New information imparted to me as we advanced along the route, produced new reflections. I was told that the Indians had made a hasty departure—that they had in fact retreated. The conflagration had attracted a large body of citizen soldiery—a patrol upon its rounds—and the appearance of these, unexpected by the savages, had caused the latter to scamper off to the woods. But for this, it was conjectured other plantations would have suffered the fate of ours—perhaps that of Ringgold himself.
The tale was probable enough. The band of marauders was not large—we knew by their tracks there were not more than fifty of them—and this would account for their retreat on the appearance even of a smaller force. The people alleged that it was a retreat.
This information gave a different complexion to the affair—I was again driven to conjectures—again forced to suspicions of Osceola.
Perhaps I but half understood his Indian nature; perhaps, after all, he was the monster who had struck the blow.
Once more I interrogated myself as to his motive—what motive?
Ha! my sister, Virginia—O God! could love—passion—fiendish desire to possess—
“The Indyens! Indyens! Indyens!”