“Powell!”
“Not Powell, sir; my name is Osceola.”
“To me, still Edward Powell—the friend of my youth, the preserver of my life. By that name alone do I remember you.”
There was a momentary pause. The speech had evidently produced a conciliating effect; perhaps memories of the past had come over him.
He replied:
“Your errand? Come you as a friend? or only like others, to torment me with idle words? I have had visitors already; gay, gibbering fools, with forked tongues, who would counsel me to dishonour. Have you been sent upon a like mission?”
From this speech I concluded that Scott—the pseudo-friend—had already been with the captive—likely on some errand from the agent.
“I come of my own accord—as a friend.”
“George Randolph, I believe you. As a boy, you possessed a soul of honour. The straight sapling rarely grows to a crooked tree. I will not believe that you are changed, though enemies have spoken against you. No—no; your hand, Randolph—your hand! forgive me for doubting you.”
I reached through the darkness to accept the proffered salute. Instead of one, I grasped both hands of the prisoner. I felt that they were manacled together: for all that, the pressure was firm and true; nor did I return it with less warmth.