"Never done me an injury!" cried Henry, starting and turning with a look
of passion on his companion; then, checking himself by a strong effort,
he added, in a milder tone, "But a truce to such talk; and I ask your
forgiveness for my sharp words just after your rendering me such good
service in the hour of need. You and I differ in our notions on one or
two points--that is all; there is no need for quarreling. See, here is a
note from my mother, who sent me to the bay to meet you."

During this colloquy, Dick and Bumpus had mounted guard over the wounded
savage, just out of ear-shot of their captain.

Neither of the sailors ventured to hold their prisoner, because they
deemed it an unmanly advantage to take of one who was so completely (as
they imagined) in their power. They kept a watchful eye on him, however;
and while they affected an easy indifference of attitude, held
themselves in readiness to pounce upon him if he should attempt to
escape. But nothing seemed farther from the mind of Keona than such an
attempt. He appeared to be thoroughly exhausted by his recent struggle
and loss of blood, and his body was bent as if he were about to sink
down to the ground. There was, however, a peculiar glance in his dark
eyes that induced John Bumpus to be more on his guard than appearances
seemed to warrant.

While Gascoyne was reading the letter to which we have referred, Keona
suddenly placed his left leg behind surly Dick, and, with his unwounded
fist, hit that morose individual such a tremendous back-handed blow on
the nose that he instantly measured his length on the ground. John
Bumpus made a sudden plunge at the savage on seeing this, but the latter
ducked his head, passed like an eel under the very arms of the sailor,