I cast around me inquiring glances. Where was it probable she had passed the night? Where?
Involuntarily my eyes rested upon the naked poles—the tent of the chief. How could it be otherwise? Who among all the captives like her? grandly beautiful to satisfy the eye even of a savage chieftain—grandly, magnificently beautiful, how could she escape his notice? There, in his lodge, shrouded under the brown skins of buffaloes—under hideous devices—in the arms of a painted, keel-bedaubed savage—his arms brawn and greasy—embraced—oh!—
“Young fellur! I ain’t much o’ a skollur; but I’d stake a pack o’ beaver plew agin a plug o’ Jeemes River, thet this hyur manurscrip wur entended for yurself, an nob’dy else. Thur’s writin’ upon it—thet’s clur, an mighty kew’rous ink I reck’n thet ur. Oncest ov a time I kud ’a read write, or print eythur, as easy as fallin’ off a log; for thur wur a Yankee fellur on Duck Crik thet kep a putty consid’able school thur, an the ole ’oman—thet ur Mrs Rawlins—hed this child put thro’ a reg’lar coorse o’ Testy mint. I remembers readin’ ’bout thet ur cussed niggur as toated the possible sack—Judeas, ef I reccol’ex right, war the durned raskul’s name—ef I kud ’a laid claws on him, I’d a raised his har in the shakin’ o’ a goat’s tail. Wagh! thet I wild.”
Rube’s indignation against the betrayer having reached its climax, brought his speech to a termination.
I had not waited for its finale. The object which he held between his fingers had more interest for me, than either the history of his own early days or the story of the betrayal.
It was a paper—a note actually folded, and addressed “Warfield!” He had found it upon the grass, close to where the tent had stood, where it was held in the crotch of a split reed, the other end of which was sticking in the ground.
No wonder the trapper had remarked upon the ink, there was no mistaking the character of that livid red: the writing was in blood!
Hastily unfolding the paper, I read:
“Henri! I am still safe, but in dread of a sad fate—the fate of the poor white captive among these hideous men. Last night I feared it, but the Virgin shielded me. It has not come. Oh! I shall not submit—I shall die by my own hand. A strange chance has hitherto saved me from this horrid outrage. No! it was not chance, but Heaven that interposed. It is thus: Two of my captors claim me—one, the son of the chief—the other, the wretch to whom you granted life and freedom. Would to God it had been otherwise! Of the two, he of white blood is the viler savage—bad, brutal—a very demon. Both took part in the capture of the steed, therefore both claim me as their property? The claim is not yet adjusted; hence have I been spared. But, alas! I fear my hour is nigh. A council is to be held that will decide to which of these monsters I am to be given. If to either, it is a horrid fate; if to neither, a doom still more horrible. Perchance, you know their custom: I should be common property—the victim of all. Dios de mi alma! Never—never! Death—welcome death!
“Fear not, Henri, lord of my heart! fear not that I shall dishonour your love. No—sacred in my breast, its purity shall be preserved, even at the sacrifice of my life. I shall bathe it with my blood. Ah me! my heart is bleeding now! They come to drag me away. Farewell! farewell!”