OUT TO SEA
When Robert came back from the far country in which he had been
dwelling, for a little space, he looked into a long face, with eyes set
close and a curved nose. He was dimly conscious that it was a familiar
countenance, but he could not yet remember where he had seen it before,
because he could not concentrate his thoughts. His head was heavy and
aching. He knew that he lived, but he did not know much more.
The staring face was distinctly unpleasant and menacing. He gazed into
it, trying to recall the owner, but the effort was still too great. Then
he became conscious that he was lying upon his back and that he was
moving. Trees on his right and trees on his left, some distance away,
were filing past. Two men on each side were pulling hard on oars, and
then it slowly entered his mind that he was in a boat.
He made another and stronger effort to gather up his wandering faculties
and then he realized with a jerk that the face looking into his was that
of the slaver. Making a supreme effort he sat up. The slaver laughed.
"So, Peter Smith," he said, "you've decided to come back a second time.
I knew that you couldn't stay away always from such a good, kind captain
as I am. I saw the light of welcome in your eyes when we met so
unexpectedly at the George Inn, and I decided that it was only a
question of time until you came into my service again."
Robert stared at him. His mind, which would not work hitherto, recovered
its power with great suddenness. All his faculties were keen and alert,
and they coördinated smoothly and perfectly. He had been trapped. He had
been struck from behind, while he pursued Garay with such eagerness. He
had been careless, and once more he was in the power of the slaver. And
there was the spy, too, in the prow of the boat, with his back to him,
but that very back seemed to express insolent triumph. He felt a great
sinking of the heart, but in a few moments recalled his courage. His was
a spirit that could not be crushed. His head still ached and he was a
prisoner, but his courage was invincible, and he put on a light manner.
"Yes, I've come back," he said. "You see, Captain, there are some things
concerning you of which I'm not sure, and I couldn't part from you
permanently until I learned them."
"I'm glad of it, Peter. You've an inquiring mind, I know, and you'll
have plenty of opportunity to learn everything about me. We're likely to
be together for quite a while."
Robert looked around. He was in a long boat, and there were four
oarsmen, stout fellows, rough of looks and with hangers and pistols in
their belts. Garay and the captain completed the party, and both the
slaver and the spy were armed heavily. He saw that he had no earthly
chance of escape at present, and he resigned himself for the moment. The
slaver read his look.
"I'm glad, Peter," he said, "that you've given up the thought of leaving
us that was flitting around in your head a minute or two ago. You're in
a better state of mind now, and it was not possible anyway. Nor will
there be any storm to send you away from me again. A chance like that
wouldn't happen once in a hundred times. I suppose you understand where
you are."
"I'm in a boat a few miles above Albany, and I think that before long
you'll turn and go back down the stream."
"Why, Peter?"
"Because there's nothing for you to go to up the stream. If you kept on
you'd arrive in the Indian country, and I doubt whether that's any part
of your plan."
"Clever, Peter, clever! and well reasoned. I see that your intellect's
as good as ever. You must rise above the place of a common seaman. When
you're a little older there's a mate's berth for you."
Garay turned for the first time, and his malignant look of triumph was
not veiled at all.
"You and Willet and the Indian thought you were very clever there in the
forest when you compelled me to tell where the paper was hid," he said,
"but you forgot that I might make repayment. We've taken you out of
Albany from the very center of your friends, and you'll never see them
again."
"Theatricals! theatricals!" said Robert, preserving his gay manner,
though his heart was low within him. "A cat has nine lives, but I have
ten. I've been twice a prisoner of the French, and my presence here is
proof that I escaped both times. When I tire of your society and that of
the captain I'll leave you."
"No quarreling! no quarreling!" said the slaver. "I never allow it among
my men. And now, Peter, I must insure your silence for a little while."
Two of the men who were rowing dropped their oars, seized him, bound and
gagged him. He struggled at first against the indignity, but, soon
realizing its futility, lay inert on the bottom of the boat.
"Good judgment, Peter," said the slaver, looking down at him. "It's
never wise to struggle against a certainty. You've the makings of a fine
officer in you."
The two resumed their oars, and the boat, turning abruptly, as Robert
had surmised it would, went down the stream. The men ceased to talk and
the lad on his back looked up at the sky in which but few stars
twinkled. Heavy clouds floated past the moon, and the night was
darkening rapidly. Once more his heart sank to the uttermost depths, and
it had full cause to do so. For some reason he had been pursued with
singular malice and cunning, and now it seemed that his enemies were
triumphant. Tayoga could trail him anywhere on land, but water left no
trail. He was sure that his captors would keep to the river.
The speed of the boat increased with the efforts of the rowers and the
favor of the current. Soon it was opposite Albany and then the men rowed
directly to a small schooner that lay at anchor, having come up the
stream the day before. Robert was lifted on board and carried into the
depths of the vessel, where they took out the gag and put him on the
floor. The captain held a lantern over him and said:
"Garay is telling you good-bye, Peter. He's sorry he can't go with us,
but he'll be having business on the Canadian frontier. He feels that the
score is about even with you for that business of the letter in the
forest, and that later on he'll attend also to the hunter and the
Onondaga."
"And I wish you a pleasant life on the West Indian plantations," said
Garay. "They still buy white labor there in both the French and British
islands. It does not matter to me to which the captain sells you, for in
either case it means a life of hard labor in the sugar cane. Few ever
escape, and you never will."
Robert turned quite sick. So this was the plan. To sell him into slavery
in the West Indies. Kidnapping was not at all uncommon then in both the
Old World and the New, and they seemed to have laid their plans well. As
the slaver had said, there was not one chance in a hundred of another
storm. Again the captain read his mind.
"You don't like the prospect," he said, "and I'll admit myself that it's
not a cheerful one. I've changed my opinion of you, Peter. I thought
you'd make a fine sailor and that you might become a mate some day, but
I've seen a light. You're not a good sailor at all. The stuff's not in
you. But you're strong and hearty and you'll do well in the sugar cane.
If the sun's too hot and your back bends too much just reflect that for
a white man it's not a long life and your troubles will be over, some
day."
Robert's old indomitable spirit flamed up.
"I never expect to see a West Indian plantation, not on this journey, at
least," he said. "You and that miserable spy boast that you took me out
of the very center of my friends, and I tell you in reply that if I have
enemies who follow me I also have friends who are truer in their
friendship than you are in your hate, and they'll come for me."
"That's the spirit. I never heard another lad sling words in the noble
fashion you do. You'll live a deal longer on the plantations than most
of 'em. Now, Garay, I think you can go. It will be the last farewell for
you two."
The exulting spy left the close little place, and Robert felt that a
breath of hate went with him. His feet disappeared up a narrow little
stair, and the slaver cut the cords that bound Robert.
"You'll be locked in here," he said, "and it's not worth while to damage
good property by keeping it tied up too long."
"That's so," said Robert, trying to preserve a light manner. "You want
to keep me strong and active for the work on the plantations. A white
slave like a black one ought to be in good health."
The captain laughed. He was in high humor. Robert knew that he felt
intense satisfaction because he was taking revenge for his mortification
when he was defeated in the duel with swords before his own men by a
mere boy. Evidently that would rankle long with one of the slaver's
type.
"I'm glad to see you recognize facts so well, Peter," he said. "I see
that you've an ambition to excel on the plantations, perhaps to be the
best worker. Now, Garay, telling me of that little adventure of his in
the forest with the hunter, the Indian and you, wanted me to be very
careful about your rations, to put you on a sparing diet, so to speak.
He thought it would be best not to let you have anything to eat for two
or three days. His idea rather appealed to me, too, but, on the other
hand, I couldn't impair your value, and so I decided against him."
"I'm not hungry," said Robert.
"No, but you will be. You're young and strong, and that wound on your
head where I had to hit you with the butt of my pistol doesn't amount to
much."
Robert put up his hands, felt of the back of his head, where the ache
was, and found that the hair was matted together by congealed blood. But
he could tell that the hurt was not deep.
"I'll leave you now," said the slaver in the same satisfied tone, "and I
hope you'll enjoy the voyage down the river. There's a good wind blowing
and we start in a half hour."
He went out, taking the lantern with him, and bolted the door heavily
behind him. Then Robert felt despair for a while. It was much worse to
be a prisoner on the ship than in the French camp or in the village of
the partisan, Langlade. There he had been treated with consideration and
the fresh winds of heaven blew about him, but here he was shut up in a
close little hole, and his captors rejoiced in his misery.
It was quite dark in the tiny galley, and the only air that entered came
from a small porthole high over a bunk. He stood upon the bank and
brought his face level with the opening. It was not more than four
inches across, but he was able to inhale a pure and invigorating breeze
that blew from the north, and he felt better. The pain in his head was
dying down also, and his courage, according to its habit, rose fast. In
a character that nature had compounded of optimistic materials hope was
always a predominant factor.
He could see nothing through the porthole save a dark blur, but he heard
the creaking of cordage and the slatting of sails. He did not doubt that
the slaver had told the truth when he said the schooner would soon
start, and there was no possibility of escaping before then.
Nevertheless, he tried the door, but could not shake it. Then he went
back to the porthole for the sake of the air, and, because, if he could
not have freedom for himself, he could at least see a little way into
the open world.
The creaking of cordage and slatting of sails increased, he felt the
schooner heave and roll beneath him, and then he knew that they were
leaving Albany. It was the bitterest moment of his life. To be carried
away in that ignominious manner, from the very center of his friends,
from a town in which he had lived, and that he knew so well was a
terrible blow to his pride. For the moment apprehension about the future
was drowned in mortification.
He heard heavy footsteps overhead, and the sound of commands, and the
schooner began to move. He continued to stand on the bunk, with his eyes
at the porthole. He was able to see a dark shore, moving past, slowly at
first and then faster. The dim outlines of houses showed and he would
have shouted for help, but he knew that it was impossible to make any
one hear, and pride restrained.
The blurred outlines of the houses ceased and Albany was gone. Doubtless
the schooner had appeared as an innocent trader with the proper
licenses, and the slaver, having awaited its arrival, had come on ahead
to the town. He was compelled to admit the thoroughness of the plan, and
the skill with which it had been carried out, but he wondered anew why
so much trouble had been taken in regard to him, a mere lad.
He stood at the porthole a long time, and the wind out of the north rose
steadily. He heard its whistle and he also heard the singing of men
above him. He knew that the schooner was making great speed down the
stream and that Albany and his friends were now far behind. As the wise
generally do, he resigned himself to inevitable fate, wasting no
strength in impossible struggles, but waiting patiently for a better
time. There was a single blanket on the hard bunk, and, lying down on
it, he fell asleep.
When he awoke, day shining through the porthole threw a slender bar of
light across the floor, which heaved and slanted, telling that the wind
out of the north still blew strong and true. An hour later the door was
opened and a sailor brought a rude breakfast on a tin plate. While he
was eating it, and hunger made everything good, the slaver came in.
"You'll see, Peter, that I did not put you on the diet suggested by
Garay," he said. "I'm at least a kind man and you ought to thank me for
all I'm doing for you."
"For any kindness of yours to me I'm grateful," said Robert. "We're apt
to do unto people as they do unto us."
"Quite a young philosopher, I see. You'll find such a spirit useful on
the West India plantations. My heart really warms to you, Peter. I'd let
you go on deck as we're running through good scenery now, but it's
scarcely prudent. We'll have to wait for that until we pass New York and
put out to sea. I hope you don't expect it of me, Peter?"
"No, I don't look for it. But if you don't mind I'd like to have a
little more breakfast."
"A fine, healthy young animal, so you are! And you shall have it, too."
He called the sailor who brought a second helping and Robert fell to. He
was really very hungry and he was resolved also to put the best possible
face on the matter. He knew he would need every ounce of his strength,
and he meant to nurse it sedulously.
"When do you expect to reach New York?" he asked.
"To-morrow some time, if the wind holds fair, but we won't stay there
long. A few hours only to comply with the port regulations, and then ho!
for the West Indies! It's a grand voyage down! And splendid islands!
Green mountains that seem to rise straight up out of the sea! While
you're working in the cane fields you can enjoy the beautiful scenery,
Peter."
Robert was silent. The man's malice filled him with disgust. Undoubtedly
the slaver had felt intense chagrin because of his former failure and
his defeat in the duel of swords before his own men, but then one should
not exult over a foe who was beaten for the time. He felt a bitter and
intense hatred of the slaver, and, his breakfast finished, he leaned
back, closing his eyes.
"So you do not wish to talk, but would meditate," said the man. "Perhaps
you're right, but, at any rate, you'll have plenty of time for it."
When he went out Robert heard the heavy lock of the tiny room shove into
place again, and he wasted no further effort in a new attempt upon it.
Instead, he lay down on the bunk, closed his eyes and tried to reconcile
himself, body and mind, to his present situation. He knew that it was
best to keep quiet, to restrain any mental flutterings or physical
quivers. Absolute calm, if he could command it, was good for the soul,
placed as he was, and the mere act of lying still helped toward that. It
was what Tayoga would do if he were in his place, and, spurred by a
noble emulation, he resolved that he would not be inferior to the
Onondaga.
An hour, two hours passed and he did not stir. His stillness made his
hearing more acute. The trampling of feet over his head came to him with
great distinctness. He heard the singing of wind at the porthole, and,
now and then, the swish of waters as they swept past the schooner. He
wondered what Tayoga was doing and what would Willet think when he came
back to Albany and found him gone. It gave him a stab of agony. His
pride was hurt, too, that he had been trapped so thoroughly. Then his
resolution returned to his aid. Making a supreme effort of his will, he
dismissed the thought, concentrating his mind on hope. Would Tayoga's
Manitou help him? Would Tododaho on his remote star look down upon him
with kindness? The Onondaga in his place would put his faith in them,
and the Manitou of the Indian after all was but another name for his own
Christian God. Resolving to hope he did hope. He refused to believe that
the slaver could make him vanish from the face of the earth like a mist
before the wind.
The air in the little cabin was dense and heavy already, but after a
while he felt it grow thicker and warmer. He was conscious, too, of a
certain sultriness in it. The tokens were for a storm. He thought with a
leap of the heart of the earlier storm that had rescued him, but that
was at sea; this, if it came, would be on a river, and so shrewd a
captain as the slaver would not let himself be wrecked in the Hudson.
The heat and sultriness increased. Then he stood on the bunk and looked
through the porthole. He caught glimpses of lofty shores, trees at the
summit, and stretches of a dark and angry sky. Low thunder muttered,
rolling up from the west. Then came flashes of lightning, and the
thunder grew louder. By and by the wind blew heavily, making the
schooner reel before it, and when it died somewhat rain fell in sheets.
Although he felt it rather than saw it, Robert really enjoyed the storm.
It seemed a tonic to him, and the wilder it was the steadier grew his
own spirit. The breath of the rain as it entered the porthole was
refreshing, and the air in the cabin became clear and cool again. Then
followed the dark, and his second night in the schooner.
A sailor brought him his supper, the slaver failing to reappear, and
soon afterward he fell asleep. He made no surmise where they were the
next morning, as he had no way of gauging their speed during the night,
but he was allowed to go about under guard below decks for an hour or
two. The slaver came down the ladder and gave him the greetings of the
day.
"You will see, Peter," he said, "that I'm a much kinder man than Garay.
He would restrict your food, but I not only give you plenty of it, I
also allow you exercise, very necessary and refreshing to youth. I'm
sorry I'll have to shut you up again soon, but in the afternoon we'll
reach New York, and I must keep you away from the temptations of the
great town."
Robert would have given much to be allowed upon the deck and to look at
the high shores, but he could not sink his pride enough to ask for the
privilege, and, when the time came for him to return to his cell of a
cabin he made no protest.
He felt the schooner stop late in the afternoon and he was sure that
they had reached New York. He heard the dropping of the anchor, and then
the sounds became much dimmer. The light in the cabin was suddenly shut
off, and he realized that the porthole had been closed from the outside.
They were taking no chances of a call for help, and he tried to resign
himself.
But will could not control feelings now. To know that he was in New York
and yet was absolutely helpless was more than he could bear. He had
never really believed that the schooner could pass the port and put out
to sea with him a prisoner. It had seemed incredible, one of the things
not to be contemplated, but here was the event coming to pass. Mind lost
control of the body. He threw himself upon the door, pulled at it, and
beat it. It did not move an inch. Then he shouted again and again for
help. There was no response.
Gradually his panic passed, and ashamed of it he threw himself once more
upon the bunk, where he tried to consider whatever facts were in his
favor. It was certain they were not trying to take his life; had they
wished they could have done that long ago, and while one lived one was
never wholly lost. It was a fact that he would remember through
everything and he would pin his faith to it.
He slept, after a while, and he always thought afterwards that the foul,
dense air of the cabin added a kind of stupor to sleep. When he came out
of it late the next day he was conscious of an immense heaviness in the
head and of a dull, apathetic feeling. He sat up slowly and painfully as
if he were an old man. Then he noticed that the porthole was open again,
but, judging from the quality of the air in the cabin, it had not been
open long.
So the slaver had been successful. He had stopped in the port of New
York and had then put out to sea. Doubtless he had done so without any
trouble. He was having his revenge in measure full and heaped over.
Robert was bound to admit it, but he bore in mind that his own life was
still in his body. He would never give up, he would never allow himself
to be crushed.
He stood upon the bunk and put his eyes to the porthole, catching a view
of blue water below and blue sky above, and the sea as it raced past
showed that the vessel was moving swiftly. He heard, too, the hum of the
strong wind in the rigging and the groaning timbers. It was enough to
tell him that they were fast leaving New York behind, and that now the
chances of his rescue upon a lone ocean were, in truth, very small. But
once more he refused to despair.
He did not believe the slaver would keep him shut up in the cabin, since
they were no longer where he could be seen by friends or those who might
suspect, and his opinion was soon justified. In a half hour the door was
opened by the man himself, who stood upon the threshold, jaunty, assured
and triumphant.
"You can come on deck now, Peter," he said. "We've kept you below long
enough, and, as I want to deliver you to the plantations strong and
hearty, fresh air and exercise will do you good."
"I'll come willingly enough," said Robert, resolved to be jaunty too.
"Lead the way."
The captain went up the ladder just outside the door and Robert followed
him, standing at first in silence on the swaying deck and content to
look at sky and ocean. How beautiful they were! How beautiful the world
was to one who had been shut up for days in a close little room! How
keen and sweet was the wind! And what a pleasant song the creaking of
the ropes and the slatting of the sails made!
It was a brilliant day. The sun shone with dazzling clearness. The sea
was the bluest of the blue. The wind blew steady and strong. Far behind
them was a low line of land, showing but dimly on the horizon, and
before them was the world of waters. Robert balanced himself on the
swaying deck, and, for a minute or two, he enjoyed too much the
sensation of at least qualified freedom to think of his own plight.
While he stood there, breathing deeply, his lungs expanding and his
heart leaping, the slaver who had gone away, reappeared, saluting him
with much politeness.
"Look back, Peter," he said, "and you can get your last glimpse of your
native soil. The black line that just shows under the sky is Sandy Hook.
We won't see any more land for days, and you'll have a fine,
uninterrupted voyage with me and my crew."
Robert in this desperate crisis of his life resolved at once upon a
course of action. He would not show despair, he would not sulk, he would
so bear himself and with such cheerfulness and easy good nature that the
watch upon him might be relaxed somewhat, and the conditions of his
captivity might become less hard. It was perhaps easier for him than for
another, with his highly optimistic nature and his disposition to be
friendly. He kissed his hand to the black line on the horizon and said:
"I'm going now, but I'll come back. I always come back."
"That's the right spirit, Peter," said the slaver. "Be pleasant. Always
be pleasant, say I, and you'll get along much better in the world.
Things will just melt away before you."
Robert looked over the schooner. He did not know much about ships, but
she seemed to him a trim and strong craft, carrying, as he judged, about
thirty men. A long eighteen-pound cannon was mounted in her stern, but
that was to be expected in war, and was common in peace also when one
sailed into that nest of pirates, the West Indies. The slaver carried
pistol and dirk in his belt, and those of the crew whom he could see
were sturdy, hardy men. The slaver read his eyes:
"Yes, she's a fine craft," he said. "Able to fight anything of her size
we're likely to meet, and fast enough to run away from them that's too
big for her. You can see as much of her as you want to. So long as we've
no neighbor on the ocean you've the run of the craft. But if you should
want to leave you needn't try to tempt any of my men to help you. They
wouldn't dare do it, and they wouldn't want to anyhow. All their
interests are with me. I'm something of a deity to them."
The slaver went away and Robert walked about the narrow deck, standing
at last by the rail, where he remained a long time. No one seemed to pay
any attention to him. He was free to come and go as he pleased within
the narrow confines of the schooner. But he watched the black line of
land behind them until it was gone, and then it seemed to him that he
was cut off absolutely from all the life that he had lived. Tayoga,
Willet, Master Jacobus, all the good friends of his youth had
disappeared over the horizon with the lost land.
It had been so sudden, so complete that it seemed to him it must have
been done with a purpose. To what end had he been wrenched away from the
war and sent upon the unknown ocean? His wilderness had been that of the
woods and not of the waters. He had imbibed much of Tayoga's philosophy
and at times, at least, he believed that everything moved forward to an
appointed end. What was it now?
He left the low rail at last, and finding a stool sat down upon the
deck. The schooner was going almost due south, and she was making great
speed. The slaver's boast that she could run away from anything too
strong for her was probably true, and Robert judged also that she
carried plenty of arms besides the eighteen-pounder. Most of the crew
seemed to him to be foreigners, that is, they were chiefly of the races
around the Mediterranean. Dark of complexion, short and broad, some of
them wore earrings, and, without exception, they carried dirks and now
and then both pistols and dirks in their belts. He sought among them for
the face of one who might be a friend, but found none. They were all
hardened and sinister, and he believed that at the best they were
smugglers, at the worst pirates.
A heavy dark fellow whom Robert took to be a Spaniard was mate and
directed the task of working the vessel, the captain himself taking no
part in the commands, but casting an occasional keen glance at the
sailors as he strolled about. Robert judged that he was an expert sailor
and a leader of men. In truth, he had never doubted his ability from the
first, only his scruples, or, rather, he felt sure that he had none at
all.
The policy of ignoring the prisoner, evidently by order, was carried out
by the men. For all save the captain he did not exist, apparently, and
the slaver himself took no further notice of him for several hours.
Then, continuing his old vein, he spoke to him lightly, as if he were a
guest rather than a captive.
"I see that you're improving in both mind and body, Peter," he said.
"You've a splendid color in your cheeks and you look fine and hearty.
The sea air is good for anybody and it's better for you to be here than
in a town like Albany."
"Since I'm here," said Robert, "I'll enjoy myself as much as I can. I
always try to make the best of everything."
"That's philosophical, and 'tis a surprisingly good policy for one so
young."
Robert looked at him closely. His accent was that of an educated man,
and he did not speak ungrammatically.
"I've never heard your name, captain," he said, "and as you know mine, I
ought to know yours."
"We needn't mind about that now. Three-fourths of my men don't know my
name, just calling me 'Captain.' And, at any rate, if I were to give it
to you it wouldn't be the right one."
"I suspected as much. People who change their names usually do so for
good reasons."
Color came into the man's sun-browned cheeks.
"You're a bold lad, Peter," he said, "but I'll admit you're telling the
truth. I rather fancy you in some ways. If I felt sure of you I might
take you with me on a voyage that will not be without profit, instead of
selling you to a plantation in the Indies. But to go with me I must have
your absolute faith, and you must agree to share in all our perils and
achievements."
His meaning was quite plain, and might have tempted many another,
thinking, in any event, to use it as a plan for escape, but Robert never
faltered for a moment. His own instincts were always for the right, and
long comradeship with Willet and Tayoga made his will to obey those
instincts all the stronger.
"Thank you, Captain," he replied, "but I judge that your cruises are all
outside the law, and I cannot go with you on them, at least, not
willingly."
The slaver shrugged his shoulder.
"'Tis just as well that you declined," he said. "'Twas but a passing
whim of mine, and ten minutes later I'd have been sorry for it had you
accepted."
He shrugged his shoulders again, took a turn about the deck and then
went down to his cabin. Robert, notified by a sailor, the first man on
the schooner outside of the slaver to speak to him, ate supper with him
there. The food was good, but the captain was now silent, speaking only
a few times, and mostly in monosyllables. Near the end he said:
"You're to sleep in the room you've been occupying. The door will not be
bolted on you, but I don't think you'll leave the ship. The nearest land
is sixty or seventy miles away, and that's a long swim."
"I won't chance it," said Robert. "Just now I prefer solid timber
beneath my feet."
"A wise decision, Peter."
After supper the slaver went about his duties, whatever they were, and
Robert, utterly free so far as the schooner was concerned, went on deck.
It was quite dark and the wind was blowing strong, but the ship was
steady, and her swift keel cut the waters. All around him curved the
darkness, and the loneliness of the sea was immense at that moment. It
was in very truth a long swim to the land, and just then the thought of
escape was far from him. He shivered, and going down to the little cabin
that had been a prison, he soon fell asleep.