e substance of Gaunt's reply to this oft-repeated
question; at which the little fellow would look at his father in
surprise and retort:

"But, father, you used to tell me that God is _always_ pleased to hear
and answer the prayers of little children!"

In short, the child at length got the better of the man in this curious
theological discussion, and Gaunt was finally obliged to give in.

"He is right," the father at length admitted to himself, "and I am
wrong. After striving with all my might during the whole of his brief
little life to inculcate in him an absolute belief in the unalterable
truth of God's promises, why should I now allow the weakness of my own
faith to undermine his? My child is in the hands of a merciful God;
there will I leave him."

And so, when, from time to time, after that, the little fellow repeated
his question of "When do you think they will come and set us free,
father?" Gaunt would reply hopefully:

"Oh, very soon now, I should think, dear boy; very soon."

The long, weary, trying night was wearing to its close. The moon hung
low in the western sky; the horizon to the eastward was paling from
violet-black to pearly-grey; and the stars in that quarter were
beginning to lose their lustre. The air, which during the earlier hours
of the night had been oppressively sultry, now came cool and refreshing
to the fevered brows of the anxious watchers; the insects had subdued
their irritating din, as is their wont toward the dawn; the watch-fire
had smouldered down to a heap of grey, feathery, faintly-glowing ashes;
the two sentinels at the entrance of the bush-path had ceased their
alert pacing to and fro, and, having grounded their muskets, were now
drooping wearily upon them with their hands crossed over the top of the
barrels; whilst the Malay who had been detailed to watch the prisoners,
having some half a dozen times during the earlier hours of the night
tested their bonds and satisfied himself of their perfect security, was
now seated on the ground before his charges, with his ringers
interlocked across his knees and his head bowed forward, manifestly
napping. The weariness of the long night had told upon both the
prisoners; their conversation had first languished and then ceased
altogether; but now the cool, fresh, sweet-smelling breeze had aroused
them both, Gaunt first, and the poor, tired-out, suffering child soon
afterwards; and whilst the first was looking abroad over the tree-