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.