“Go! we will not harm thee!” repeated Roughgrove.
“And take this,” said Mary, placing some food in his yielding hand.
The Indian gazed upon the maiden’s face. His features, by a magical transition, now beamed with confidence and hope. Mary was in tears—not tears of pity for his impending death, but a gush of generous emotion that his life was spared. The savage read her heart—he knew that the white woman never intercedes in vain, and that no victim falls when sanctified by her tears. He clasped her hand and pressed it to his lips; and then turning away in silence, set off in a stately and deliberate pace towards the west. He looked not back to see if a treacherous gun was pointed at him. He knew that the maiden had not trifled with him. He knew that she would not mock a dying man with bread. He neither looked back nor quickened his step. And so he vanished from view in the valley.
He clasped her hand, and pressed it to his lips.
“Dod! he’s gone! We ought to’ve had his sculp!” said Sneak, betraying serious mortification.
“We must give it up, though—we were in the minority,” said Joe, satisfied with the decision.
“In the what?” asked Sneak.
“In the minority,” said Joe.
“Let’s go in the house and git something to eat,” said Sneak.