u," he said, and crossing the savanna
he found beyond, hidden at first from view by a fringe of forest, the
lake that he had seen from the crest of the hill beside the house. It
covered about half a square mile and was blue and deep. He surmised that
it contained fish good to eat, but, for the present he was content to
let them remain in the water. They, like the wild cattle, could wait.

Feeling that he had been gone long enough, he went back to the house and
found the slaver asleep or in a stupor, and, when he looked at him
closely, he was convinced that it was more stupor than sleep. He was
very pale and much wasted. It occurred suddenly to Robert that the man
would die and the thought gave him a great shock. Then, in very truth,
he would be alone. He sat by him and watched anxiously, but the slaver
did not come back to the world for a full two hours.

"Aye, Peter, you're there," he said. "As I've told you several times,
you're a good lad."

"Can I make you some more of the beef broth?" asked Robert.

"I can take a little I think, though I've no appetite at all."

"And I'd like to dress your wound again."

"If it's any relief to you, Peter, to do so, go ahead, though I think
'tis of little use."

"It will help a great deal. You'll be well again in a week or two. It
isn't so bad here. With a good house and food it's just the place for a
wounded man."

"Plenty of quiet, eh Peter? No people to disturb me in my period of
convalescence."

"Well, that's a help."

Robert dressed the wound afresh, but he noticed during his ministrations
that the slaver's weakness had increased, and his heart sank. It was a
singular fact, but he began to feel a sort of attachment for the man who
had done him so much ill. They had been comrades in a great hazard, and
were yet. Moreover, the fear of being left alone in a tremendous
solitude was recurrent and keen. These motives and that of humanity made
him do his best.

"I thank you, Peter," said the wounded man. "You're standing by me in
noble fashion. On the whole, I'm lucky in being cast away with you
instead of one of my own men. But it hurts me more than my wound does to
think that I should have been tricked, that a man of experience such as
I am should have been lured under the broadside of the sloop of war by
an old fellow playing a fiddle and a couple of sailors dancing. My mind
keeps coming back to it. My brain must have gone soft for the time
being, and so I've paid the