The White Squaw

Meanwhile, the other captive’s life passed without incident. The aid she had given the backwoodsman had afforded her the greatest pleasure.

She had been informed of his capture immediately after his condemnation, and was resolved to help him in his escape.

She did not know of Nelatu’s presence near the scene, nor of his well-timed assistance.

The Indian youth had ridden many miles that evening, merely to stand and gaze at her window.

To feel that he was near her seemed a happiness to him.

He departed without even seeing her.

Weeks had elapsed since the Indian maiden had been laid to rest within the old fort.

Alice often visited the spot.

And there Wacora, who had once, more returned to the town again, saw her.

She was resting on the same stone where Sansuta’s head had rested on her bosom.

On perceiving the chief’s approach she rose to her feet, as if to quit the spot.

“Does my coming drive you away?” he asked.

“Not that; but it is growing late, and I must return to my prison.”

“Your prison?”

“Is it not my prison?”

“It is no more your prison than you are a prisoner. You have long been free.”

There was a mournful sadness in Alice Rody’s speech which touched the heart of the Indian chief.

“Freedom is a boon only to those who can enjoy it,” she said, after a pause.

“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 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.

Chapter Forty One.

A Treacherous Bridge