So thought he who fired the shot, and who was the young man already described. He stayed not to speculate, but rushed forward to the spot where the two Indians lay. He had recognised them both. The one upon the ground was Nelatu, the son of Oluski, a distinguished Seminole chief. The other was Red Wolf, a well-grown youth belonging to the same tribe.
Only glancing at the would-be assassin to see that he was dead, he bent over the body of Nelatu, placed his hand upon the region of his heart, at the same time anxiously scanning his features.
Suddenly he uttered an exclamation of surprise. Beneath his fingers a weak pulsation gave signs of life. Nelatu might yet be saved.
Pulling off his hat, he ran down to the beach, filled it with water, and, returning, sprinkled the forehead of the young Indian.
Then taking a flask containing brandy from his pouch, he poured a portion of its contents down the throat of the unconscious youth.
These kindly offices he repeated several times, and was finally rewarded for his pains. The blood slowly mantled Nelatu’s cheek; a shivering ran through his frame; and with a deep sigh he gazed dreamily upon his preserver, and at the same time faintly murmured “Warren.”
“Yes, Warren! Speak, Nelatu. What is the meaning of this?”
The Indian had only the strength to mutter the words “Red Wolf,” at the same time raising his hand to his side with apparent difficulty.
The gesture made his meaning clear. Warren’s gaze rested upon a deep wound from which the blood was still welling.
By the tremulous movement of his lips, Warren saw that he was endeavouring to speak again. But no sound came from them. His eyes gradually became closed. He had once more fainted.