the same, the scene was usually so much the
same, the sound of the soft wash and ripple
of the water was usually so much the same,
that they were made drowsy, as they might
have been by the constant playing of one
tune. Even on the grown people, who worked
hard and felt anxiety, the same things
produced something of the same effect. Every
day was so like the other, that I soon lost count
of the days, myself, and had to ask Miss
Maryon, for instance, whether this was the
third or fourth? Miss Maryon had a pocketbook
and pencil, and she kept the log; that
is to say, she entered up a clear little journal
of the time, and of the distances our seamen
thought we had made, each night.

So, as I say, we kept afloat and glided on.
All day long, and every day, the water, and
the woods, and sky; all day long, and every
day, the constant watching of both sides of
the river, and far a-head at every bold turn
and sweep it made, for any signs of Pirate-
boats, or Pirate-dwellings. So, as I say, we
kept afloat and glided on. The days melting
themselves together to that degree, that I
could hardly believe my ears when I asked
"How many, now, Miss?" and she answered,
"Seven."

To be sure, poor Mr. Pordage had, by
about now, got his Diplomatic coat into such
a state as never was seen. What with the
mud of the river, what with the water of the
river, what with the sun, and the dews, and
the tearing boughs, and the thickets, it hung
about him in discoloured shreds like a mop.
The sun had touched him a bit. He had
taken to always polishing one particular
button, which just held on to his left wrist,
and to always calling for stationery. I
suppose that man called for pens, ink, and paper,
tape, and sealing-wax, upwards of one
thousand times in four and twenty hours. He
had an idea that we should never get out of
that river unless we were written out of it
in a formal Memorandum; and the more we
laboured at navigating the rafts, the more he
ordered us not to touch them at our peril, and
the more he sat and roared for stationery.

Mrs. Pordage, similarly, persisted in wearing
her nightcap. I doubt if any one but
ourselves who had seen the progress of that
article of dress, could by this time have told
what it was meant for. It had got so limp
and rugged that she couldn't see out of her
eyes for it. It was so dirty, that whether it
was vegetable matter out of a swamp, or
weeds out of the river, or an old porter's-
knot from England, I don't think any new
spectator could have said. Yet, this
unfortunate old woman had a notion that it was
not only vastly genteel, but that it was the
correct thing as to propriety. And she really
did carry herself over the other ladies who
had no night-caps, and who were forced to tie
up their hair how they could, in a superior
manner that was perfectly amazing.

I don't know what she looked like, sitting
in that blessed night-cap, on a log of wood,
outside the hut or cabin upon our raft. She
would have rather resembled a fortune-teller
in one of the picture-books that used to be
in the shop windows in my boyhood, except
for her stateliness. But, Lord bless my heart,
the dignity with which she sat and moped,
with her head in that bundle of tatters, was
like nothing else in the world! She was not
on speaking terms with more than three of
the ladies. Some of them had, what she
called, "taken precedence" of her—in getting
into, or out of, that miserable little shelter!—
and others had not called to pay their
respects, or something of that kind. So, there
she sat, in her own state and ceremony, while
her husband sat on the same log of wood,
ordering us one and all to let the raft go to
the bottom, and to bring him stationery.

What with this noise on the part of Mr.
Commissioner Pordage, and what with the
cries of Serjeant Drooce on the raft astern
(which were sometimes more than Tom
Packer could silence), we often made our slow
way down the river, anything but quietly.
Yet, that it was of great importance that no
ears should be able to hear us from the woods
on the banks, could not be doubted. We
were looked for, to a certainty, and we might
be retaken at any moment. It was an
anxious time; it was, indeed, indeed, an anxious
time.

On the seventh night of our voyage on the
rafts, we made fast, as usual, on the opposite
side of the river to that from which we had
started, in as dark a place as we could pick
out. Our little encampment was soon made,
and supper was eaten, and the children fell
asleep. The watch was set, and everything
made orderly for the night. Such a starlight
night, with such blue in the sky, and such
black in the places of heavy shade on the
banks of the great stream!

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