“Because it is near.”
“Not to you?”
“Yes—to me. The presentiment is upon me that I have not long to live.”
“Nonsense, Powell.”
“Friend, it is true—I have had my death warning.”
“Come, Osceola! This is unlike—unworthy of you. Surely you are above such vulgar fancies. I will not believe you can entertain them.”
“Think you I speak of supernatural signs? Of the screech of the war-bird, or the hooting of the midnight owl? Of omens in the air, the earth, or the water? No—no. I am above such shallow superstitions. For all that, I know I must soon die. It was wrong of me to call my death warning a presentiment—it is a physical fact that announces my approaching end—it is here.”
As he said this, he raised his hand, pointing with his fingers as if to indicate the chest.
I understood his melancholy meaning.
“I would rather,” he continued, after a pause, “rather it had been my fate to fall upon the field of battle. True, death is not alluring in any shape, but that appears to me most preferable. I would choose it rather than linger on. Nay, I have chosen it. Ten times have I thus challenged death—gone half-way to meet it; but like a coward, or a coy bride, it refuses to meet me.”