“Then thank God for the knives!” Sevier devoutly cried.
“I would much prefer he had died than to have lost Petro,” the Emperor dissented.
“Then, shame on you, Alexander McGillivray!”
“Ha! You’ve saved up more bold words over night,” gritted the emperor, leaning back in his chair. “Be careful, Sevier. You are not in my white town of Coosa. You are in the red town of Little Talassee on the Coosa River. A vast difference.”
“I’m where a dog is valued more highly than a clean young American.”
“American? It’s seldom I hear the word,” McGillivray grimly taunted. “I fear it will never become the fashion. But do heed my warning about picking your words. I am irritable this morning, inclined to act on impulse.”
“I feel quite safe, sir. You have too much white blood in you, and you have mixed too much with white men, to descend to barbarism.”
“I don’t know that,” slowly replied the emperor. “When I first learned of my dog’s death—by my own knives—my Indian blood ran very hot. And I tell you seriously, Sevier, and I mean every word of it, that while I prefer to win my ends without resorting to brutality I will allow no white man’s comfort or life to stand between me and success. I have saved many captives from the torture; but if the giving of you to my Creeks to play with would bring me success you should pass under the skinning-knives most surely.”
Sevier bowed gravely and retorted:
“I believe you, McGillivray of the Creeks. And if my passing under the knives of your warriors will block your schemes, then my hide is very much at your service.”