The Indians' encampment near Tampa Bay was broken up.
The women and children, attended by a few warriors had departed for the
town.
Alice Rody, a prisoner, went along with them.
Wacora, Nelatu, and the rest of the tribe, joined others of their race
in the war which was now rapidly spreading over the whole peninsula.
For a time the Seminole tribe led a wandering life.
The varying successes or defeats of the protracted contest entailed upon
them both vigilance and activity.
It was, therefore, only occasionally that the cousins were enabled to
visit the town in which their people permanently resided.
Sansuta had now seldom any relapses of her fits of violent madness.
She was silent and melancholy, and wandered about wrapped in her own
bewildered thoughts.
Alice, although a prisoner, was suffered to come and go as it pleased
her.
Nelatu's love for the pale-faced maiden made no progress.
A wan smile was all the reward the Indian youth received for his patient
devotion.
He felt that his passion was hopeless, but still he nursed it.
To Sansuta, Alice indeed proved a guardian angel.
At first the Indian girl repelled the tender solicitude expressed by the
white maiden, and with an alarmed look seemed to dread even her voice.
In time, however, won by the magic of kindness, she sought the company
of the captive, and in her presence seemed happy.
Often they would stroll away from the town, and in some quiet spot pass
hours together--Alice in silent thought, Sansuta in such childish
employment as stringing beads, or making baskets with the flowers and
tendrils of the wild vine.
A favourite haunt with them both was the old fort.
Amongst its ruins they would seat themselves in silence, each busy with
her own thoughts.
And thus was their time tranquilly passed, while war was raging around
them.
But the first storm of conflict had been passed, and was succeeded by a
temporary calm.
The pale-faces had abandoned the smaller settlements and detached
plantations, and in the neighbouring towns awaited the arrival of the
Government troops on their way to prosecute the campaign throughout the
whole peninsula.
The Indians had sought their respective rendezvous, there to mature
plans for a more perfect organisation.
Nelatu and Wacora had returned home, for such was the title Wacora now
gave to the place where Oluski's tribe had their permanent residence.
The exigencies of the contest had compelled the withdrawal of his own
warriors from his father's town, and the two tribes, Oluski and his own,
had become fused into one powerful community.
The chief's views towards his captive had undergone a marked change.
He no longer wished to harm her, and had she demanded from him her
liberty, he would have granted it freely.
Of what use is liberty to the homeless?
Alice Rody had become careless of her freedom--nay, in a manner,
preferred her captivity to the uncertainty of an unknown future, where
no kindred awaited her return, no friend stood expectant to receive her.
A sense of security--almost contentment--had stolen into her heart.
Time had done much to assuage the terrible sorrow from which she had
suffered.
It was a wonderful transformation to the once high-spirited girl who had
shown such energy and fortitude in the midst of danger.
So thought the young chief, Wacora.
To Nelatu it was a negative happiness. She had not energy to chide his
ardent devotion, but submitted to it passively, without bestowing the
slightest encouragement.
One lovely afternoon Sansuta, conducted by Alice, strolled to the ruined
fort.
Arrived there, Sansuta proceeded to embroider a pouch she had commenced
to make.
Alice, seated on a fragment of stone, watched her companion's trivial
employment.
As the Indian girl nestled close to the pale-faced maiden, she seemed on
the point of fainting.
She had grown thinner during the last few weeks, and her hollow cheeks
were tinted with a hectic flush.
"Rest your head on my lap, Sansuta."
As Alice spoke, she gently caught the poor girl in her arms.
"I am tired, oh, so tired!" said Sansuta.
"You must not walk so far as this another time. We must seek some place
nearer to the town."
The Indian girl did not appear to heed her, but commenced singing softly
to herself.
She paused abruptly in her song, and looked up into her companion's
face.
"Last night I dreamed I was in another land, walking along a footpath.
It was strewn with lovely flowers. On both sides were beautiful
creeping plants, over which bright butterflies sailed. There were two
birds--such birds--their plumage of silver and gold. I heard music.
Was it the land of the Great Spirit? Do you think it was?"
"Who knows? it might have been!"
"There I met my father. Not stern as our warriors are, but sad and
weeping. Why did he weep?"
Alice was silent. Her own tears hindered her from making answer to the
artless question.
"When I saw him weeping, I, too, wept, and kissed him. He spoke kindly
to me; but why did he weep?"
Still no answer from her listening companion.
"Then I dreamt--no, I cannot remember what else I dreamt--yet there was
some one else there. I seemed to know his face, too; but a great storm
arose, and all became dark, and I grew frightened. What was that?"
"Alas! Sansuta, I cannot read my own dreams, far less yours."
But Sansuta had already forgotten her question, and was again singing
softly to herself.
Presently she stopped once more, and putting both arms around Alice's
neck, murmured that she was tired.
The pale-faced maiden kissed her, and, as she did so, the tears from her
eyes fell on Sansuta's cheek.
"Why do you weep? Who has injured you?"
Had Alice framed her thoughts into words she would have answered, the
whole world; but, instead, she only replied to her companion with gentle
endearments, and, at length, caressed her into a gentle sleep.
It was a beautiful tableaux for a painter to delineate--beautiful--but
at the same time sadly impressive.
A young Indian chief, who had been a silent witness to it, must have
thought so, by the sigh that escaped him, as he turned his face away.
Wacora was the chief who thus sighed.