Ideas, slumbering till now, were awakened by Wacora’s words. An unknown feeling appeared to gain possession of him.
So contagious is mistrust.
The nephew, too, seemed lost in thought. Still lying upon the ground he idly plucked the petals of a flower growing by his side.
The conversation was at length resumed by his uncle.
“I have nothing to charge the white chief with or his people. Our tribe yearly visits the place. We are welcomed on arrival, respected during our stay, and unmolested at leaving. No, Wacora, these white men are not like others.”
“Uncle, all white men are the same. They make their homes in our land. When space is needed, the Indian must yield to them. What faith or friendship can exist where there is no equality? Do not the Seminoles suffer at this very moment from the white man’s ambition? Are not their hunting grounds profaned by his presence—their towns pillaged for his fancied wrongs? Your friend is a white man, and, therefore the enemy of your race.”
Wacora spoke passionately.
The Indian is not always a savage. The reverse is often the case. In every tribe there are men of education, of quick intelligence, and with a high sense of right.
Both Oluski and Wacora were superior men, in the sense that education and natural intelligence gave the stamp of superiority over ignorance and superstition.