Walasi, the Frog, suddenly became aware that it was a very intent and steadfast gaze in the commandant’s eyes, as he sat and listened, spell-bound. And he, Walasi, who dealt only with crops, and houses, and town politics, who had never been either warrior or councillor, was conscious that he had gone too far in a position of trust beyond his deserts, and above his condition. The insult to Captain Howard in setting a second man to confer with him had developed a double-edged sharpness.
“But—but,” the Frog continued, “the good Capteny whom all loved would not be among them. None wished to harm the beloved Capteny.”
He paused again, staring in anxiety, for the intent look on the good Capteny’s face had vanished. He was shaking his head in melancholy negation.
“No, my good Walasi, no one here loves the Capteny. I am gone to visit my friend, the chief of Tamotlee, and my mad young men burn my granary and fool with my cannon—you have cannon, you say? But no,—I cannot stop to talk of cannon! I think of corn—corn—corn! And for gold you will let me have no corn. And the chief of Keowee will not see me!”
The eye-lashes of Walasi, the Frog, rose and fell so fast that he seemed blinking for some moments. He had said too much, but to obliterate the recollection in the British Capteny’s mind it might be well to interest him anew in corn—to keep him anxious and returning; he would not then have time or inclination to recur to the question of cannon—the unwary Frog felt that he had indeed said too much—but he was only a “second man,” and should not be set to deal with a capteny of the British.
The policy of sharing their corn had been doubted by the head-men. But he would take the responsibility to send—say a laden pettiaugre.
“Damme, Walasi! one pettiaugre!” cried Captain Howard, reproachfully.
“For to-day—another time, perhaps. But the heart of Keowee is very poor to deny the British Capteny, whom it loves like a brother, one pettiaugre.”
There was a great telling out and chinking of gold in the second man’s sanctum, and presently a dozen stalwart tribesmen were carrying the corn in large baskets to the pettiaugre, coming and going in endless procession in this slow method of loading. Captain Howard, resolutely mustering his patience, watched the last bushel aboard that the pettiaugre would hold—the craft, indeed, was settling in the water when he signed to the Indian boatmen to pole it across. Then he took a ceremonious, almost affectionate leave of Walasi, and walked down to the water’s edge with so absorbed and thoughtful a mien that he hardly looked up when his daughter called out to him from the canoe, which was rapidly rowing in to take him aboard; as he stepped over the gunwale and caught her eye he had a dazed look as if just awakened from a revery, or some deep and careful calculation, and he said, bluntly,—“Bless my soul, child, I had forgotten you were here!”