“No fear,” said he, in reply, “my trackers will be after them—they will bring me word in time—but no,” he added, hesitatingly, and for a moment appearing thoughtful; “they may not get up with them before the night falls, and then—you speak true, Randolph—I have acted imprudently. I should not care for these foolish fellows—but the mulatto—that is different—he knows all the paths, and if it should be that he is turning traitor—if it— Well! we are astart now, and we must go on. You have nothing to fear—and as for me—Osceola never yet turned his back upon danger, and will not now. Nay, will you believe me, Randolph, I rather seek it than otherwise?”
“Seek danger?”
“Ay—death—death!”
“Speak low—do not let them hear you talk thus.”
“Ah! yes,” he added, lowering his tone, and speaking in a half soliloquy, “in truth, I long for its coming.”
The words were spoken with a serious emphasis that left no room to doubt of their earnestness.
Some deep melancholy had settled upon his spirit and preyed upon it continually. What could be its cause?
I could remain silent no longer. Friendship, not curiosity, incited me. I put the inquiry.
“You have observed it, then? But not since we set out—not since you made that friendly offer? Ah! Randolph, you have rendered me happy. It was she alone that made the prospect of death so gloomy.”
“Why speak you of death?”