My fellow-victim shared my thoughts. We were near, and could converse. On comparing our conjectures, we found that they coincided.
But the point was soon settled beyond conjecture. A harsh voice sounded in our ears, issuing an abrupt order, that scattered the women away; a heavy footstep was heard behind—the speaker was approaching.
In another instant his shadow fell upon my face; and the man himself stood within the limited circle of my vision.
Despite the pigment that disguised his natural complexion—despite the beaded shirt, the sash, the embroidered leggins—despite the three black plumes, that waved over his brow, I easily identified the man. He was no Indian, but a mulatto—“yellow Jake” himself.
Chapter Ninety Two.
Buried Alive.
I had expected the man. The cry “Mulato-mico,” and afterwards his voice—still well remembered—had warned me of his coming. I expected to gaze upon him with dread; strange it may seem, but such was not the case. On the contrary, I beheld him, with a feeling akin to joy. Joy at the sight of those three blade plumes that nodded above his scowling temples.
For a moment I marked not his angry frowns, nor the wicked triumph that sparkled in his eye. The ostrich feathers were alone the objects of my regard—the cynosure of my thoughts. Their presence upon the crest of the “mulatto king” elucidated a world of mystery—foul suspicion was plucked from out my bosom—the preserver of my life—the hero of my heart’s admiration was still true—Osceola was true!