“It is the Angel!”
“Angelic, indeed,” returned Percy; “and if it is Oneotah, as I shrewdly suspect, I do not wonder that Multuomah loves her.”
Cute listened to him surprisedly.
“Oneotah!” he exclaimed. “By Jingo! I think you are right. Now for the Fiend!”
“No; let her show me the spirit of my father, and I will be satisfied.”
“Behold!” came in a musical whisper, that floated gently toward them.
Again a cloud of smoke arose which hid the White Spirit from view, and when it faded, a different form stood in her place—the form of a tall man, with a pallid visage, and long, flowing black hair. His only dress consisted of a pair of black pants and a white shirt, upon the breast of which was a red gash, from which the blood appeared to be slowly oozing. A look of anguish overspread his features, and with his right hand he pointed to his gory breast, as if intimating that this was the wound that had caused his death.
“My Father!” exclaimed Percy, and he made an involuntary bound toward the figure.
“Dead!” came a hoarse whisper.
Percy still pressed forward, dragging Cute, who clung to him in terror, after him, exclaiming, frantically—“Father! father!”