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."

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.