HOW TOM PASSED THE NIGHT.
The Indians had held their powwow, and so had their white captives, and
both were silent. One by one dropped into a slumber. Tom was the first
of the three to fall asleep. He was fatigued, and he had a greater
trust in Providence. His fears were allayed by a confidence that
somehow, and from some quarter, help would come.
In the middle of the night, or, rather, about half-past one o’clock, he
suddenly awoke. As well as his constrained position would let him he
looked about him; first, at his two companions. They were both asleep,
but on the face of Brush there was a troubled expression, indicating,
perhaps, unpleasant dreams. Lycurgus Spooner looked as tranquil as if
he were sleeping in his own bed. He was following his own advice, and
securing for himself a sound, refreshing slumber.
Next Tom looked at the Indians. They, too, were asleep, their dusky
faces no more expressionless than in their waking moments. They slept
soundly, like animals as they were, untroubled by cares or anxieties.
It is only in a state of civilization that the nerves become active
and irritable. Refinement and civilization bring with them higher
enjoyments, and more intense sufferings.
“All around me are asleep,” thought Tom; “if only my hands and feet
were not tied, I might escape.”
Hope kindled in his heart. He began to work upon the cords that
confined his wrists, and succeeded in loosening them a little. He
had a knife in his pocket. If only he could have got hold of that!
But it would be necessary to unfasten his wrists first, and that was
impossible.
Next he tried with his hands, fastened as they were, to release his
feet, but he was forced to work at a disadvantage, and the knots were
too secure.
“I must give it up as a bad job,” thought Tom. “Even if I got free, of
which there isn’t much chance, I should not like to leave Mr. Brush and
the doctor in captivity. It would seem mean.”
Tom’s chivalry was, perhaps, overstrained. I do not myself consider
that he was under any obligation to remain and risk a terrible fate
because he could not also rescue his two companions. Yet I like Tom
better for his unselfishness.
The boy captive had just desisted from his futile attempt to extricate
himself from his fetters, when, chancing to direct his gaze toward the
Indian boy, he saw the bright eyes of the young chief fastened upon him.
Tom’s nature was intensely sympathetic, and forgetting that the young
Indian was his natural foe, he smiled pleasantly.
The Indian boy seemed surprised, but even his unresponsive nature was
affected by Tom’s bright look. His naturally grave face lighted up,
and a faint smile showed Tom that his friendly overture was not thrown
away.
It cheered him, and he thought, “I believe that boy would be my friend
if they would let him. I wish my fate depended upon him.”
The Indian boy’s smile faded, and an expression of pain succeeded,
while he pressed his hand upon his chest.
“I am sorry for the poor fellow,” thought Tom. “I wonder what’s the
matter with him.”
Probably his face expressed his sympathy, and the Indian boy read it
as he once more looked toward the young captive, so near his own age.
The pain seemed to pass and he became more tranquil, but still his dark
eyes were open, and it did not seem likely that he would soon fall
asleep.
“I must give up all thoughts of escaping,” thought Tom, “while the boy
is awake.”
He fell asleep again after awhile, and did not awake till he was shaken
roughly by one of the Indians.
Morning had come, though on that wintry day the tardy sun had not yet
risen.