The face appeared of a crimson red, and three black ostrich feathers, bending over the brow, hung straggling down his cheeks. These plumed symbols produced painful recognition. I knew that it was the head-dress of Osceola.
I looked further. Several groups were beyond—in fact, the whole open space was crowded with prostrate human forms.
There was one group, however, that fixed my attention. It consisted of three or four individuals, seated or reclining along the grass. They were in shade, and from our position, their features could not be recognised; but their white dresses, and the outlines of their forms, soft even in the obscurity of the shadow, told that they were females.
Two of them were side by side, a little apart from the others; one appeared to be supporting the other, whose head rested in her lap.
With emotions fearfully vivid, I gazed on these two forms. I had no doubt they were Viola and my sister.
Chapter Eighty.
Signal Shots.
I shall not attempt to depict my emotions at that moment. My pen is unequal to the task. Think of my situation, and fancy them if you can.