"And are you unhappy?" asked Wacora.

"Can you ask that question?--you who have done so much--" She paused; her generous nature hesitated to inflict pain.

He concluded her speech for her.

"I have done so much to make you unhappy. You are right. I have been an instrument in the hands of Fate, and you owe your misery to me. But I am only an instrument, not the original cause. My will had no voice in my actions, and but one motive prompted me. That was Duty."

"Duty?" she asked, a smile curling her lip.

"Yes, duty! I could prove it to you had you the desire to hear me."

She resumed her seat, and said, quietly--

"I will hear you."

"There was an Indian chief, the son of a Spanish woman. His father was a Seminole. Both are dead. He was reared amongst his father's people, and learned from them all that Indian youths are taught. Schools then existed amongst the Seminoles. The white missionaries had established them, and were still at their heads. They had both the ability and the desire to teach. From them Wacora learned all that the pale-faced children are taught. His mind was of his mother's race; his heart inclined to that of his father."

"But why this difference?" she asked.

"Because the more he knew the more was he convinced of the cruel oppression that had been suffered in all ages. History was a tissue of it. Geography marked its progress. Education only proved that civilisation was spread at the expense of honour and of right. This is what the schools taught him."

"That is but one side of the question."

"You are right, so he resolved to make himself familiar with the other.

The story of the past might be applicable to the events of the present.

Believing this, he left the schools, and sought the savannah and the forest. What did he find there? Nothing but the repet.i.tion of the past he had read of in books, aggravated by the lawlessness and rapacity of the present. The red man was ignorant. But did the pale-faces seek to educate him? No! They sought and still seek to keep him ignorant, because, in his ignorance, lies their advantage."

"Was that all the fault of our race?" Alice asked, as she noticed the enthusiastic flush upon the speaker's face.

"Not all. That were to argue falsely. The red man's vices grew greater as the chances of correcting them were denied him. His instinct prompted him to retaliation, for by this he sought to check oppression.

'Twas a vain effort. He found it so; and was forced to practise cruelty. So the quarrel progressed till to-day the Indian warrior sees in every white man only an enemy."

"But now? Surely you are not so?"

"I am the Indian chief I have attempted to describe. Take that for your answer."

The young girl was silent.

"If my heart bleeds for suffering, it is my mother's nature pleading within me. I check it, because it would be unworthy of a warrior, and the leader of warriors. The storm has arisen--I am carried along with it!"

As he uttered the last words his form seemed to dilate, while his listener stood wondering at it spell-bound.

After a pause, he continued in a tone more subdued, but still full of feeling.

"If I have caused you unhappiness, think of me as the involuntary instrument. My uncle was beloved by all his tribe--by all our race.

His injuries were ours; it was ours to avenge them. And for her"--his voice trembled as he pointed to Sansuta's grave--"_she_ was his only hope and joy upon earth."

Alice Rody's tears fell in torrents over the last resting-place of the Indian maiden. Wacora observed them, and, with a delicacy of feeling, was about to withdraw from her presence, when she stayed him with a motion of her hand.

For some time neither uttered a word. Alice at length spoke, through sobs which she vainly strove to check or conceal.

"Forgive me," said she, "for I have done you a great wrong. Much that was dark and terrible appears now just and natural. I cannot say that I am happier, but I am less troubled than before."

He would have kissed her hand, but, with a slight shudder, she drew back.

"No, no; do not touch me! Leave me to myself. I shall be more composed by-and-bye."

He obeyed, without saying a word; leaving her alone.

For a long time she sat in the same place, a prey to thoughts she scarce understood.

At length she rose, to all appearance more composed, and retracing the forest path with slow, sad steps, she re-entered the Indian town.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

A TREACHEROUS BRIDGE.

There was one among the Indians who viewed their fair captive with no great favour.

It was Maracota.

His devotion to Oluski had been so blindly true that, in his narrow-minded memory of the old chief's wrongs, he had become bloodthirsty and remorseless. Naturally of a revengeful disposition, he saw, in the leniency of both Wacora and Nelatu towards the pale-faced maiden, too much of forgiveness.

This stirred his evil pa.s.sions to their depth, and he sought for an opportunity to do her an injury.

With a shrewd guess at the truth, he looked upon Cris Carrol's escape as another evidence of that toleration which ill consorted with his sanguinary hatred of the white race.

He dared not take open measures, but insidiously strove to turn the people of the tribe against their white captive, as well as Wacora.

His success was not commensurate with his wishes. They admired their chief too much to believe anything to his prejudice, and Maracota became himself looked upon as a restless agitator--a subject more zealous than loyal.

He saw, accordingly, that any injury to the captive must be accomplished by his own agency; the more so, as he had already endeavoured to excite a feeling of jealousy in Nelatu's mind, of which she and Wacora were the objects. The generous youth not only refused belief, but angrily reproved the slanderer, for daring to couple his cousin's name with an act so unworthy!

When a person resolves upon mischief it is astonishing how many opportunities present themselves.

Alice, although unsuspicious of the enmity of which she was the object, avoided Maracota. She did so from a different motive. She knew that it was he who had fired the fatal shot at her brother, and could not help regarding the act with abhorrence. His sister, how could she?

And, as his sister, how could she look upon his executioner without repugnance--more than repugnance--with horror?

The exigencies of the war had kept Maracota away from the town, and for long periods; but the same causes that brought Wacora back, also controlled his return.

He felt that now, if ever, was the time to carry out his schemes of malignity.

He accordingly watched her every movement; amongst others, the many lonely visits she paid to the ruined fort.

There was the opportunity he wanted, if he could only find the means to avail himself of it.