“Well, Friday,” said I, “do you think we shall find any body here, or no? and what do you think, shall we see your father?” The fellow stood mute as a stock a good while; but when I named his father, the poor affectionate creature looked dejected; and I could see the tears run down his face very plentifully.  “What is the matter, Friday?” said I; “are you troubled because you may see your father”—­“No, no,” says he, shaking his head, “no see him more, no ever more see again.”—­“Why so,” said I, “Friday? how do you know that?”—­“O no, O no,” says Friday, “he long ago die; long ago, he much old man.”—­“Well, well,” said I, “Friday, you don’t know; but shall we see any one else then?” The fellow, it seems, had better eyes than I, and he points just to the hill above my old house; and though we lay half a league off, he cries out, “Me see! me see! yes, yes, me see much man there, and there, and there.”  I looked, but I could see nobody, no, not with a perspective-glass; which was, I suppose, because I could not hit the place; for the fellow was right, as I found upon inquiry the next day, and there were five or six men all together stood to look at the ship, not knowing what to think of us.

As soon as Friday had told me he saw people, I caused the English ancient to be spread, and fired three guns, to give them notice we were friends; and about half a quarter of an hour after, we perceived a smoke rise from the side of the creek; so I immediately ordered a boat out, taking Friday with me; and hanging out a white flag, or a flag of truce, I went directly on shore, taking with me the young friar I mentioned, to whom I had told the whole story of living there, and the manner of it, and every particular both of myself and those that I left there, and who was on that account extremely desirous to go with me, We had besides about sixteen men very well armed, if we had found any new guest there which we did not know of; but we had no need of weapons.

As we went on shore upon the tide of flood near high water, we rowed directly into the creek; and the first man I fixed my eye upon was the Spaniard whose life I had saved, and whom I knew by his face perfectly well; as to his habit, I shall describe it afterwards.  I ordered nobody to go on shore at first but myself; but there was no keeping Friday in the boat; for the affectionate creature had spied his father at a distance, a good way off of the Spaniards, where indeed I saw nothing of him; and if they had not let him go on shore he would have jumped into the sea.  He was no sooner on shore, but he flew away to his father like an arrow out of a bow.  It would have made any man shed tears in spite of the firmest resolution to have seen the first transports of this poor fellow’s joy, when he came to his father; how he embraced him, kissed him, stroked his face, took him in his arms, set him down upon a tree, and lay down by him; then stood and looked at him as any one would look at a