“He has no heart; in its place is a lump of red clay; is he not a white Indian? What has such as he to do with hearts?”
“Why did not this man strike at my life, if he bears me the hatred that you say he does?”
“Death is not the most cruel vengeance,” returned Benton, scornfully. “Can bodily pain cause you greater anguish than that you now suffer?”
“No, no,” replied Treveling, slowly.
“He would have you live. Would have you know of the terrible vengeance that he has pulled down upon your head. Can you guess what the fate of your daughter will be?”
A shudder shook the frame of the old man as the question fell upon his ears.
“Oh, the thought is terrible!” he moaned.
“A young and pretty white girl in the Shawnee village will not lack for admirers. Your foe will give her to some brawny red chief to be his slave. A helpless prisoner, the victim of the savages, she will pine away and die. Her death will be a terrible one, for she will die by inches. You now know the fate of both your children. One has already suffered for your acts long years ago, and the other is now paying the penalty.”
The stranger turned upon his heel as if to depart.
“Stay!” cried Treveling; “who are you that know all these horrible things?”