Would that I could have whispered in his ear one word of caution!
It was too late: the toils had been laid—the trap set; and the noble game was about to enter it. It was too late for me to warn him. I must stand idly by—spectator to an act of injustice—a gross violation of right.
A table was placed in front of the ground occupied by the general and staff; the commissioner stood immediately behind it. Upon this table was an inkstand with pens; while a broad parchment, exhibiting the creases of many folds, was spread out till it occupied nearly the whole surface. This parchment was the treaty of the Oclawaha.
“Yesterday,” began the commissioner, without further preamble, “we did nothing but talk—to-day we are met to act. This,” said he, pointing to the parchment, “is the treaty of Payne’s Landing. I hope you have all considered what I said yesterday, and are ready to sign it?”
“We have considered,” replied Omatla for himself and those of his party. “We are ready to sign.”
“Onopa is head chief,” suggested the commissioner; “let him sign first. Where is Miconopa?” he added, looking around the circle with feigned surprise.
“The mico-mico is not here.”
“And why not here? He should have been here. Why is he absent?”
“He is sick—he is not able to attend the council.”
“That is a lie, Jumper. Miconopa is shamming—you know he is.”