“My aim has not been true,” said Osceola, with singular coolness; “he still lives. I have received much wrong from him and his—ay, very much wrong—or I might spare his wretched life. But no—my vow must be kept—he must die!”
As he said this he, rushed after Ringgold, who had regained his feet, and was making towards the bushes, as with a hope of escape.
A wild scream came from the terrified wretch, as he saw the avenger at his heels. It was the last time his voice was heard.
In a few bounds Osceola was by his side—the long blade glittered for an instant in the air—and the downward blow was given, so rapidly, that the stroke could scarce be perceived.
The blow was instantaneously fatal. The knees of the wounded man suddenly bent beneath him, and he sank lifeless on the spot where he had been struck—his body after death remaining doubled up as it had fallen.
“The fourth and last of my enemies,” said Osceola, as he returned to where I stood; “the last of those who deserved my vengeance, and against whom I had vowed it.”
“Scott?” I inquired.
“He was the third—he was killed yesterday, and by this hand. Hitherto I have fought for revenge—I have had it—I have slain many of your people—I have had full satisfaction, and henceforth—”
The speaker made a long pause.
“Henceforth?” I mechanically inquired.