"Come back soon, eh?" the Indian asked.

"I shall not be long, Pete. You get camp fixed up for the night, and
keep the fire going."

"A-ha-ha. Me feex t'ings, a'right."

Leaving the Indian, Dane hurried away from the lake, descended into the
valley, and climbed the hill on the opposite side. By the time he
reached the height above the waterfront, the dusk had deepened into a
weird darkness. Here he paused and looked down upon the strange scene
below. Hundreds of camp-fires, large and small, emitted their fitful
ruddy glow, while beyond, the lights of a score of anchored ships were
reflected in the wind-ruffled water. A murmur of many voices drifted
up to the silent watcher on the brow of the hill, mingled with shrill
cries of children, and the sound of beating hammers, as weary men
worked late at their rude dwellings.

Down into this Babel of confusion Dane slowly made his way. He passed
the spot where he had met the Major, and he looked eagerly for the girl
who had won his heart. But she was nowhere to be seen, although a
small fire was burning near the shack, before which the colored woman
was keeping watch, swaying her body, and humming her favourite psalm.

Farther down the hill the people had settled closer together, and as
Dane moved through this strange medley of shacks, brush houses, tents,
sails fastened to sticks driven into the ground, and other rude
contrivances, he realised for the first time the sadly-pathetic
condition of these outcast people. Although many of them were hidden