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The White Squaw
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Turning to Maracota, he propounded a similar question.
Maracota was equally ignorant of the person of the captive.
The chief ordered her to be brought before him.
With an undaunted step, although evidently suffering from debility and sorrow, the girl allowed herself to be led along.
Once in Wacora’s presence, with a modest courage, she gazed into his face.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Your prisoner.”
“When where you captured?”
“About two hours ago.”
“You were trying to escape?”
“I was.”
“Your companions – who are they?”
“I know nothing of them, except that they are people belonging to the settlement. They were kind to me, and endeavoured to help me in my escape.”
“You know your doom?”
She answered, sadly —
“I expect no mercy.”
Wacora, struck with this reply, felt an interest in the courageous girl, which he could not account for.
“You have been taught to think of the red man as a remorseless savage?”
“Not as remorseless, only as revengeful.”
“Then you acknowledge that we have just cause for revengeful feelings?”
“I did not say so.”
“But you implied it.”
“All men have enemies. The truly great are the only ones who can forego revenge.”
“But savages must act according to their instincts.”
“Savages – yes. But men who know right from wrong should act by their judgment.”
“If I spared your life, you would still consider me a savage.”
“My life is nothing to me. All those I loved are now dead.”
“Your mother?”
“She died when I was a child.”
“Your father?”
“Was killed last night.”
Wacora seemed lost in thought as he said, half aside —
“So young, and yet with no fear of death!”
The young girl overheard the muttered soliloquy, and made answer to it —
“To the unhappy death is welcome.”
“Unhappy?”
“I have told you that all I love are dead?”
“Yet death is terrible.”
“Your name?”
“Alice Rody.”
With a cry of fiendish delight, Wacora grasped the maiden’s arm.
“You, the daughter of that accursed man – the daughter of that demon in human form! Then, by the Great Spirit above us! by the ashes of my ancestors, you shall die! My own hand shall inflict the blow.”
As he uttered these words, he drew a knife from his belt, and was on the point of sheathing it in her heart, when his arm was seized, and a voice full of agony vibrated in his ear —
“Spare her! – oh! spare her. Take my life instead.”
“Nelatu!”
“Yes, Nelatu; your cousin, your slave, if you will – only spare her life!”
“You forget her name.”
“No, no; I know it but too well.”
“You forget that her father has been the accursed cause of all this misery?”
“No; I remember that too.”
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