As he stepped forth, he perceived Maracota slowly approaching.
In an instant the slumbering passion of hate was awakened; he saw in the young Indian’s eye that he had news to communicate.
Speak! have you found him?
“Yes, he is found.”
“I mean Warren Rody. Make no error, Maracota—tell me, is it Warren Rody you have found?”
“He has been found.”
“Then all is well. Quick! bring him to me. Let me look upon this dog of a pale-face!”
Maracota made no answer, but stood silent.
“Do you hear me? Bring the dog before me. My eyes hunger for a sight of his craven countenance—I would see his white-livered face of fear—watch his trembling frame as he stands in my presence!”
Still Maracota did not speak.