"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 repetition 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.