He had never seen the white men again, nor had he ventured near their old camp.
He had gone back to Tudor, and hidden with him for a week, living on wild fruits and the few pigeons and cockatoos he had been able to shoot with bow and arrow.

Then he had journeyed down to Berande to bring the news.
Tudor, he said, was very sick, lying unconscious for days at a time, and, when in his right mind, too weak to help himself.
"What name you no kill 'm that big fella marster ?" Joan demanded.

"He have 'm good fella musket, plenty calico, plenty tobacco, plenty knife- fee, and two fella pickaninny musket shoot quick, bang-bang-bang--just like that." The black smiled cunningly.
"Me savvee too much.

S'pose me kill 'm big fella marster, bimeby plenty white fella marster walk about Binu cross like hell.

'What name this fellow musket ?' those plenty fella white marster talk 'm along me.