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, “Did you kill 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.