"Dead! dead!" sobbed the maiden.
"Ah! you weep for him, do you? No doubt you love him very dearly! But he is not dead, and I would not have him dead for millions! It was a game well played, and worthy of your lover, the gallant Captain Hayward. But he did not win the game. I held the trump card, and I will show him how I won, and why I won, when he recovers!"
"What would you do?"
"What would I do? You shall see. First I will let him return to consciousness, and then I'll tear him limb from limb—hack him to pieces—tear out that heart you love so much, and give it to you still beating with life, and dripping with his blood. You shall wear it ever before you, and it will be a reminder of my generosity!"
"Oh! fiend! fiend!" groaned Alibamo.
"Oh! yes! You have called me fiend a hundred times, and now you shall learn that I am one, indeed. Shout, boys! shout! We are victorious! Dance—dance—hold your revels over that form! But do not harm it more now. I would have him all to myself. And I'll pray that he may have a thousand lives!"
The rebels readily obeyed the command of Branch, and commenced their howlings.
"Hark to that music, Alibamo. It is our notes of victory. Do you not love those sounds?"
"They become only such as you. The most barbarous savage would scorn to exult thus over a single fallen foe!" said Alibamo, her eyes flashing with indignation.
"Oh! taunt! I love to hear it. It makes my hatred for your captain deeper. And for every word of insult you have spoken, or do speak to me, I'll revenge myself on him. And you shall see it all. See, he moves—he opens his eyes! Let him gaze around."