"A low tapping against the door of the hut, which although
evidently intended to be subdued, was now, in the silence
of night, distinctly audible; while our whispers, on the
contrary, mingled as they were with the crisping sound
of the waves rippling on the sands were, at that distance,
undistinguishable. It was evident that I had erred in
my original conjecture. Had it been Desborough himself,
living alone as he did, he would not have knocked for
admission where there was no one to afford it, but would
have quietly let himself in. It could then be no other
than a visiter--perhaps a spy from the enemy--and the
same to whom we had given chase.

"From the moment that the tapping commenced, Sambo and
I stood motionless on the shore, and without trusting
our voices again, even to a whisper. In a little time we
heard the door open, and the low voice of Desborough in
conversation with another. Presently the door was shut,
and soon afterwards, through an imperfectly closed shutter
on the only floor of the hut, we could perceive a streak
of light reflected on the clearing in front, as if from
a candle or lamp, that was stationary,

"'I tink him dam rascal dat man, Massa Geral;' at length
ventured my companion. "I 'member long time ago,' and he
sighed, "'when Sambo no bigger nor dat paddle, one berry
much like him. But, Massa Geral,' Missis always tell me
nebber talk o' dat.'