Chapter Twenty Nine.An Exulting Fiend.“I has found you, has I?”“Crookleg!”“Yes, it am Crookleg.”“A drop of water, for the love of God; a drop of water!”“If de whole place war a lake, dis chile wouldn’t sprinkle you parched lips with a drop out ob it.”“What do you mean, Crookleg?”“Ha! the time I been waitin’ for has come at last. It hab been long, but it am come! Do you know war you son Warren am?”“Thank heaven! away from this, and in safety.”“Ha! ha! ha! Safe; yes, he am safe enough wid a big bullet through his brain!”Elias Rody, with an effort, raised himself into a sitting posture, and glared upon the speaker.“Dead!”“Yes, dead; and it war me dat bro’t him to it. Ha! ha! ha!”“Who are you? Has hell let loose its fiends to mock me?”“Perhaps it have. Who am I? Don’t you know me yet, Rody—MassaRody?”“No, devil! I know you not. My son dead—oh, God! what have I done to deserve all this?”“What hab you done? What hab you not done? You had done ebery ting that de black heart ob a white man do, and de day of recknin’ am come at last. So you don’t know me, don’t you?”“Away, fiend, and let me die in peace!”“In peace—no; you shall die as you hab made oders live—in pain! When you can’t hear dis nigga’s voice plainly, he’ll hiss it in at your ear, so it may reach your infernal soul, in de last minutes of you life!”“Who—who are you?”“I am Reuben, de son of Esther.”“Esther!”“Yes, Esther, your father’s slave. You was de cause ob her death. Do you know me now?”Rody groaned.“Dey call me Crookleg, kase I was lame. Who made me lame?”Still no answer.“It war you dat put de ball in my leg for sport, when you war a boy, and I war de same. I have been close to you for years, but you didn’t know me. I war too mean—too much below de notice of a proud gentleman like you. But I hab a good memory, and de oath I’d taken to be even wid ye, am kept. My mother war a slave, but she war my mother for all dat, an’ if I war a black man I war still a human bein’, although you and de likes of you didn’t think so. Do you know me now?”Rody uttered not a word.“When I war forced to limp away from your father’s plantation, I war but a boy, but de boy had de same hate for de cruel massa dat de lame nigga hab now for Elias Rody. Days and years hab passed since den, but de hate war kept hot as ever; and I’se happy now when I knows dat de dyin’ planter am at de mercy of de mean slave. Don’t be skear’d, I wouldn’t lift dis hand to help you eider die or live. All I’se a going to do is to sit hyar an’ watch ober you till you am cold and stiff. Every flutter you wicked soul makes to get free from you ugly body, will be a joy to me!”“Oh, devil!” exclaimed the wounded man, in the depth of his agony.“Debbil! Yes, I is a debbil, and you has made me one!”The negro, as he said this, knelt down by Rody’s side and thrust his face close up to that of the dying man, while a demoniac joy lit up his horrid features.And he continued to gaze upon his victim until the grey shadow of dissolution stole over his countenance, the senses wandered, and the once bright eyes were becoming dimmed with the film of death.At last a scream burst from the lips of the dying man, followed by words of piteous appeal.“Ha—help—water—water! My soul’s on fire! Devils—demons! Away—away! Let me go! Unloose your burning hands from my heart! Unloose—ah, horror!”The cries ceased.Elias Rody was dead!Remorselessly did the negro glare upon his expiring enemy as he uttered these last frantic speeches, and when, at last, the spirit had passed away, he bounded to his feet and began to exult over his now unconscious victim.At this moment another personage appeared upon the scene.At some little distance from the spot a man, leaning upon his rifle, stood taking a survey of the smoking ruins.He had been for some time ignorant that any living being but himself was upon the hill.His attention was now called to Crookleg, who, assured of his enemy’s death, could no longer restrain his immense joy, but was giving vent to it in cries and fantastic caperings.“Ho, ho—dead! It am ’plendid sport to de ole nigga! Only to tink dat dis poor ole lame darkey hab been de cause ob a war ’tween de whites and de red-skins! Ha, ha, ha! it am most too good to be beliebed! But it am true—it am true!”As the monstrous creature concluded the speech he was seen to spring suddenly into the air and fall flat upon his face—a corpse!A long hunting-knife had penetrated his back!“There, ye black hound! If you have been the cause of one war, you’ll never have a hand in another. I swore not to fight agin my own blood, nor to take part agin the red-skins, but black blood don’t count in my bargain!”Saying this, Cris Carrol drew his blade from the negro’s body and coolly sauntered away from the spot.
“I has found you, has I?”
“Crookleg!”
“Yes, it am Crookleg.”
“A drop of water, for the love of God; a drop of water!”
“If de whole place war a lake, dis chile wouldn’t sprinkle you parched lips with a drop out ob it.”
“What do you mean, Crookleg?”
“Ha! the time I been waitin’ for has come at last. It hab been long, but it am come! Do you know war you son Warren am?”
“Thank heaven! away from this, and in safety.”
“Ha! ha! ha! Safe; yes, he am safe enough wid a big bullet through his brain!”
Elias Rody, with an effort, raised himself into a sitting posture, and glared upon the speaker.
“Dead!”
“Yes, dead; and it war me dat bro’t him to it. Ha! ha! ha!”
“Who are you? Has hell let loose its fiends to mock me?”
“Perhaps it have. Who am I? Don’t you know me yet, Rody—MassaRody?”
“No, devil! I know you not. My son dead—oh, God! what have I done to deserve all this?”
“What hab you done? What hab you not done? You had done ebery ting that de black heart ob a white man do, and de day of recknin’ am come at last. So you don’t know me, don’t you?”
“Away, fiend, and let me die in peace!”
“In peace—no; you shall die as you hab made oders live—in pain! When you can’t hear dis nigga’s voice plainly, he’ll hiss it in at your ear, so it may reach your infernal soul, in de last minutes of you life!”
“Who—who are you?”
“I am Reuben, de son of Esther.”
“Esther!”
“Yes, Esther, your father’s slave. You was de cause ob her death. Do you know me now?”
Rody groaned.
“Dey call me Crookleg, kase I was lame. Who made me lame?”
Still no answer.
“It war you dat put de ball in my leg for sport, when you war a boy, and I war de same. I have been close to you for years, but you didn’t know me. I war too mean—too much below de notice of a proud gentleman like you. But I hab a good memory, and de oath I’d taken to be even wid ye, am kept. My mother war a slave, but she war my mother for all dat, an’ if I war a black man I war still a human bein’, although you and de likes of you didn’t think so. Do you know me now?”
Rody uttered not a word.
“When I war forced to limp away from your father’s plantation, I war but a boy, but de boy had de same hate for de cruel massa dat de lame nigga hab now for Elias Rody. Days and years hab passed since den, but de hate war kept hot as ever; and I’se happy now when I knows dat de dyin’ planter am at de mercy of de mean slave. Don’t be skear’d, I wouldn’t lift dis hand to help you eider die or live. All I’se a going to do is to sit hyar an’ watch ober you till you am cold and stiff. Every flutter you wicked soul makes to get free from you ugly body, will be a joy to me!”
“Oh, devil!” exclaimed the wounded man, in the depth of his agony.
“Debbil! Yes, I is a debbil, and you has made me one!”
The negro, as he said this, knelt down by Rody’s side and thrust his face close up to that of the dying man, while a demoniac joy lit up his horrid features.
And he continued to gaze upon his victim until the grey shadow of dissolution stole over his countenance, the senses wandered, and the once bright eyes were becoming dimmed with the film of death.
At last a scream burst from the lips of the dying man, followed by words of piteous appeal.
“Ha—help—water—water! My soul’s on fire! Devils—demons! Away—away! Let me go! Unloose your burning hands from my heart! Unloose—ah, horror!”
The cries ceased.
Elias Rody was dead!
Remorselessly did the negro glare upon his expiring enemy as he uttered these last frantic speeches, and when, at last, the spirit had passed away, he bounded to his feet and began to exult over his now unconscious victim.
At this moment another personage appeared upon the scene.
At some little distance from the spot a man, leaning upon his rifle, stood taking a survey of the smoking ruins.
He had been for some time ignorant that any living being but himself was upon the hill.
His attention was now called to Crookleg, who, assured of his enemy’s death, could no longer restrain his immense joy, but was giving vent to it in cries and fantastic caperings.
“Ho, ho—dead! It am ’plendid sport to de ole nigga! Only to tink dat dis poor ole lame darkey hab been de cause ob a war ’tween de whites and de red-skins! Ha, ha, ha! it am most too good to be beliebed! But it am true—it am true!”
As the monstrous creature concluded the speech he was seen to spring suddenly into the air and fall flat upon his face—a corpse!
A long hunting-knife had penetrated his back!
“There, ye black hound! If you have been the cause of one war, you’ll never have a hand in another. I swore not to fight agin my own blood, nor to take part agin the red-skins, but black blood don’t count in my bargain!”
Saying this, Cris Carrol drew his blade from the negro’s body and coolly sauntered away from the spot.
Chapter Thirty.Robbed of his Revenge.Wacora, after reaching the camp, dismissed his warriors, and entered his tent alone.The remainder of that night he passed in meditation.Was it the influence of the white blood flowing in his veins that made him think of the slaughter he had directed and taken part in?Strange inconsistency of nature.The heroic chief, still decked in the war paint of his father’s race, as he reviewed the events of the past few hours, could not restrain himself from shuddering.His mother’s spirit seemed to hover around him; her eyes sad and reproachful; her heart heavy.“They were the people of my race, and so of yours, that you have immolated on the throne of your vengeance.”So seemed it to say!His head sank upon his breast. He sighed heavily.Long he continued in his gloomy abstraction; his thoughts deeper than plummet ever sounded.The weary hours of night crept slowly past, and yet he stirred not.Fears and forebodings filled his warrior’s heart.“I have done all for the best,” muttered he to himself. “Witness it, thou Great Spirit; all for the best. For the future of my father’s race I have closed my heart to pity. It was not for present vengeance alone that I urged on the wild people to the slaughter. It was that they might then begin the great work of regeneration, assured in their strength, and conscious of their invincibility.”Like all high-strung natures, Wacora was subject to fits of despondency.With want of action this had come upon him. The excitement over, gloomy doubt had succeeded to bright hope.The sun was high in the heavens ere he could bestir himself, and shake off such thoughts. He at length made the effort, and emerged from his tent to consult with the warriors of his tribe.As he stepped forth, he perceived Maracota slowly approaching.In an instant the slumbering passion of hate was awakened; he saw in the young Indian’s eye that he had news to communicate.Speak! have you found him?“Yes, he is found.”“I mean Warren Rody. Make no error, Maracota—tell me, is it Warren Rody you have found?”“He has been found.”“Then all is well. Quick! bring him to me. Let me look upon this dog of a pale-face!”Maracota made no answer, but stood silent.“Do you hear me? Bring the dog before me. My eyes hunger for a sight of his craven countenance—I would see his white-livered face of fear—watch his trembling frame as he stands in my presence!”Still Maracota did not speak.“By the Great Spirit, Maracota, why do you not go for him? Why do you not answer me?”“Maracota dreads your anger.”“You an Indian warrior, and afraid. What do you mean?”“That I have disobeyed your commands—”“Ha! wretch! I understand. You found him, but he escaped.”“Not that—”“What is it then? Speak, did he defy you? Was he too powerful? Then summon our warriors, and if it cost the life of every Indian in Florida I swear he shall be captured. Answer me or I shall do you mischief.”“Maracota deserves punishment.”The young chief, now fully aroused to anger, cast a significant look at his subordinate; he could scarce refrain from striking him to the ground, and it was with an effort that he resumed speech—“No more mystery. Speak! where is he?”“Dead.”Wacora made a bound towards the speaker, as he cried, “Didyoukill him?”“I did.”Maracota fearlessly stood to await the stroke of the upraised tomahawk.It fell, but not on the Indian’s skull.Wacora flung his weapon on the grass.“Wretch!” he cried, “you have robbed me of my revenge. May the arm that took that man’s life hang palsied by your side for ever! May—oh, curse you—curse you!”Maracota’s head fell upon his breast. He dared not meet his chief’s angry glance—more dreaded than the blow of his hatchet.For some moments there was silence; whilst Wacora paced to and fro like a tiger in its cage.
Wacora, after reaching the camp, dismissed his warriors, and entered his tent alone.
The remainder of that night he passed in meditation.
Was it the influence of the white blood flowing in his veins that made him think of the slaughter he had directed and taken part in?
Strange inconsistency of nature.
The heroic chief, still decked in the war paint of his father’s race, as he reviewed the events of the past few hours, could not restrain himself from shuddering.
His mother’s spirit seemed to hover around him; her eyes sad and reproachful; her heart heavy.
“They were the people of my race, and so of yours, that you have immolated on the throne of your vengeance.”
So seemed it to say!
His head sank upon his breast. He sighed heavily.
Long he continued in his gloomy abstraction; his thoughts deeper than plummet ever sounded.
The weary hours of night crept slowly past, and yet he stirred not.
Fears and forebodings filled his warrior’s heart.
“I have done all for the best,” muttered he to himself. “Witness it, thou Great Spirit; all for the best. For the future of my father’s race I have closed my heart to pity. It was not for present vengeance alone that I urged on the wild people to the slaughter. It was that they might then begin the great work of regeneration, assured in their strength, and conscious of their invincibility.”
Like all high-strung natures, Wacora was subject to fits of despondency.
With want of action this had come upon him. The excitement over, gloomy doubt had succeeded to bright hope.
The sun was high in the heavens ere he could bestir himself, and shake off such thoughts. He at length made the effort, and emerged from his tent to consult with the warriors of his tribe.
As he stepped forth, he perceived Maracota slowly approaching.
In an instant the slumbering passion of hate was awakened; he saw in the young Indian’s eye that he had news to communicate.
Speak! have you found him?
“Yes, he is found.”
“I mean Warren Rody. Make no error, Maracota—tell me, is it Warren Rody you have found?”
“He has been found.”
“Then all is well. Quick! bring him to me. Let me look upon this dog of a pale-face!”
Maracota made no answer, but stood silent.
“Do you hear me? Bring the dog before me. My eyes hunger for a sight of his craven countenance—I would see his white-livered face of fear—watch his trembling frame as he stands in my presence!”
Still Maracota did not speak.
“By the Great Spirit, Maracota, why do you not go for him? Why do you not answer me?”
“Maracota dreads your anger.”
“You an Indian warrior, and afraid. What do you mean?”
“That I have disobeyed your commands—”
“Ha! wretch! I understand. You found him, but he escaped.”
“Not that—”
“What is it then? Speak, did he defy you? Was he too powerful? Then summon our warriors, and if it cost the life of every Indian in Florida I swear he shall be captured. Answer me or I shall do you mischief.”
“Maracota deserves punishment.”
The young chief, now fully aroused to anger, cast a significant look at his subordinate; he could scarce refrain from striking him to the ground, and it was with an effort that he resumed speech—
“No more mystery. Speak! where is he?”
“Dead.”
Wacora made a bound towards the speaker, as he cried, “Didyoukill him?”
“I did.”
Maracota fearlessly stood to await the stroke of the upraised tomahawk.
It fell, but not on the Indian’s skull.
Wacora flung his weapon on the grass.
“Wretch!” he cried, “you have robbed me of my revenge. May the arm that took that man’s life hang palsied by your side for ever! May—oh, curse you—curse you!”
Maracota’s head fell upon his breast. He dared not meet his chief’s angry glance—more dreaded than the blow of his hatchet.
For some moments there was silence; whilst Wacora paced to and fro like a tiger in its cage.
Chapter Thirty One.A Sad Spectacle.After a time the enraged chief, pausing in his steps, stood by the side of the silent warrior.“Tell me how it happened,” he said, apparently becoming calmer. “Tell me all.”Maracota related the circumstances as they had happened.“It was to save Nelatu’s life that you fired upon the monster?”“It was.”“And he—where is Nelatu?”“He is close by. See, they come this way.”As Wacora looked in the direction indicated, he perceived his two cousins approaching.The beautiful maiden, now wan and sad, seemed absorbed in the contemplation of some wild flowers which she held in her hand. There were others wreathed in her hair.In this manner had she been conducted to the camp.Nelatu turned to his sister, put his arm in hers, and was about to lead her off, when a man rushed into the presence of the chief, crying out as he approached—“Good news! The body of the white chief, Rody, has been found, and—”The warning gesture had been lost upon the impatient speaker.It was too late now, Sansuta had heard the fated name.Casting from her the flowers she had been trifling with, she uttered shriek upon shriek, running wildly and beseechingly, backwards and forwards, from her brother to her cousin, who both stood spell-bound with surprise and grief.“Where have you hid him? Give him to me. You shall not kill him; no—no—no! I say you shall not hurt him! Warren! Warren! ’tis Sansuta calls. Murderers! He never injured you. Take nay life—not his! Warren! Warren! Oh, do not keep him from me. See, that is his blood upon your hands—his eyes are closed in death! It is you, wretches, that have murdered him. No, no—stand back—I would not have you touch me whilst your hands are red with his blood. Back! back! I will find him!—No, you shall kill me first!—I will find Warren Rody! Help, help! save me from his murderers!”With renewed screams of agony that struck horror into the listeners’ hearts, the girl, eluding their grasp, darted away into the forest.At a signal from Wacora, Nelatu started in pursuit.“May the lightnings blast all who have brought about this! Fool that I was just now to feel pity for the pale-faces; nothing that revenge can accomplish will make up for this. Here I swear to take vengeance far more terrible—vengeance to which that of last night shall be but a mockery!”With these words the young chief hastened away from the spot, followed by Maracota and the messenger.
After a time the enraged chief, pausing in his steps, stood by the side of the silent warrior.
“Tell me how it happened,” he said, apparently becoming calmer. “Tell me all.”
Maracota related the circumstances as they had happened.
“It was to save Nelatu’s life that you fired upon the monster?”
“It was.”
“And he—where is Nelatu?”
“He is close by. See, they come this way.”
As Wacora looked in the direction indicated, he perceived his two cousins approaching.
The beautiful maiden, now wan and sad, seemed absorbed in the contemplation of some wild flowers which she held in her hand. There were others wreathed in her hair.
In this manner had she been conducted to the camp.
Nelatu turned to his sister, put his arm in hers, and was about to lead her off, when a man rushed into the presence of the chief, crying out as he approached—
“Good news! The body of the white chief, Rody, has been found, and—”
The warning gesture had been lost upon the impatient speaker.
It was too late now, Sansuta had heard the fated name.
Casting from her the flowers she had been trifling with, she uttered shriek upon shriek, running wildly and beseechingly, backwards and forwards, from her brother to her cousin, who both stood spell-bound with surprise and grief.
“Where have you hid him? Give him to me. You shall not kill him; no—no—no! I say you shall not hurt him! Warren! Warren! ’tis Sansuta calls. Murderers! He never injured you. Take nay life—not his! Warren! Warren! Oh, do not keep him from me. See, that is his blood upon your hands—his eyes are closed in death! It is you, wretches, that have murdered him. No, no—stand back—I would not have you touch me whilst your hands are red with his blood. Back! back! I will find him!—No, you shall kill me first!—I will find Warren Rody! Help, help! save me from his murderers!”
With renewed screams of agony that struck horror into the listeners’ hearts, the girl, eluding their grasp, darted away into the forest.
At a signal from Wacora, Nelatu started in pursuit.
“May the lightnings blast all who have brought about this! Fool that I was just now to feel pity for the pale-faces; nothing that revenge can accomplish will make up for this. Here I swear to take vengeance far more terrible—vengeance to which that of last night shall be but a mockery!”
With these words the young chief hastened away from the spot, followed by Maracota and the messenger.
Chapter Thirty Two.“Spare Her! Spare Her!”The opportunity of this vengeance was already close at hand.Within the space enclosed by the Indian tents, under guard of some warriors, stood a group of pale-face prisoners.It consisted of several men, and among them a young girl.Wacora stopped on perceiving the group.His features were illumined with a savage joy.One of the chiefs, advancing, reported their having been captured while attempting to escape through the adjoining forest.“What’s to be done with them?” he asked.“They shall die by torture!”“The girl?”“She, too, shall die. Who is she?”“I don’t know.”Turning to Maracota, he propounded a similar question.Maracota was equally ignorant of the person of the captive.The chief ordered her to be brought before him.With an undaunted step, although evidently suffering from debility and sorrow, the girl allowed herself to be led along.Once in Wacora’s presence, with a modest courage, she gazed into his face.“Who are you?” he asked.“Your prisoner.”“When where you captured?”“About two hours ago.”“You were trying to escape?”“I was.”“Your companions—who are they?”“I know nothing of them, except that they are people belonging to the settlement. They were kind to me, and endeavoured to help me in my escape.”“You know your doom?”She answered, sadly—“I expect no mercy.”Wacora, struck with this reply, felt an interest in the courageous girl, which he could not account for.“You have been taught to think of the red man as a remorseless savage?”“Not as remorseless, only as revengeful.”“Then you acknowledge that we have just cause for revengeful feelings?”“I did not say so.”“But you implied it.”“All men have enemies. The truly great are the only ones who can forego revenge.”“But savages must act according to their instincts.”“Savages—yes. But men who know right from wrong should act by their judgment.”“If I spared your life, you would still consider me a savage.”“My life is nothing to me. All those I loved are now dead.”“Your mother?”“She died when I was a child.”“Your father?”“Was killed last night.”Wacora seemed lost in thought as he said, half aside—“So young, and yet with no fear of death!”The young girl overheard the muttered soliloquy, and made answer to it—“To the unhappy death is welcome.”“Unhappy?”“I have told you that all I love are dead?”“Yet death is terrible.”“Your name?”“Alice Rody.”With a cry of fiendish delight, Wacora grasped the maiden’s arm.“You, the daughter of that accursed man—the daughter of that demon in human form! Then, by the Great Spirit above us! by the ashes of my ancestors, you shall die! My own hand shall inflict the blow.”As he uttered these words, he drew a knife from his belt, and was on the point of sheathing it in her heart, when his arm was seized, and a voice full of agony vibrated in his ear—“Spare her!—oh! spare her. Take my life instead.”“Nelatu!”“Yes, Nelatu; your cousin, your slave, if you will—only spare her life!”“You forget her name.”“No, no; I know it but too well.”“You forget that her father has been the accursed cause of all this misery?”“No; I remember that too.”“Then you are insane thus to beg for her life. She must die!”“I am not insane. Oh! Wacora, on my knees I implore you to spare her!”“Rise, Nelatu; the son of Oluski should not bend his knee to man. At your intercession, her life shall be spared!”Nelatu rose from the ground.“You are indeed our chief, Wacora. Your heart is open and generous.”“Stay, yet, before you mistake me. I give you her life, but ‘an eye for an eye!’ She shall suffer what Sansuta has suffered; spare her life, but not her honour.”“Wacora!”“I have said it. Here”—turning to the assembled warriors who had been amazed witnesses of the scene—“this is the child of our enemy, Elias Rody. I have, at Nelatu’s entreaty, spared her life; I bestow her upon the tribe; do with her what you will.”Nelatu leaped before the advancing braves.“Back!” he cried. “The first who lays hands upon her, dies!”Wacora gazed upon his cousin.In his breast rage contended with wonder.“Heed him not; he is insane.”“No; not insane.”“Speak; what then?”“I love her! I love her!”The young girl, who had stood like a statue throughout all the previous scene, gave a start, and, cowering to the ground, buried her face in her hands.To Wacora the words of Nelatu were no less surprising.Turning to the shrinking maiden, he said—“You hear what Nelatu says? He loves you.”She murmured faintly—“I hear.”“He loves you. Wacora, too, has loved. That love has been trampled upon, and by your wretch of a brother! Yet still it shall plead for Nelatu. His request is granted. You are spared both life and honour, but must remain a prisoner. Conduct her hence!”“And these?” asked a warrior, pointing to the other prisoners.Wacora’s heart, touched for an instant by his cousin’s pleading, as well as by Alice Rody’s heroic bearing, became again hardened.He replied—“They must die! Not by the torture, but at once. Let them be shot!”The brave fellows, disdaining to sue for mercy, were led away from the spot.Soon after he heard several shots that came echoing from the woods.His captives had been released from all earthly care.
The opportunity of this vengeance was already close at hand.
Within the space enclosed by the Indian tents, under guard of some warriors, stood a group of pale-face prisoners.
It consisted of several men, and among them a young girl.
Wacora stopped on perceiving the group.
His features were illumined with a savage joy.
One of the chiefs, advancing, reported their having been captured while attempting to escape through the adjoining forest.
“What’s to be done with them?” he asked.
“They shall die by torture!”
“The girl?”
“She, too, shall die. Who is she?”
“I don’t know.”
Turning to Maracota, he propounded a similar question.
Maracota was equally ignorant of the person of the captive.
The chief ordered her to be brought before him.
With an undaunted step, although evidently suffering from debility and sorrow, the girl allowed herself to be led along.
Once in Wacora’s presence, with a modest courage, she gazed into his face.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Your prisoner.”
“When where you captured?”
“About two hours ago.”
“You were trying to escape?”
“I was.”
“Your companions—who are they?”
“I know nothing of them, except that they are people belonging to the settlement. They were kind to me, and endeavoured to help me in my escape.”
“You know your doom?”
She answered, sadly—
“I expect no mercy.”
Wacora, struck with this reply, felt an interest in the courageous girl, which he could not account for.
“You have been taught to think of the red man as a remorseless savage?”
“Not as remorseless, only as revengeful.”
“Then you acknowledge that we have just cause for revengeful feelings?”
“I did not say so.”
“But you implied it.”
“All men have enemies. The truly great are the only ones who can forego revenge.”
“But savages must act according to their instincts.”
“Savages—yes. But men who know right from wrong should act by their judgment.”
“If I spared your life, you would still consider me a savage.”
“My life is nothing to me. All those I loved are now dead.”
“Your mother?”
“She died when I was a child.”
“Your father?”
“Was killed last night.”
Wacora seemed lost in thought as he said, half aside—
“So young, and yet with no fear of death!”
The young girl overheard the muttered soliloquy, and made answer to it—
“To the unhappy death is welcome.”
“Unhappy?”
“I have told you that all I love are dead?”
“Yet death is terrible.”
“Your name?”
“Alice Rody.”
With a cry of fiendish delight, Wacora grasped the maiden’s arm.
“You, the daughter of that accursed man—the daughter of that demon in human form! Then, by the Great Spirit above us! by the ashes of my ancestors, you shall die! My own hand shall inflict the blow.”
As he uttered these words, he drew a knife from his belt, and was on the point of sheathing it in her heart, when his arm was seized, and a voice full of agony vibrated in his ear—
“Spare her!—oh! spare her. Take my life instead.”
“Nelatu!”
“Yes, Nelatu; your cousin, your slave, if you will—only spare her life!”
“You forget her name.”
“No, no; I know it but too well.”
“You forget that her father has been the accursed cause of all this misery?”
“No; I remember that too.”
“Then you are insane thus to beg for her life. She must die!”
“I am not insane. Oh! Wacora, on my knees I implore you to spare her!”
“Rise, Nelatu; the son of Oluski should not bend his knee to man. At your intercession, her life shall be spared!”
Nelatu rose from the ground.
“You are indeed our chief, Wacora. Your heart is open and generous.”
“Stay, yet, before you mistake me. I give you her life, but ‘an eye for an eye!’ She shall suffer what Sansuta has suffered; spare her life, but not her honour.”
“Wacora!”
“I have said it. Here”—turning to the assembled warriors who had been amazed witnesses of the scene—“this is the child of our enemy, Elias Rody. I have, at Nelatu’s entreaty, spared her life; I bestow her upon the tribe; do with her what you will.”
Nelatu leaped before the advancing braves.
“Back!” he cried. “The first who lays hands upon her, dies!”
Wacora gazed upon his cousin.
In his breast rage contended with wonder.
“Heed him not; he is insane.”
“No; not insane.”
“Speak; what then?”
“I love her! I love her!”
The young girl, who had stood like a statue throughout all the previous scene, gave a start, and, cowering to the ground, buried her face in her hands.
To Wacora the words of Nelatu were no less surprising.
Turning to the shrinking maiden, he said—
“You hear what Nelatu says? He loves you.”
She murmured faintly—“I hear.”
“He loves you. Wacora, too, has loved. That love has been trampled upon, and by your wretch of a brother! Yet still it shall plead for Nelatu. His request is granted. You are spared both life and honour, but must remain a prisoner. Conduct her hence!”
“And these?” asked a warrior, pointing to the other prisoners.
Wacora’s heart, touched for an instant by his cousin’s pleading, as well as by Alice Rody’s heroic bearing, became again hardened.
He replied—
“They must die! Not by the torture, but at once. Let them be shot!”
The brave fellows, disdaining to sue for mercy, were led away from the spot.
Soon after he heard several shots that came echoing from the woods.
His captives had been released from all earthly care.
Chapter Thirty Three.Ruin among the Ruins.The Indians’ encampment near Tampa Bay was broken up.The women and children, attended by a few warriors had departed for the town.Alice Rody, a prisoner, went along with them.Wacora, Nelatu, and the rest of the tribe, joined others of their race in the war which was now rapidly spreading over the whole peninsula.For a time the Seminole tribe led a wandering life.The varying successes or defeats of the protracted contest entailed upon them both vigilance and activity.It was, therefore, only occasionally that the cousins were enabled to visit the town in which their people permanently resided.Sansuta had now seldom any relapses of her fits of violent madness.She was silent and melancholy, and wandered about wrapped in her own bewildered thoughts.Alice, although a prisoner, was suffered to come and go as it pleased her.Nelatu’s love for the pale-faced maiden made no progress.A wan smile was all the reward the Indian youth received for his patient devotion.He felt that his passion was hopeless, but still he nursed it.To Sansuta, Alice indeed proved a guardian angel.At first the Indian girl repelled the tender solicitude expressed by the white maiden, and with an alarmed look seemed to dread even her voice.In time, however, won by the magic of kindness, she sought the company of the captive, and in her presence seemed happy.Often they would stroll away from the town, and in some quiet spot pass hours together—Alice in silent thought, Sansuta in such childish employment as stringing beads, or making baskets with the flowers and tendrils of the wild vine.A favourite haunt with them both was the old fort.Amongst its ruins they would seat themselves in silence, each busy with her own thoughts.And thus was their time tranquilly passed, while war was raging around them.But the first storm of conflict had been passed, and was succeeded by a temporary calm.The pale-faces had abandoned the smaller settlements and detached plantations, and in the neighbouring towns awaited the arrival of the Government troops on their way to prosecute the campaign throughout the whole peninsula.The Indians had sought their respective rendezvous, there to mature plans for a more perfect organisation.Nelatu and Wacora had returned home, for such was the title Wacora now gave to the place where Oluski’s tribe had their permanent residence.The exigencies of the contest had compelled the withdrawal of his own warriors from his father’s town, and the two tribes, Oluski and his own, had become fused into one powerful community.The chief’s views towards his captive had undergone a marked change.He no longer wished to harm her, and had she demanded from him her liberty, he would have granted it freely.Of what use is liberty to the homeless?Alice Rody had become careless of her freedom—nay, in a manner, preferred her captivity to the uncertainty of an unknown future, where no kindred awaited her return, no friend stood expectant to receive her.A sense of security—almost contentment—had stolen into her heart.Time had done much to assuage the terrible sorrow from which she had suffered.It was a wonderful transformation to the once high-spirited girl who had shown such energy and fortitude in the midst of danger.So thought the young chief, Wacora.To Nelatu it was a negative happiness. She had not energy to chide his ardent devotion, but submitted to it passively, without bestowing the slightest encouragement.One lovely afternoon Sansuta, conducted by Alice, strolled to the ruined fort.Arrived there, Sansuta proceeded to embroider a pouch she had commenced to make.Alice, seated on a fragment of stone, watched her companion’s trivial employment.As the Indian girl nestled close to the pale-faced maiden, she seemed on the point of fainting.She had grown thinner during the last few weeks, and her hollow cheeks were tinted with a hectic flush.“Rest your head on my lap, Sansuta.”As Alice spoke, she gently caught the poor girl in her arms.“I am tired, oh, so tired!” said Sansuta.“You must not walk so far as this another time. We must seek some place nearer to the town.”The Indian girl did not appear to heed her, but commenced singing softly to herself.She paused abruptly in her song, and looked up into her companion’s face.“Last night I dreamed I was in another land, walking along a footpath. It was strewn with lovely flowers. On both sides were beautiful creeping plants, over which bright butterflies sailed. There were two birds—such birds—their plumage of silver and gold. I heard music. Was it the land of the Great Spirit? Do you think it was?”“Who knows? it might have been!”“There I met my father. Not stern as our warriors are, but sad and weeping. Why did he weep?”Alice was silent. Her own tears hindered her from making answer to the artless question.“When I saw him weeping, I, too, wept, and kissed him. He spoke kindly to me; but why did he weep?”Still no answer from her listening companion.“Then I dreamt—no, I cannot remember what else I dreamt—yet there was some one else there. I seemed to know his face, too; but a great storm arose, and all became dark, and I grew frightened. What was that?”“Alas! Sansuta, I cannot read my own dreams, far less yours.”But Sansuta had already forgotten her question, and was again singing softly to herself.Presently she stopped once more, and putting both arms around Alice’s neck, murmured that she was tired.The pale-faced maiden kissed her, and, as she did so, the tears from her eyes fell on Sansuta’s cheek.“Why do you weep? Who has injured you?”Had Alice framed her thoughts into words she would have answered, the whole world; but, instead, she only replied to her companion with gentle endearments, and, at length, caressed her into a gentle sleep.It was a beautiful tableaux for a painter to delineate—beautiful—but at the same time sadly impressive.A young Indian chief, who had been a silent witness to it, must have thought so, by the sigh that escaped him, as he turned his face away.Wacora was the chief who thus sighed.
The Indians’ encampment near Tampa Bay was broken up.
The women and children, attended by a few warriors had departed for the town.
Alice Rody, a prisoner, went along with them.
Wacora, Nelatu, and the rest of the tribe, joined others of their race in the war which was now rapidly spreading over the whole peninsula.
For a time the Seminole tribe led a wandering life.
The varying successes or defeats of the protracted contest entailed upon them both vigilance and activity.
It was, therefore, only occasionally that the cousins were enabled to visit the town in which their people permanently resided.
Sansuta had now seldom any relapses of her fits of violent madness.
She was silent and melancholy, and wandered about wrapped in her own bewildered thoughts.
Alice, although a prisoner, was suffered to come and go as it pleased her.
Nelatu’s love for the pale-faced maiden made no progress.
A wan smile was all the reward the Indian youth received for his patient devotion.
He felt that his passion was hopeless, but still he nursed it.
To Sansuta, Alice indeed proved a guardian angel.
At first the Indian girl repelled the tender solicitude expressed by the white maiden, and with an alarmed look seemed to dread even her voice.
In time, however, won by the magic of kindness, she sought the company of the captive, and in her presence seemed happy.
Often they would stroll away from the town, and in some quiet spot pass hours together—Alice in silent thought, Sansuta in such childish employment as stringing beads, or making baskets with the flowers and tendrils of the wild vine.
A favourite haunt with them both was the old fort.
Amongst its ruins they would seat themselves in silence, each busy with her own thoughts.
And thus was their time tranquilly passed, while war was raging around them.
But the first storm of conflict had been passed, and was succeeded by a temporary calm.
The pale-faces had abandoned the smaller settlements and detached plantations, and in the neighbouring towns awaited the arrival of the Government troops on their way to prosecute the campaign throughout the whole peninsula.
The Indians had sought their respective rendezvous, there to mature plans for a more perfect organisation.
Nelatu and Wacora had returned home, for such was the title Wacora now gave to the place where Oluski’s tribe had their permanent residence.
The exigencies of the contest had compelled the withdrawal of his own warriors from his father’s town, and the two tribes, Oluski and his own, had become fused into one powerful community.
The chief’s views towards his captive had undergone a marked change.
He no longer wished to harm her, and had she demanded from him her liberty, he would have granted it freely.
Of what use is liberty to the homeless?
Alice Rody had become careless of her freedom—nay, in a manner, preferred her captivity to the uncertainty of an unknown future, where no kindred awaited her return, no friend stood expectant to receive her.
A sense of security—almost contentment—had stolen into her heart.
Time had done much to assuage the terrible sorrow from which she had suffered.
It was a wonderful transformation to the once high-spirited girl who had shown such energy and fortitude in the midst of danger.
So thought the young chief, Wacora.
To Nelatu it was a negative happiness. She had not energy to chide his ardent devotion, but submitted to it passively, without bestowing the slightest encouragement.
One lovely afternoon Sansuta, conducted by Alice, strolled to the ruined fort.
Arrived there, Sansuta proceeded to embroider a pouch she had commenced to make.
Alice, seated on a fragment of stone, watched her companion’s trivial employment.
As the Indian girl nestled close to the pale-faced maiden, she seemed on the point of fainting.
She had grown thinner during the last few weeks, and her hollow cheeks were tinted with a hectic flush.
“Rest your head on my lap, Sansuta.”
As Alice spoke, she gently caught the poor girl in her arms.
“I am tired, oh, so tired!” said Sansuta.
“You must not walk so far as this another time. We must seek some place nearer to the town.”
The Indian girl did not appear to heed her, but commenced singing softly to herself.
She paused abruptly in her song, and looked up into her companion’s face.
“Last night I dreamed I was in another land, walking along a footpath. It was strewn with lovely flowers. On both sides were beautiful creeping plants, over which bright butterflies sailed. There were two birds—such birds—their plumage of silver and gold. I heard music. Was it the land of the Great Spirit? Do you think it was?”
“Who knows? it might have been!”
“There I met my father. Not stern as our warriors are, but sad and weeping. Why did he weep?”
Alice was silent. Her own tears hindered her from making answer to the artless question.
“When I saw him weeping, I, too, wept, and kissed him. He spoke kindly to me; but why did he weep?”
Still no answer from her listening companion.
“Then I dreamt—no, I cannot remember what else I dreamt—yet there was some one else there. I seemed to know his face, too; but a great storm arose, and all became dark, and I grew frightened. What was that?”
“Alas! Sansuta, I cannot read my own dreams, far less yours.”
But Sansuta had already forgotten her question, and was again singing softly to herself.
Presently she stopped once more, and putting both arms around Alice’s neck, murmured that she was tired.
The pale-faced maiden kissed her, and, as she did so, the tears from her eyes fell on Sansuta’s cheek.
“Why do you weep? Who has injured you?”
Had Alice framed her thoughts into words she would have answered, the whole world; but, instead, she only replied to her companion with gentle endearments, and, at length, caressed her into a gentle sleep.
It was a beautiful tableaux for a painter to delineate—beautiful—but at the same time sadly impressive.
A young Indian chief, who had been a silent witness to it, must have thought so, by the sigh that escaped him, as he turned his face away.
Wacora was the chief who thus sighed.
Chapter Thirty Four.Strange Changes.Wacora’s love for Sansuta had long since changed into pity.A new feeling now possessed his heart.A new love had arisen from the ashes of the past:Alice Rody was the object!He had at first been struck with admiration at her courage; afterwards he had witnessed her discretion and tenderness, and then noted her beauty.His thoughts, thus stirred; soon ripened into a passion far stronger than respect.Pity and love had exchanged places within his bosom.He and his captive had done the same.The girl was free; her gaoler had become her prisoner.This new phase of feeling was not accomplished suddenly.It grew silently and slowly but surely.One thought troubled Wacora.It was Nelatu’s admiration for Alice Rody.He saw that she cared not for his cousin, but he forebore to urge his suit, out of compassion for Sansuta’s brother.His love, therefore, was speechless, and his captive was unconscious of it.But what of her? She, too, had changed.By one of those marvellous transformations of which the human heart is capable, Alice Rody not only became reconciled to her residence among the Indians, but even found much that interested her, even to the awakening of pleasant thoughts.Many of the Seminoles were, as has been stated, well educated, and with education had come the usual chastening influence.This was especially true of the young chief Wacora, and she had not failed to observe it.Her first reflection was what he might have been had he been brought up amongst her own race, for, although she had not been told of his mother being a white woman, she did not doubt that he had white blood in his veins.What might not a man of his intelligence, chivalric courage, and purity of thought have become in a society where civilisation would have developed all these mental qualities?The question was a natural one when viewing only the advantages which high culture presented; but its obverse was unfavourable, when considering that civilisation is often an approach to barbarism through selfishness and rapacity.She answered the query herself, and favourably for him. This mental questioning once commenced, did not pause, but went on to farther consideration of the character of the young chief.His thoughtfulness seemed as much sprung from regret at the compulsory warfare he was waging against her race, as the noble enthusiasm with which his soul was filled.The heart of a woman easily yielded its admiration to an enthusiast!The motive may be condemned, but the spiritual essence of thought that prompts to action still remains to be admired.It will then be seen that the first abhorrence had given place to interest; and interest had ripened into—Into what?There was no answer to that question. As it came before Alice Rody’s mind she evaded it, and strove calmly to consider Wacora as her captor.But it soon seemed impossible to look upon him in this light.Nopreux chevaliercould be more courteous in his bearing—no prince more calmly conscious of his own birthright.His was of the oldest patent. Whether thinking so or not, he was one of Nature’s noblemen.A few months had wrought these marvellous changes in the personages of our tale, and upon Wacora’s sudden departure to the scene of war, both he and his captive felt a strange void in their hearts, unaccountable, because novel.Nelatu, whose hope of winning the regard of the pale-faced maiden had sunk into a calm state of despair, departed with his cousin, hoping that in the field of battle he might find a still calmer rest.His fate, wrapt in the dark mystery of the future, was veiled from him.
Wacora’s love for Sansuta had long since changed into pity.
A new feeling now possessed his heart.
A new love had arisen from the ashes of the past:
Alice Rody was the object!
He had at first been struck with admiration at her courage; afterwards he had witnessed her discretion and tenderness, and then noted her beauty.
His thoughts, thus stirred; soon ripened into a passion far stronger than respect.
Pity and love had exchanged places within his bosom.
He and his captive had done the same.
The girl was free; her gaoler had become her prisoner.
This new phase of feeling was not accomplished suddenly.
It grew silently and slowly but surely.
One thought troubled Wacora.
It was Nelatu’s admiration for Alice Rody.
He saw that she cared not for his cousin, but he forebore to urge his suit, out of compassion for Sansuta’s brother.
His love, therefore, was speechless, and his captive was unconscious of it.
But what of her? She, too, had changed.
By one of those marvellous transformations of which the human heart is capable, Alice Rody not only became reconciled to her residence among the Indians, but even found much that interested her, even to the awakening of pleasant thoughts.
Many of the Seminoles were, as has been stated, well educated, and with education had come the usual chastening influence.
This was especially true of the young chief Wacora, and she had not failed to observe it.
Her first reflection was what he might have been had he been brought up amongst her own race, for, although she had not been told of his mother being a white woman, she did not doubt that he had white blood in his veins.
What might not a man of his intelligence, chivalric courage, and purity of thought have become in a society where civilisation would have developed all these mental qualities?
The question was a natural one when viewing only the advantages which high culture presented; but its obverse was unfavourable, when considering that civilisation is often an approach to barbarism through selfishness and rapacity.
She answered the query herself, and favourably for him. This mental questioning once commenced, did not pause, but went on to farther consideration of the character of the young chief.
His thoughtfulness seemed as much sprung from regret at the compulsory warfare he was waging against her race, as the noble enthusiasm with which his soul was filled.
The heart of a woman easily yielded its admiration to an enthusiast!
The motive may be condemned, but the spiritual essence of thought that prompts to action still remains to be admired.
It will then be seen that the first abhorrence had given place to interest; and interest had ripened into—
Into what?
There was no answer to that question. As it came before Alice Rody’s mind she evaded it, and strove calmly to consider Wacora as her captor.
But it soon seemed impossible to look upon him in this light.
Nopreux chevaliercould be more courteous in his bearing—no prince more calmly conscious of his own birthright.
His was of the oldest patent. Whether thinking so or not, he was one of Nature’s noblemen.
A few months had wrought these marvellous changes in the personages of our tale, and upon Wacora’s sudden departure to the scene of war, both he and his captive felt a strange void in their hearts, unaccountable, because novel.
Nelatu, whose hope of winning the regard of the pale-faced maiden had sunk into a calm state of despair, departed with his cousin, hoping that in the field of battle he might find a still calmer rest.
His fate, wrapt in the dark mystery of the future, was veiled from him.
Chapter Thirty Five.A Peaceful Warning.The summer had waned into autumn.With the changing season came also a change over the hapless Indian maiden, Sansuta.Her weakness, which had been continually increasing, was now so great that she could no longer stray with Alice to their favourite haunts.The poor girl’s form had wasted away, and her features become shrunken. Her dark, lustrous eyes alone seemed to retain their vitality.All her former violence had disappeared, and a change had also made itself manifest in her mental condition.Now and then she had lucid moments of thought, during which she would shed torrents of tears on Alice’s shoulder, only with the return of her malady would she appear happy and at peace.Towards sunset of a lovely day the two girls sat together at the door of Sansuta’s dwelling.“See!” said the Indian girl, “the flowers are closing, the birds have gone into the deep forest. I have been expecting some one, but he has not come yet. Do you know who it is?”“No, I do not.”“’Tis Warren. Why do you start and tremble? He will not hurt you. Who was it you thought I meant?”“I cannot tell, dear Sansuta.”“No one but him—I think of him always, although,” she added lowering her voice to a whisper, “I dare not call his name. I’m afraid to do that. I’m afraid of my brother Nelatu and my cousin Wacora. Why does the sun look so fiery? It is the colour of blood—blood—blood! That red colour, is it onyourhands, too? Ah, no!Youare no murderer!”“Hush, Sansuta! you are excited.”“Ah, yonder sun! Do you know that I feel as if it were the last time I should ever see it set. See, there are dark lines across the sky—ribbed with bands of black clouds. It is the last day—the last day—”“I see nothing, only the approach of night.”“But you hear something. Don’t you hear the spirits singing their death march over Oluski’s grave? He was my father—I hear it. It is a summons. It is for me. I must go.”“Go? Where?”“Far away. No; it is of no use clasping me to your heart. It is not Sansuta’s body that will leave you—it is her spirit. In the happy hunting grounds I shall meet with him—”A few moments after she became tranquil; but the lucid interval succeeded, and hot tears coursed down her hollow cheeks.Again her mind wandered, and for two or three hours, refusing to enter the house, she sate muttering to herself the same fancies.Alice could but sit beside her and listen. Now and then she sought to soothe her, but in vain.By and bye Sansuta’s voice grew faint. She seemed to lean heavier on the arm of her pale-faced friend, and the lustre of her eye gradually became dimmer.The change was alarming, and Alice would have risen and called for help, but an imploring glance from Sansuta prevented her.“Don’t leave me,” she murmured gently.Her voice was changed; she had recovered reason, and her companion perceived it.“Do not leave me. I shall not detain you long. I know you now—have known you it seems for years. I know all, for there is peace in my heart towards all, even to those who took his life. Forgiveness has come back with reason, and my last prayers shall be that they who made Sansuta unhappy may be forgiven!”She spoke in so low a voice that it was with difficulty her companion could hear what she said.“Kiss me, Alice Rody! Speak to me! Let me hear you say that Sansuta was your friend!”“Was—ismy friend!”“No—let me saywas, for I am about to leave you. The time is come; I am ready! My last prayer is ‘Pity and forgiveness! Pity and—’”By the gentle motion of her lips she appeared to be praying.That motion ceased, and with it her unhappy life!Alice still continued to hold her in her arms long after her soul had passed into Eternity!
The summer had waned into autumn.
With the changing season came also a change over the hapless Indian maiden, Sansuta.
Her weakness, which had been continually increasing, was now so great that she could no longer stray with Alice to their favourite haunts.
The poor girl’s form had wasted away, and her features become shrunken. Her dark, lustrous eyes alone seemed to retain their vitality.
All her former violence had disappeared, and a change had also made itself manifest in her mental condition.
Now and then she had lucid moments of thought, during which she would shed torrents of tears on Alice’s shoulder, only with the return of her malady would she appear happy and at peace.
Towards sunset of a lovely day the two girls sat together at the door of Sansuta’s dwelling.
“See!” said the Indian girl, “the flowers are closing, the birds have gone into the deep forest. I have been expecting some one, but he has not come yet. Do you know who it is?”
“No, I do not.”
“’Tis Warren. Why do you start and tremble? He will not hurt you. Who was it you thought I meant?”
“I cannot tell, dear Sansuta.”
“No one but him—I think of him always, although,” she added lowering her voice to a whisper, “I dare not call his name. I’m afraid to do that. I’m afraid of my brother Nelatu and my cousin Wacora. Why does the sun look so fiery? It is the colour of blood—blood—blood! That red colour, is it onyourhands, too? Ah, no!Youare no murderer!”
“Hush, Sansuta! you are excited.”
“Ah, yonder sun! Do you know that I feel as if it were the last time I should ever see it set. See, there are dark lines across the sky—ribbed with bands of black clouds. It is the last day—the last day—”
“I see nothing, only the approach of night.”
“But you hear something. Don’t you hear the spirits singing their death march over Oluski’s grave? He was my father—I hear it. It is a summons. It is for me. I must go.”
“Go? Where?”
“Far away. No; it is of no use clasping me to your heart. It is not Sansuta’s body that will leave you—it is her spirit. In the happy hunting grounds I shall meet with him—”
A few moments after she became tranquil; but the lucid interval succeeded, and hot tears coursed down her hollow cheeks.
Again her mind wandered, and for two or three hours, refusing to enter the house, she sate muttering to herself the same fancies.
Alice could but sit beside her and listen. Now and then she sought to soothe her, but in vain.
By and bye Sansuta’s voice grew faint. She seemed to lean heavier on the arm of her pale-faced friend, and the lustre of her eye gradually became dimmer.
The change was alarming, and Alice would have risen and called for help, but an imploring glance from Sansuta prevented her.
“Don’t leave me,” she murmured gently.
Her voice was changed; she had recovered reason, and her companion perceived it.
“Do not leave me. I shall not detain you long. I know you now—have known you it seems for years. I know all, for there is peace in my heart towards all, even to those who took his life. Forgiveness has come back with reason, and my last prayers shall be that they who made Sansuta unhappy may be forgiven!”
She spoke in so low a voice that it was with difficulty her companion could hear what she said.
“Kiss me, Alice Rody! Speak to me! Let me hear you say that Sansuta was your friend!”
“Was—ismy friend!”
“No—let me saywas, for I am about to leave you. The time is come; I am ready! My last prayer is ‘Pity and forgiveness! Pity and—’”
By the gentle motion of her lips she appeared to be praying.
That motion ceased, and with it her unhappy life!
Alice still continued to hold her in her arms long after her soul had passed into Eternity!
Chapter Thirty Six.The Burnt Shanty.The ghost of Crookleg did not in any way disturb Cris Carrol, either sleeping or awake.The worthy backwoodsman believed that he had done a highly meritorious action in for ever disposing of that malevolent individual.“The infernal black skunk, to be cuttin’ his capers over the bodies of brave men who had laid down their lives in a war he, and sich as he, brought about! It were no more nor an act of justice to send him to everlastin’ perdition, and, if I never done a more valuable thing to society than stickin’ three inches of cold steel atween his two shoulder-blades, I think I desarves the thanks of the hul community.”This consolation Cris indulged in whenever he thought of that terrible episode upon Tampa hill.He had returned a few days after the massacre and had found the dead decently buried.Wacora had commanded it to be done.The charred ruins of Rody’s house, however, recalled the memory of that eventful night.For some time after his last visit to Tampa Bay, Cris Carrol had not been seen.Neither the pale-faces nor the redskins had been able to discover his whereabouts.The truth is, that the backwoodsman was glad to get away from scenes where so much violence had been done to his feelings.As he had said, hecouldn’tfight against the Indians, and hewouldn’ttake up arms against the whites.“It ain’t in human nature to shoot and stab one’s own sort, even when they’re in the wrong, unless they’d done somethin’ agin oneself; an’ that they hain’t done as regards me. I’ll be eternally dog-goned if I think the red-skins are to blame for rising agin oppression and tyranny, which is what old Rody did to them, to say nothin’ agin him now he’s dead, but to speak the truth, and that’s bad enough for him. No, they war not to blame for what they did, arter his conduct to them—the old cuss; who, bad as he war, had one redeemin’ feature in his karactur, and that war his angeliferous darter. Where kin she have gone a hidin’? Thet puzzles this chile, it do.”Cris was unaware of Alice’s capture and imprisonment.As suddenly as he had taken his departure from Tampa, Cris returned to the same neighbourhood. He expected the war to be transferred to a more distant point, and wished still to keep out of the way.“It’s the durned’st fightin’ I ever heard on,” said he to himself; “first it’s here, then it’s there, and then it ain’t nowhere, till it breaks out all over again, where it was before, and they’re as far off the end as I am from Greenland. Durn it, I never knowed nothin’ like it.”On his return to Tampa, he found the country around altogether deserted. Most of the buildings and the planter’s house had been destroyed, even his own wretched hut had been burnt to the ground.“This is what they call the fortun’ of war, I ’spose?” he remarked, as he stood gazing at the ruins. “Wal, it war a ramshackle, crazy ole shanty anyhow, and I allers despised four walls an’ a roof at the best o’ times—still it war ‘home.’ Pshaw!” he added, after a moment’s silence, “what have I to grow molloncholly about, over sich a place as this—calling it ‘home,’ when I still have the Savannas to hunt over an’ sleep upon. If thar’s such a place as home for me that’s it, and no other.”For all his stoicism, the old hunter sighed as he turned from the blackened spot which marked the site of his former dwelling.He paused at the bend of the road, where Crookleg had first met Nelatu, to gaze again at his ruined home. Not only paused, but sat down upon the self-same rail that the negro had perched upon, and from gazing upon it, fell to reflecting.So absorbed was he in his contemplation, that contrary to his usual custom, he took no note of the time, nor once removed his eyes from the subject of his thoughts.He did not perceive the approach of a danger.It came in the form of four individuals who had silently and stealthily crept close to the spot where he was sitting. Before he knew of their proximity, he was their prisoner.“Red-skins!” he exclaimed, struggling to free himself.His captors smiled grimly at his vain efforts.“By the eternal! I’m fixed this time! Darn my stupid carcase for not havin’ eyes set in the back o’ my head. Wal, you may grin, old copper-skins, it’s your turn now—maybe, it’ll be mine next. What are you a-doin’ now?”Without deigning a reply the Indians bound his arms securely behind him.That done they made signs to him to follow them.“Wal, gentlemen!” said Cris, “yur about as silent a party as a man might wish to meet, darn me, if you aint. I’m comin’.”“Much obleeged to you for your escort, which I ked a done without. Thanks to your red-skin perliteness for nothin’. Go ahead, I kin walk without your helpin’ me. Where are ye bound for?”“To the chief,” answered one of the men.“The chief! What chief?”“Wacora.”Cris uttered an emphatic oath.“Wacora, eh? If that’s the case, I reckon the days o’ Cris Carrol air drawin’ to a close. The fiercest and most ’vengeful cuss of them all, I’ve heard say. Lead on, I’ll go along with ye willin, but not cheerful. If they kill me like a man I’ll not tremble in a jint; but if it’s the torture—there, go ahead. Don’t keep the party waitin’.”Brave heart, as he was, he followed them with as bold and free a step to what he believed to be his death, as if alone, and at liberty on the Savanna.The Indians without exchanging a word, either among themselves or with him, proceeded in the direction of Oluski’s town.
The ghost of Crookleg did not in any way disturb Cris Carrol, either sleeping or awake.
The worthy backwoodsman believed that he had done a highly meritorious action in for ever disposing of that malevolent individual.
“The infernal black skunk, to be cuttin’ his capers over the bodies of brave men who had laid down their lives in a war he, and sich as he, brought about! It were no more nor an act of justice to send him to everlastin’ perdition, and, if I never done a more valuable thing to society than stickin’ three inches of cold steel atween his two shoulder-blades, I think I desarves the thanks of the hul community.”
This consolation Cris indulged in whenever he thought of that terrible episode upon Tampa hill.
He had returned a few days after the massacre and had found the dead decently buried.
Wacora had commanded it to be done.
The charred ruins of Rody’s house, however, recalled the memory of that eventful night.
For some time after his last visit to Tampa Bay, Cris Carrol had not been seen.
Neither the pale-faces nor the redskins had been able to discover his whereabouts.
The truth is, that the backwoodsman was glad to get away from scenes where so much violence had been done to his feelings.
As he had said, hecouldn’tfight against the Indians, and hewouldn’ttake up arms against the whites.
“It ain’t in human nature to shoot and stab one’s own sort, even when they’re in the wrong, unless they’d done somethin’ agin oneself; an’ that they hain’t done as regards me. I’ll be eternally dog-goned if I think the red-skins are to blame for rising agin oppression and tyranny, which is what old Rody did to them, to say nothin’ agin him now he’s dead, but to speak the truth, and that’s bad enough for him. No, they war not to blame for what they did, arter his conduct to them—the old cuss; who, bad as he war, had one redeemin’ feature in his karactur, and that war his angeliferous darter. Where kin she have gone a hidin’? Thet puzzles this chile, it do.”
Cris was unaware of Alice’s capture and imprisonment.
As suddenly as he had taken his departure from Tampa, Cris returned to the same neighbourhood. He expected the war to be transferred to a more distant point, and wished still to keep out of the way.
“It’s the durned’st fightin’ I ever heard on,” said he to himself; “first it’s here, then it’s there, and then it ain’t nowhere, till it breaks out all over again, where it was before, and they’re as far off the end as I am from Greenland. Durn it, I never knowed nothin’ like it.”
On his return to Tampa, he found the country around altogether deserted. Most of the buildings and the planter’s house had been destroyed, even his own wretched hut had been burnt to the ground.
“This is what they call the fortun’ of war, I ’spose?” he remarked, as he stood gazing at the ruins. “Wal, it war a ramshackle, crazy ole shanty anyhow, and I allers despised four walls an’ a roof at the best o’ times—still it war ‘home.’ Pshaw!” he added, after a moment’s silence, “what have I to grow molloncholly about, over sich a place as this—calling it ‘home,’ when I still have the Savannas to hunt over an’ sleep upon. If thar’s such a place as home for me that’s it, and no other.”
For all his stoicism, the old hunter sighed as he turned from the blackened spot which marked the site of his former dwelling.
He paused at the bend of the road, where Crookleg had first met Nelatu, to gaze again at his ruined home. Not only paused, but sat down upon the self-same rail that the negro had perched upon, and from gazing upon it, fell to reflecting.
So absorbed was he in his contemplation, that contrary to his usual custom, he took no note of the time, nor once removed his eyes from the subject of his thoughts.
He did not perceive the approach of a danger.
It came in the form of four individuals who had silently and stealthily crept close to the spot where he was sitting. Before he knew of their proximity, he was their prisoner.
“Red-skins!” he exclaimed, struggling to free himself.
His captors smiled grimly at his vain efforts.
“By the eternal! I’m fixed this time! Darn my stupid carcase for not havin’ eyes set in the back o’ my head. Wal, you may grin, old copper-skins, it’s your turn now—maybe, it’ll be mine next. What are you a-doin’ now?”
Without deigning a reply the Indians bound his arms securely behind him.
That done they made signs to him to follow them.
“Wal, gentlemen!” said Cris, “yur about as silent a party as a man might wish to meet, darn me, if you aint. I’m comin’.”
“Much obleeged to you for your escort, which I ked a done without. Thanks to your red-skin perliteness for nothin’. Go ahead, I kin walk without your helpin’ me. Where are ye bound for?”
“To the chief,” answered one of the men.
“The chief! What chief?”
“Wacora.”
Cris uttered an emphatic oath.
“Wacora, eh? If that’s the case, I reckon the days o’ Cris Carrol air drawin’ to a close. The fiercest and most ’vengeful cuss of them all, I’ve heard say. Lead on, I’ll go along with ye willin, but not cheerful. If they kill me like a man I’ll not tremble in a jint; but if it’s the torture—there, go ahead. Don’t keep the party waitin’.”
Brave heart, as he was, he followed them with as bold and free a step to what he believed to be his death, as if alone, and at liberty on the Savanna.
The Indians without exchanging a word, either among themselves or with him, proceeded in the direction of Oluski’s town.
Chapter Thirty Seven.Death at the Stake.At night they encamped in the forest.Lighting no fires, lest the light might betray them to their enemies, they produced from their packs some dried meat and meal cake.Cris did full justice to the humble fare, although he made rather a wry face at the gourd of spring water with which he was invited by his captors to wash down the frugal repast.Mastering his aversion, he, however, managed to swallow a few mouthfuls.Supper over, two of his captors wrapped themselves up in their blankets, and immediately fell asleep. The other two remained awake, watching him.Carrol saw that any attempt to escape under the eyes of two Indians would be idle.One he might have coped with, even unarmed as he was. Two would be more than a match for him, and he knew that on the slightest alarm the sleeping men would awake, making it four to one.With the philosophy of a stoic he threw himself upon the ground, and also fell asleep.He awoke once in the night to find that his guard had been changed. There was no better prospect of freedom than before.“Dura them! they’re bound to fix me, I kin see that plain enough. Besides, with these ’tarnal all-fired thongs cuttin’ into my elbows, what could I do?”Apparently nothing, for with a muttered curse at his own stupidity, he again composed himself to slumber.With the dawn of morning Cris Carrol and his captors continued their journey.They made no other halt before reaching the town.Carrol in vain tried to draw from them the reason of their unexpected presence at so great a distance from the residence of the tribe.They gave him no satisfaction.He discovered, however, that whatever errand they had been sent on, they had failed in accomplishing it, and his own capture began to be considered by him as a peace offering with which they intended to mollify Wacora’s wrath at their want of success in the mission with which they had been charged.“Wal,” reflected he, “I suppose I’m in some poor devil’s place; perhaps I mout take more pleasure in doing him this good turn if I only knowed who he is. No doubt he’s got some folks as ’ud grieve over him, but there ain’t a many as will fret over Cris Carrol, not as I know on—yes, all right! go ahead. Let’s go whar glory waits us, ye catawampous scamps, you. Ah! four to one; if it had been two to one, or, at a pinch, three to one, I’d have tried it on, if it had cost me all I’ve got, and that’s my life—yah! it’s almost enough to make one turn storekeeper to think on’t.”Unmoved by the taunts and jeers which Cris liberally bestowed upon them during the journey, the Indians continued to watch him narrowly.It was about mid-day when they arrived at their destination.On entering the Indian town Carrol was thrust into one of the houses, where he was left to await the order of Wacora as to his final disposition. Four guards were kept over him, two inside the house, the other two without.He expected immediate death, but he was left undisturbed for the rest of the day, and at night received some supper, consisting of dried meat, bread, and water. He was then permitted to pass the hours till morning as seemed best to him.The hunter soon arranged his plans. He wrapped the blanket that had been given him around his body, and in a few moments was in a sound slumber.His sleep lasted until a hand upon his shoulder, along with a summons to awake, aroused him.It was one of his guards of yesterday who addressed him.“Come!”“Is that you, old Dummy?” asked he, recognising the Indian. “I can’t say I’m glad to see yur, since yur’ve broke in on the pleasantest dream I’ve had for a long time. But never mind, how shed you know that you whar a doing it, you poor savage critter you, that don’t know nothin’ but to handle a tomahawk, and raise the hair off a human head? What do you want with me now?”“The warriors are assembled!”“Air they? Wal, that’s kind of them, only they needn’t have put themselves out o’ the way to get up so early on my account; I could ha’ waited.”“Come.”“Wal, I’m comin’; d’ye think I’m afraid, durn yur? D’ye think I’m afraid of you or all the warriors of your tribe, or of your chief, Wacora, either?”“Wacora is not here.”“Not here! Where is he?”“I cannot answer the pale-face’s questions. I came to bring you before the council.”“Wal, I’m ready to go afore the council.”As they were about to emerge from the house, a sudden idea seemed to strike Carrol, and he stopped his conductors.“Stay, friend, will you tell me one thing?”“Speak!”“Whar are we?”“At Oluski’s town.”Carrol’s face beamed with a sudden joy.“And his son Nelatu—is thishishome?”“It is.”“Hurray! Now, I dare say you wonder at my bein’ struck all of a heap wi’ delight. But I’ll tell you one thing, red-skin—no offence, not knowin’ your name—you and yur three partners have taken a most uncommon sight o’ trouble all for nothin’.”“What do you mean?”“Just this—go and tell Nelatu that Cris Carrol is the party as you sneaked up to and took prisoner, and arter that, streak it for your precious lives.”“Nelatu?”“Yes, Nelatu, he’s a friend o’ this ole coon, and one that’ll prove himself so, too, in givin’ you skunks as took me a deal more nor you bargained for.”“Nelatu is not here.”“Not here? Why, didn’t you tell me just now that this war his father’s town?”“I did; but Nelatu is not here.”“Not now, perhaps; but I s’pose he’ll be here?”“He will not return for weeks.”Carrol’s countenance fell.“Then, dog-gone yur skin, lead on! I throw up the pack of cards now that the trump’s out of ’em. It’s my luck, and it’s the darndest luck I ever seed; there’s no standin’ agin it. I s’pose I must give in.”Without another word he followed his guards.They entered the council chamber, where the assembled warriors awaited them.With his foot upon the threshold, his manner entirely changed from the light, jeering hilarity he had exhibited to that of a calm and dignified bearing.He saw in an instant that he was foredoomed.The stern expression of his judges told him as much.The mock ceremonial of examination was proceeded with, and a vain attempt made to extract from him intelligence of the movements of the whites, especially of the numbers and disposition of the Government troops, some of whom had by this time arrived in the peninsula.His disdainful refusal to betray his own race did him no service.True, he was already sentenced to die, but the manner of his death might inflict horror on him who had no fear of dying.Though the questions were skilfully put to him, the old hunter saw through them all.He did not, indeed, possess much knowledge of the military invasion; but had he been in the secret of the commanding officer himself, he could not have been more reticent in his replies.Utterly foiled in their questions, the warriors played their last card, and with threats of the most terrible tortures endeavoured to wring from his fears what his honour would not reveal.Vain effort on their part.Cris did, indeed, wince when they first spoke of torture; but, recovering himself, he became more proudly defiant than before.“Ye may shake my old body with rackin’ pains. I know you’ve got devil’s inventions, and I don’t deny but they’re awful; but there’s somethin’ about me that ye can’t make tremble, not if all the imps o’ hell war yer slaves—that’s my soul. It’ll come out of yer fiery ordeal as calm as it is now; and with its last thoughts it’ll despise and dare ye! Cris Carrol arn’t bin backwoods hunter for a matter goin’ on forty year to be skeart at burnin’ sticks or hot lead; and he’ll die as he has lived, an honest man!”A mingled murmur of admiration and anger ran through the assembled crowd, and it was evident that many of the warriors would have given their consent to his being set free.There is something about TRUE courage which extorts admiration even from an enemy.A hurried consultation took place among the head men in council.It was speedily over, and the oldest of their number rose and pronounced sentence against the prisoner.It was death by burning at the stake!Cris Carrol was not surprised on hearing it.The sentence had already lost half of its terror. He had made up his mind that this would be his doom.Only one word of response came from his lips—“When?”“To-morrow!” replied he who had pronounced judgment.Without bestowing a glance upon those who had thus fixed the limit of his earthly career, the hunter strode from the council chamber with calm and measured steps.As he passed out the crowd made way for him, and many of the faces expressed admiration—some even pity.The stoic bravery of the Indian is marvellous, and for him death has no terrors. With them it is a sort of fatalism.What they do not dread themselves, they make but light of in others.Por all that they have the highest admiration for a man who dares meet death calmly.In their eyes the white captive had assumed all the importance of a great warrior.Yet was he an enemy—one of the race with whom they were at war—therefore he must die.Thus strangely do civilisation and barbarism meet on common ground.
At night they encamped in the forest.
Lighting no fires, lest the light might betray them to their enemies, they produced from their packs some dried meat and meal cake.
Cris did full justice to the humble fare, although he made rather a wry face at the gourd of spring water with which he was invited by his captors to wash down the frugal repast.
Mastering his aversion, he, however, managed to swallow a few mouthfuls.
Supper over, two of his captors wrapped themselves up in their blankets, and immediately fell asleep. The other two remained awake, watching him.
Carrol saw that any attempt to escape under the eyes of two Indians would be idle.
One he might have coped with, even unarmed as he was. Two would be more than a match for him, and he knew that on the slightest alarm the sleeping men would awake, making it four to one.
With the philosophy of a stoic he threw himself upon the ground, and also fell asleep.
He awoke once in the night to find that his guard had been changed. There was no better prospect of freedom than before.
“Dura them! they’re bound to fix me, I kin see that plain enough. Besides, with these ’tarnal all-fired thongs cuttin’ into my elbows, what could I do?”
Apparently nothing, for with a muttered curse at his own stupidity, he again composed himself to slumber.
With the dawn of morning Cris Carrol and his captors continued their journey.
They made no other halt before reaching the town.
Carrol in vain tried to draw from them the reason of their unexpected presence at so great a distance from the residence of the tribe.
They gave him no satisfaction.
He discovered, however, that whatever errand they had been sent on, they had failed in accomplishing it, and his own capture began to be considered by him as a peace offering with which they intended to mollify Wacora’s wrath at their want of success in the mission with which they had been charged.
“Wal,” reflected he, “I suppose I’m in some poor devil’s place; perhaps I mout take more pleasure in doing him this good turn if I only knowed who he is. No doubt he’s got some folks as ’ud grieve over him, but there ain’t a many as will fret over Cris Carrol, not as I know on—yes, all right! go ahead. Let’s go whar glory waits us, ye catawampous scamps, you. Ah! four to one; if it had been two to one, or, at a pinch, three to one, I’d have tried it on, if it had cost me all I’ve got, and that’s my life—yah! it’s almost enough to make one turn storekeeper to think on’t.”
Unmoved by the taunts and jeers which Cris liberally bestowed upon them during the journey, the Indians continued to watch him narrowly.
It was about mid-day when they arrived at their destination.
On entering the Indian town Carrol was thrust into one of the houses, where he was left to await the order of Wacora as to his final disposition. Four guards were kept over him, two inside the house, the other two without.
He expected immediate death, but he was left undisturbed for the rest of the day, and at night received some supper, consisting of dried meat, bread, and water. He was then permitted to pass the hours till morning as seemed best to him.
The hunter soon arranged his plans. He wrapped the blanket that had been given him around his body, and in a few moments was in a sound slumber.
His sleep lasted until a hand upon his shoulder, along with a summons to awake, aroused him.
It was one of his guards of yesterday who addressed him.
“Come!”
“Is that you, old Dummy?” asked he, recognising the Indian. “I can’t say I’m glad to see yur, since yur’ve broke in on the pleasantest dream I’ve had for a long time. But never mind, how shed you know that you whar a doing it, you poor savage critter you, that don’t know nothin’ but to handle a tomahawk, and raise the hair off a human head? What do you want with me now?”
“The warriors are assembled!”
“Air they? Wal, that’s kind of them, only they needn’t have put themselves out o’ the way to get up so early on my account; I could ha’ waited.”
“Come.”
“Wal, I’m comin’; d’ye think I’m afraid, durn yur? D’ye think I’m afraid of you or all the warriors of your tribe, or of your chief, Wacora, either?”
“Wacora is not here.”
“Not here! Where is he?”
“I cannot answer the pale-face’s questions. I came to bring you before the council.”
“Wal, I’m ready to go afore the council.”
As they were about to emerge from the house, a sudden idea seemed to strike Carrol, and he stopped his conductors.
“Stay, friend, will you tell me one thing?”
“Speak!”
“Whar are we?”
“At Oluski’s town.”
Carrol’s face beamed with a sudden joy.
“And his son Nelatu—is thishishome?”
“It is.”
“Hurray! Now, I dare say you wonder at my bein’ struck all of a heap wi’ delight. But I’ll tell you one thing, red-skin—no offence, not knowin’ your name—you and yur three partners have taken a most uncommon sight o’ trouble all for nothin’.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just this—go and tell Nelatu that Cris Carrol is the party as you sneaked up to and took prisoner, and arter that, streak it for your precious lives.”
“Nelatu?”
“Yes, Nelatu, he’s a friend o’ this ole coon, and one that’ll prove himself so, too, in givin’ you skunks as took me a deal more nor you bargained for.”
“Nelatu is not here.”
“Not here? Why, didn’t you tell me just now that this war his father’s town?”
“I did; but Nelatu is not here.”
“Not now, perhaps; but I s’pose he’ll be here?”
“He will not return for weeks.”
Carrol’s countenance fell.
“Then, dog-gone yur skin, lead on! I throw up the pack of cards now that the trump’s out of ’em. It’s my luck, and it’s the darndest luck I ever seed; there’s no standin’ agin it. I s’pose I must give in.”
Without another word he followed his guards.
They entered the council chamber, where the assembled warriors awaited them.
With his foot upon the threshold, his manner entirely changed from the light, jeering hilarity he had exhibited to that of a calm and dignified bearing.
He saw in an instant that he was foredoomed.
The stern expression of his judges told him as much.
The mock ceremonial of examination was proceeded with, and a vain attempt made to extract from him intelligence of the movements of the whites, especially of the numbers and disposition of the Government troops, some of whom had by this time arrived in the peninsula.
His disdainful refusal to betray his own race did him no service.
True, he was already sentenced to die, but the manner of his death might inflict horror on him who had no fear of dying.
Though the questions were skilfully put to him, the old hunter saw through them all.
He did not, indeed, possess much knowledge of the military invasion; but had he been in the secret of the commanding officer himself, he could not have been more reticent in his replies.
Utterly foiled in their questions, the warriors played their last card, and with threats of the most terrible tortures endeavoured to wring from his fears what his honour would not reveal.
Vain effort on their part.
Cris did, indeed, wince when they first spoke of torture; but, recovering himself, he became more proudly defiant than before.
“Ye may shake my old body with rackin’ pains. I know you’ve got devil’s inventions, and I don’t deny but they’re awful; but there’s somethin’ about me that ye can’t make tremble, not if all the imps o’ hell war yer slaves—that’s my soul. It’ll come out of yer fiery ordeal as calm as it is now; and with its last thoughts it’ll despise and dare ye! Cris Carrol arn’t bin backwoods hunter for a matter goin’ on forty year to be skeart at burnin’ sticks or hot lead; and he’ll die as he has lived, an honest man!”
A mingled murmur of admiration and anger ran through the assembled crowd, and it was evident that many of the warriors would have given their consent to his being set free.
There is something about TRUE courage which extorts admiration even from an enemy.
A hurried consultation took place among the head men in council.
It was speedily over, and the oldest of their number rose and pronounced sentence against the prisoner.
It was death by burning at the stake!
Cris Carrol was not surprised on hearing it.
The sentence had already lost half of its terror. He had made up his mind that this would be his doom.
Only one word of response came from his lips—
“When?”
“To-morrow!” replied he who had pronounced judgment.
Without bestowing a glance upon those who had thus fixed the limit of his earthly career, the hunter strode from the council chamber with calm and measured steps.
As he passed out the crowd made way for him, and many of the faces expressed admiration—some even pity.
The stoic bravery of the Indian is marvellous, and for him death has no terrors. With them it is a sort of fatalism.
What they do not dread themselves, they make but light of in others.
Por all that they have the highest admiration for a man who dares meet death calmly.
In their eyes the white captive had assumed all the importance of a great warrior.
Yet was he an enemy—one of the race with whom they were at war—therefore he must die.
Thus strangely do civilisation and barbarism meet on common ground.