs.”

“How old was your nevvy?” inquired Polly, reading the troubled look in Yancy’s gray eyes.

“Ten or thereabouts, ma’am.  He were a heap of comfort to me” and the whisper on Yancy’s lips was wonderfully tender and wistful.

“Just the age of my Richard,” said Polly, her glance full of compassion and pity.

Mr. Cavendish essayed to speak, but was forced to pause and clear his throat.  The allusion to Richard in this connection having been almost more than he could endure with equanimity.  When he was able to put his thoughts into words, he said: 

“I shore am distressed fo’ you.  I tried to leave you back yonder where I found you, but no one knowed you and you looked so near dead folks wouldn’t have it.  What parts do you come from?”