“What! the young chief of the Seminoles? our old playfellow, Powell? He is to be the subject of our discourse? You could not have chosen one more interesting to me. I could talk all day long about this brave fellow!”
I was struck dumb by her reply, and scarcely knew in what way to proceed.
“But what of him, brother George?” continued my sister, looking me more soberly in the face. “I hope no harm has befallen him?”
“None that I know of: the harm has fallen upon those nearer and dearer.”
“I do not understand you, my mysterious brother.”
“But you shall. I am about to put a question to you—answer me, and answer me truly, as you value my love and friendship.”
“Your question, sir, without these insinuations. I can speak the truth, I fancy, without being scared by threats.”
“Then speak it, Virginia. Tell me, is Powell—is Osceola—your lover?”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
“Nay, Virginia, this is no laughing matter.”