There was something almost unearthly in the laugh that accompanied these last words—a strange simile—a strange man!
I could scarce make an effort to cheer him. In fact, he needed no cheering: he seemed happier than before. Had it not been so, my poor speech, assuring him of his robust looks, would have been words thrown away. He knew they were but the false utterances of friendship.
I even suspected it myself. I had already noticed the pallid skin—the attenuated fingers—the glazed and sunken eye. This, then, was the canker that was prostrating that noble spirit—the cause of his deep melancholy. I had assigned to it one far different.
The future of his sister had been the heaviest load upon his heart. He told me so as we moved onward.
I need not repeat the promises I then made to him. It was not necessary they should be vows: my own happiness would hinder me from breaking them.
Chapter Ninety Six.
Osceola’s Fate—Conclusion.
We were seated near the edge of the little opening where we had encamped, a pretty parterre, fragrant with the perfume of a thousand flowers. The moon was shedding down a flood of silvery light, and objects around appeared almost as distinct as by day. The leaves of the tall palms—the waxen flowers of the magnolias—the yellow blossoms of the zanthoxylon trees could all be distinguished in the clear moonbeams.