Chapter Thirty.
Robbed of his Revenge.
Wacora, after reaching the camp, dismissed his warriors, and entered his tent alone.
The remainder of that night he passed in meditation.
Was it the influence of the white blood flowing in his veins that made him think of the slaughter he had directed and taken part in?
Strange inconsistency of nature.
The heroic chief, still decked in the war paint of his father’s race, as he reviewed the events of the past few hours, could not restrain himself from shuddering.
His mother’s spirit seemed to hover around him; her eyes sad and reproachful; her heart heavy.