His inquiries seemed to cause his uncle and aunt embarrassment; at least they answered so indefinitely as to give him the impression that they knew more than they told. Near midnight of the Sunday he preached at Danville, Mrs. Clark came to his room in great distress, saying: “John, Mr. Clark is very ill and I have sent for the doctor. He is deathly pale and complains of pain about his heart. He wishes to see you at once.” He went immediately to his uncle’s room, who took from under his pillow a much handled letter, and handing it to him, said: “You must find David for his mother, we have never heard a word from our boy since Daniel Clark sent this letter to me; and it only tells why he was made a prisoner and taken aboard a Spanish frigate which the next morning sailed for Spain. I am sure he is not dead because several times I have seemed to see him; and tonight saw him very distinctly for the first time. I believe he would have spoken and told me how to find him had not the pain in my heart awakened me. He was walking in a desert land beside a large white camel, heavily loaded with merchandise and with him were some half-wild men with long muskets guarding a train or caravan of camels. He is very far from here and in a strange way I am informed that neither his mother nor I will see him again, but you will. He will grow happy in that distant land, make it his home and rear a family. I have told his mother what I have dreamed; and she says, she too knows he is not dead. Since the receipt of the letter all we have ever learned is that the ship which sailed for Spain was wrecked on the shore of northwest Africa, a hundred miles south of Gibraltar; that a part of the crew were picked up in a boat at sea; part were drowned and a few reached the shore, where they were taken prisoners and supposedly sold as slaves. I believe this is David’s fate and you must find out. “Raise me up a bit; that is better; my heart feels as though it were being torn in two—how I wish I might see the face of my boy. Give me your hand, little David, and you too, Annie. It grows dark. Is the candle burning or has the wind blown it out?” How quiet the house was the day after the burial; it seemed the soul of the place was dead. John went to his room and thinking of David was reminded of the letter Mr. Clark had given him. It was near night; and lighting a tallow candle he read the copy of the letter General Wilkinson had sent by him to Governor Miro, requesting that the bearer should be held a prisoner. It was the letter he had promised Wilkinson to deliver in person. Slowly it dawned upon him that whatever might be David’s fate, whatever David might now be suffering, if alive, it was vicarious, a voluntary substitution for him, as the sufferer had hid his identity to shield a friend, to give him the opportunity to escape—and he had supposed that David was under a cloud and afraid or ashamed to return home.