“They were the people of my race, and so of yours, that you have immolated on the throne of your vengeance.”
So seemed it to say!
His head sank upon his breast. He sighed heavily.
Long he continued in his gloomy abstraction; his thoughts deeper than plummet ever sounded.
The weary hours of night crept slowly past, and yet he stirred not.
Fears and forebodings filled his warrior’s heart.
“I have done all for the best,” muttered he to himself. “Witness it, thou Great Spirit; all for the best. For the future of my father’s race I have closed my heart to pity. It was not for present vengeance alone that I urged on the wild people to the slaughter. It was that they might then begin the great work of regeneration, assured in their strength, and conscious of their invincibility.”
Like all high-strung natures, Wacora was subject to fits of despondency.
With want of action this had come upon him. The excitement over, gloomy doubt had succeeded to bright hope.
The sun was high in the heavens ere he could bestir himself, and shake off such thoughts. He at length made the effort, and emerged from his tent to consult with the warriors of his tribe.