“Go with me at once to the maiden, that Oloompa may be free.”
“And wilt thou accept nothing?” said Rolfe. “I owe thee much; I am thy friend; suffer me to be kind to thee for thy mother's sake, if not thy own. Should Oloompa go thus, Pukkwana will say the white man was ungrateful.”
“Oloompa has spoken,” was the reply. “He wants nothing; let the morrow's sun find him on his journey. He is a caged bird. His spirit longs to be free.”
“Then I can do no more,” said Rolfe, “but will prepare for our journey. You said you desired this, that you might be free. You will conduct me to the maiden, and then leave me. Does danger await me?”
Oloompa smiled, as if in scorn, and said, “the white man knows not Oloompa:—Oloompa is not a snake, to bite without warning. His words are straight. What he says, he does. The white man wrongs him when he suspects. Oloompa has said he will show him the maiden. He still says so, and if her path is watched, he will return with her to the settlements. She shall be safe. Then, Oloompa is free, and his hatred of the white men is a fire which will never burn out.”
“Oloompa,” said Rolfe, “I know not what to think. I grieve to hear you speak as you do. Forget those thoughts which prey upon your mind, and be my friend. Return with me after having shown me the maiden, and you shall have a house and lands for yourself and mother, and your days shall pass in peace and quiet. Do this, and you will make me happy. If not, say why, what preys upon your mind?”
Oloompa's feelings were touched, by the manner of Rolfe, and he replied, “Oloompa is not ungrateful;—he loves not the white man, yet he thanks him for his kindness. Oloompa's cradle was the tree top. His spirit is as free as the wind that blows. The wild woods must be his home. The hunter asks why it is that Oloompa's mind is troubled? Would he know? Listen:—the Great Spirit made this great island for his red children. The white people came across the wide water, and have taken it from them. Here, where Oloompa stands, his father hunted the deer and buffalo. The whites wanted his hunting grounds. He would not give them up. His blood was spilled upon the ground, and the wigwam of the white man now rises over it! Dost thou know why the red man's heart is sorry?”
“Oloompa,” said Rolfe, “I know thy feelings, and can make many allowances for them. I never think of the fate of the Indians with a light heart.”
“The white man is not yet satisfied,” continued Oloompa; “he wants more hunting grounds, and again he is kindling the red torch.”
“No,” said Rolfe; “the red man is kindling the torch, and the whites are assembling, to defend themselves. I myself had friends who fell victims to Indian barbarity. Not only that, but our frontiers have been desolated, and women and children inhumanly butchered, to gratify their vengeance. Oloompa, can we suffer that?”