he 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."

Though she spoke these kind words in a cheering manner, she spoke them
compassionately. I said nothing. It will appear to be another strange
confession, that I paced to and fro, within call, all that night, a most
unhappy man, reproaching myself all the night long. "You are as ignorant
as any man alive; you are as obscure as any man alive; you are as poor as
any man alive; you are no better than the mud under your foot." That was
the way in which I went on against myself un