He had no time to guess. For the child had caught sight of the stupid lad he was leading, and with a cry of ecstacy had sprung from the Snowbird and landed plump upon the prisoner’s shoulders.
“Gaspar! My Gaspar, my Gaspar! Mine, mine, mine!”
It was a transformation scene. The white boy had staggered under the unexpected assault of his old playmate, but he had instantly recognized her. With a cry as full of joy as her own, he clasped her close, and showered his kisses on her upturned face.
“Kitty! why, Kitty! You aren’t dead, then? You are not hurt? And we thought—oh, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!”
Clinging to each other, they slipped to the ground, too absorbed in themselves to notice anything else; while Osceolo watched them in almost equal absorption.
But he was roused sooner than they. A hand fell on his shoulder. A hand whose touch could be as gentle as a woman’s, but was now like a steel band crushing the very bones.
“Osceolo!”
“Yes, Black Partridge,” quavered the terrified lad.
“You will come to my tepee. Alone!”