M'Closky. See here, you imps; if I catch you, and your red skin yonder, gunning in my swamps, I'll give you rats, mind; them vagabonds, when the game's about, shoot my pigs.
[Exit George into house.]
Paul. You gib me rattan, Mas'r Clostry, but I guess you take a berry long stick to Wahnotee; ugh, he make bacon of you.
M'Closky. Make bacon of me, you young whelp. Do you mean that I'm a pig? Hold on a bit. [Seizes whip, and holds Paul.]
Zoe. O, sir! don't, pray, don't.
M'Closky. [Slowly lowering his whip,] Darn you, red skin, I'll pay you off some day, both of ye. [Returns to table and drinks.]
Sunny. That Indian is a nuisance. Why don't he return to his nation out West?
M'Closky. He's too fond of thieving and whiskey.
Zoe. No; Wahnotee is a gentle, honest creature, and remains here because he loves that boy with the tenderness of a woman. When Paul was taken down with the swamp fever the Indian sat outside the hut, and neither ate, slept, or spoke for five days, till the child could recognize and call him to his bedside. He who can love so well is honest—don't speak ill of poor Wahnotee.
Mrs. P. Wahnotee, will you go back to your people?