Even then I thought of poor Mike.  What might be his fate, should he be captured by the Indians?  His fiddle, and probably everything else in the canoe, would be lost, and he would have no means of softening their savage hearts.  With his fiddle in his hand, I felt that he might succeed in saving his life.  It may seem strange that such thoughts entered my mind at that time; but the truth is, I was less anxious about myself than I was about him.