Chapter Forty.
An Indian Diplomat.
After the cries of triumph which announced the capture of the unlucky white man, there was a moment of profound silence. The men on the island exchanged looks of consternation and pity. “Thank God! they have not killed him!” said Fabian.
The prisoner indeed arose, although bruised with his fall, and one of the Indians disengaged him from the lasso. Bois-Rose and Pepé shook their heads.
“So much the worse for him, for his sufferings would now be over,” said Pepé; “the silence of the Indians shows that each is considering what punishment to inflict. The capture of one white is more precious in their eyes than that of a whole troop of horses.”
The Indians, still on horseback, surrounded the prisoner, who, casting around him a despairing glance, saw on every side only bronzed and hardened faces. Then the Indians began to deliberate.
Meanwhile, one who appeared to be the chief, and who was distinguished by his black plumes, jumped off his horse, and, throwing the bridle to one of the men, advanced towards the island. Having reached the bank, he seemed to seek for footsteps on the sand. Bois-Rose’s heart beat violently, for this movement appeared to show some suspicion as to their presence.
“Can this wretch,” whispered he to Pepé, “smell flesh like the ogres in the fairy tales?”