Chapter Forty Three.

Saved! Saved!

Wacora had saved his white captive. She still lived!

The struggle between life and death had been long and doubtful, but life at length triumphed.

Por days had she lingered upon the verge of existence, powerless to move from her couch; scarce able to speak. It was some time before she could shape words to thank her deliverer, though she knew who it was.

She had been told it was Wacora.

The young chief had been unremitting in his attentions, and showed great solicitude for her recovery. He found time, amidst the warlike preparations constantly going on, to make frequent calls at her dwelling, and make anxious inquiry about her progress.

The nurses who attended upon her did not fail to note his anxiety.

Nelatu had been absent and did not return to the town until she was convalescent.

He was grieved to the heart on hearing what had happened.

Wacora, suspecting that Maracota was the guilty one, sought him in every direction, but the vengeful warrior was nowhere to be found.

He had fled from the presence of his indignant chief.

It was not until long after that his fate became known.

He had been captured in his flight by some of the settlers, and shot; thus dying by the hands of the enemies he so hated.

Several weeks elapsed, and no active movement had, as yet, been made by the government troops. Wacora’s tribe still continued to reside in their town undisturbed.

His captive continued to recover, and, along with her restored strength, came a change over the spirit of her existence. She seemed transformed into a different being.

The past had vanished like a dream. Only dimly did she remember her residence at Tampa Bay, her father, the conflict on the hill, the massacre, her brother’s sad fate, all seemed to have faded from her memory, until they appeared as things that had never been, or of which she had no personal knowledge, but had only heard of them long, long ago.

It is true they still had a shadowy existence in her mind, but entirely disassociated with the events of her life, since she had been a captive among the Indians. Nor was there much to regret in this impaired recollection, for both the events and personages had been among the miseries of her life.

Of her present she had a more pleasurable appreciation. She was living a new life, and thinking new thoughts.

Nelatu and Wacora both strove in a thousand kind ways to render her contented and happy.

They had no great luxuries to offer her, but such as they had were bestowed with true delicacy.

Strange to say, that in this common solicitude there was not a spark of jealousy between the two cousins.

Nelatu’s nature was generosity itself; and self-sacrifice appeared to him as if it was his duty or fate!

Still, while he basked in the sunshine of the young girl’s beauty, he had not the courage to imagine to himself that she could ever belong to another. Not to him might her love be given, but surely not to another! He could not think of that.

True that at times he fancied he could perceive a look bestowed on Wacora such as she never vouchsafed to him—a tremor in her voice when speaking to his cousin, which had never betrayed itself in her discourse with himself.

But he might be mistaken. Might? He was certain of it. If she did not love him, at any rate he could not think that she loved Wacora.

Thus did the Indian youth beguile himself!

Innocent as a child, he knew little of the heart of woman.

That look—that tremor of the voice—should have told him that she loved Wacora.

Yes; the end had come, and love had conquered.

The white maiden was in love with the young Indian chief!

Wacora and his captive—now more than ever his captive—were seated within the ruined fort near Sansuta’s grave.

“You are pleased once more to be here?” he asked.

“I am. During my illness I promised myself if ever I recovered that my first visit should be to this spot.”

“And yet it was in paying such a visit that you nearly lost your life.”

“The life you saved.”

“’Twas a happy chance. I cannot tell what led me to the forest on that occasion.”

“What were you doing there?” she asked.

“Like the blind mortal that I am, I was blaming myself, and my fate, too, when I should have been blessing my fortune.”

“For what?”

“For conducting me to the spot where I heard you cry.”

“What fortune were you blaming?”

“That which made me unworthy.”

“Unworthy of what?”

He did not immediately answer her, but the look he gave her caused her to turn her eyes to the ground.

“Do you really wish to know of what I think myself unworthy?”

She smiled as she replied, “If you betray no confidence in telling me.”

“None; none but my own.”

“Then, tell me if you like.”

Was it the faint tremor in her voice that emboldened him to speak?

“Unworthy of you!” was his answer.

“Of me?” she said, her face averted from his.

“Of you, and you only. But why should I withhold further confidence? You have given me courage to speak; have I also your leave?”

She made no answer to the last question, but her look was eloquent of assent.

“I thought on that day,” he continued, “that I was accursed by man and heaven—that I, an Indian savage, was not accounted worthy to indulge in thoughts of love that had sprung up within my heart, like a pure flower, only to be blighted by the prejudices of race; that all my adoration for the fair and excellent, must be kept down by the accident of birth; and that whilst nurturing a holy passion, I must crush it out and stifle it for ever.”

“But now?” Her voice was low and tremulous.

“Now—all rests upon one word. Upon that word depends my happiness or misery now and for ever.”

“And what is it?”

“Do not ask it from me. It must come from your eyes—from your lips—from your heart!”

There was an eloquence that spoke the answer without a word being uttered.

It was the eloquence of love!

In another instant the lips of the white maiden touched those of her Indian lover.

From their rapturous embrace they were startled by a sound. It was a groan!

It came from the other side of Sansuta’s grave, behind which there was a clump of bushes.

Wacora rushed towards the spot, while Alice kept her place, transfixed to it by a terrible presentiment.

The young chief uttered an exclamation of horror, as he looked in among the bushes.

His cousin was lying beneath them, stretched out—dead! a dagger, which his right hand still clutched, sheathed in his heart!

With his last groan, and his heart’s blood, the generous youth had yielded up his love with his life.

L’Envoi.

The Seminole war continued for eight years.

Eight years of bloodshed and horror, in which the white man and the Indian struggled for the supremacy.

The whites fought for conquest, the Indians to retain possession of their own.

On both sides were acts of cruelty—terrible episodes illustrating the lex talionis.

As in all such contests, the pale-faces were the victors, and the red men were in time subdued.

Such of the Seminoles as survived the war were allotted lands beyond the Mississippi; and, far distant from their native home, were commanded to be content and happy.

They had no alternative but to submit to their adverse fate, and in several detachments they were transported to their new homes.

In one of the migrating bands, who passed through New Orleans, bound west of the Mississippi river, was a young chief who attracted great notice by his commanding presence no less than by a companion seen constantly by his side—a white woman!

She was of great beauty, and those who saw her naturally made enquiry about her name, parentage, and station, as also the name of the young chief.

The Indians who were asked simply made answer that the chief was Wacora, and that she by his side was his wife, known among them as—

“The White Squaw.”