At this moment, a person entered the room, whom I recognised as one of the interpreters who had officiated at the council. He whispered something to the commissioner, and then withdrew.
“All right, gentlemen!” exclaimed the latter, as the interpreter went out; “Omatla will meet us within the hour. Black Dirt will be with him. They have named the ‘Sink’ as the place. It lies to the north of the fort. We can reach it without passing the camp, and there will be no risk of our being observed. Shall we go, General?”
“I am ready,” replied Clinch, taking up his cloak, and throwing it over his shoulders; “but, General Thompson,” said he, turning to the commissioner, “how about your interpreters? Can they be intrusted with a secret of so much importance?”
The commissioner appeared to hesitate. “It might be imprudent,” he replied at length, in a half soliloquy.
“Never mind, then—never mind,” said Clinch; “I think we can do without them. Lieutenant Randolph,” continued he, turning to me, “you speak the Seminole tongue fluently?”
“Not fluently, General; I speak it, however.”
“You could interpret it fairly.”
“Yes, General; I believe so.”
“Very well, then; that will do. Come with us!”
Smothering my vexation, at being thus diverted from my design, I followed in silence—the commissioner leading the way, while the General, disguised in cloak and plain forage cap, walked by his side.