“Dead.”
Wacora made a bound towards the speaker, as he cried, “Did you kill him?”
“I did.”
Maracota fearlessly stood to await the stroke of the upraised tomahawk.
It fell, but not on the Indian’s skull.
Wacora flung his weapon on the grass.
“Wretch!” he cried, “you have robbed me of my revenge. May the arm that took that man’s life hang palsied by your side for ever! May—oh, curse you—curse you!”
Maracota’s head fell upon his breast. He dared not meet his chief’s angry glance—more dreaded than the blow of his hatchet.
For some moments there was silence; whilst Wacora paced to and fro like a tiger in its cage.