"I am Reuben, de son of Esther."

"Esther!"

"Yes, Esther, your father's slave. You was de cause ob her death. Do you know me now?"

Rody groaned.

"Dey call me Crookleg, kase I was lame. Who made me lame?"

Still no answer.

"It war you dat put de ball in my leg for sport, when you war a boy, and I war de same. I have been close to you for years, but you didn't know me. I war too mean--too much below de notice of a proud gentleman like you. But I hab a good memory, and de oath I'd taken to be even wid ye, am kept. My mother war a slave, but she war my mother for all dat, an'

if I war a black man I war still a human bein', although you and de likes of you didn't think so. Do you know me now?"

Rody uttered not a word.

"When I war forced to limp away from your father's plantation, I war but a boy, but de boy had de same hate for de cruel ma.s.sa dat de lame n.i.g.g.a hab now for Elias Rody. Days and years hab pa.s.sed since den, but de hate war kept hot as ever; and I'se happy now when I knows dat de dyin'

planter am at de mercy of de mean slave. Don't be skear'd, I wouldn't lift dis hand to help you eider die or live. All I'se a going to do is to sit hyar an' watch ober you till you am cold and stiff. Every flutter you wicked soul makes to get free from you ugly body, will be a joy to me!"

"Oh, devil!" exclaimed the wounded man, in the depth of his agony.

"Debbil! Yes, I is a debbil, and you has made me one!"

The negro, as he said this, knelt down by Rody's side and thrust his face close up to that of the dying man, while a demoniac joy lit up his horrid features.

And he continued to gaze upon his victim until the grey shadow of dissolution stole over his countenance, the senses wandered, and the once bright eyes were becoming dimmed with the film of death.

At last a scream burst from the lips of the dying man, followed by words of piteous appeal.

"Ha--help--water--water! My soul's on fire! Devils--demons! Away-- away! Let me go! Unloose your burning hands from my heart! Unloose-- ah, horror!"

The cries ceased.

Elias Rody was dead!

Remorselessly did the negro glare upon his expiring enemy as he uttered these last frantic speeches, and when, at last, the spirit had pa.s.sed away, he bounded to his feet and began to exult over his now unconscious victim.

At this moment another personage appeared upon the scene.

At some little distance from the spot a man, leaning upon his rifle, stood taking a survey of the smoking ruins.

He had been for some time ignorant that any living being but himself was upon the hill.

His attention was now called to Crookleg, who, a.s.sured of his enemy's death, could no longer restrain his immense joy, but was giving vent to it in cries and fantastic caperings.

"Ho, ho--dead! It am 'plendid sport to de ole n.i.g.g.a! Only to tink dat dis poor ole lame darkey hab been de cause ob a war 'tween de whites and de red-skins! Ha, ha, ha! it am most too good to be beliebed! But it am true--it am true!"

As the monstrous creature concluded the speech he was seen to spring suddenly into the air and fall flat upon his face--a corpse!

A long hunting-knife had penetrated his back!

"There, ye black hound! If you have been the cause of one war, you'll never have a hand in another. I swore not to fight agin my own blood, nor to take part agin the red-skins, but black blood don't count in my bargain!"

Saying this, Cris Carrol drew his blade from the negro's body and coolly sauntered away from the spot.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

ROBBED OF HIS REVENGE.

Wacora, after reaching the camp, dismissed his warriors, and entered his tent alone.

The remainder of that night he pa.s.sed in meditation.

Was it the influence of the white blood flowing in his veins that made him think of the slaughter he had directed and taken part in?

Strange inconsistency of nature.

The heroic chief, still decked in the war paint of his father's race, as he reviewed the events of the past few hours, could not restrain himself from shuddering.

His mother's spirit seemed to hover around him; her eyes sad and reproachful; her heart heavy.

"They were the people of my race, and so of yours, that you have immolated on the throne of your vengeance."

So seemed it to say!

His head sank upon his breast. He sighed heavily.

Long he continued in his gloomy abstraction; his thoughts deeper than plummet ever sounded.

The weary hours of night crept slowly past, and yet he stirred not.

Fears and forebodings filled his warrior's heart.

"I have done all for the best," muttered he to himself. "Witness it, thou Great Spirit; all for the best. For the future of my father's race I have closed my heart to pity. It was not for present vengeance alone that I urged on the wild people to the slaughter. It was that they might then begin the great work of regeneration, a.s.sured in their strength, and conscious of their invincibility."

Like all high-strung natures, Wacora was subject to fits of despondency.

With want of action this had come upon him. The excitement over, gloomy doubt had succeeded to bright hope.

The sun was high in the heavens ere he could bestir himself, and shake off such thoughts. He at length made the effort, and emerged from his tent to consult with the warriors of his tribe.

As he stepped forth, he perceived Maracota slowly approaching.

In an instant the slumbering pa.s.sion of hate was awakened; he saw in the young Indian's eye that he had news to communicate.

Speak! have you found him?