As he stood beneath the spreading branches of the live oak a double shadow seemed to have fallen upon him--that of his own thoughts, and the tree thickly festooned with its mosses. Both were of sombre hue.

He took no heed of the time, and might have stood nursing his bitter thoughts still longer, but for a sound that suddenly startled him from his reverie.

It was a shriek that came ringing through the trees as if of one in great distress.

The voice Wacora heard was a woman's.

Lover-like, he knew it to be that of Alice Rody in peril.

Without hesitating an instant he rushed along the path in the direction from which it appeared to come.

In that direction lay the stream.

His instinct warned him that the danger was from the water. He remembered the rain and storm just past. It would be followed by a freshet. Alice Rody might have been caught by it, and was in danger of drowning.

He made these reflections while rushing through the underwood, careless of the thorns that at every step penetrated his skin, covering his garments with blood.

His demeanour had become suddenly changed. The sombre shadow on his brow had given place to an air of the wildest excitement. His white captive, she who had made him a captive, was in some strange peril.

He listened as he ran. The swishing of the branches, as he broke through them, hindered him from hearing. No sound reached his ears; but he saw what caused him a strange surprise. It was the form of a man, who, like himself, was making his way through the thicket, only in a different direction. Instead of towards the creek the man was going from it, skulking off as if desirous to shun observation.

For all this Wacora recognised him. He saw it was Maracota.

The young chief did not stay to inquire what the warrior was doing there, or why he should be retreating from the stream? He did not even summon the latter to stop. His thoughts were all absorbed by the shriek he had heard, and the danger it denoted. He felt certain it had come from the creek, and if it was the cry of one in the water, there was no time to be lost.

And none was lost--not a moment--for in less than sixty seconds after hearing it he stood upon the bank of the stream.

As he had antic.i.p.ated, it was swollen to a flood, its turbid waters carrying upon their whirling surface trunks and torn branches of trees, bunches of reeds and gra.s.s uprooted by the rush of the current.

He did not stand to gaze idly upon these. The bridge was above him.

The cry had come from there. He saw that it was in ruins. All was explained!

But where was she who had given utterance to that fearful shriek?

He hurried along the edge of the stream, scanning its current from bank to bank, hastily examining every branch and bunch borne upon its bosom.

A disc of whitish colour came before his eyes. There was something in the water, carried along rapidly. It was the drapery of a woman's dress, and a woman's form was within it!

The young chief stayed not for further scrutiny; but plunging into the flood, and swimming a few strokes, he threw his arms around it.

And he knew that in his arms he held Alice Rody! In a few seconds after her form lay dripping upon the bank, apparently lifeless!

CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

SAVED! SAVED!

Wacora had saved his white captive. She still lived!

The struggle between life and death had been long and doubtful, but life at length triumphed.

Por days had she lingered upon the verge of existence, powerless to move from her couch; scarce able to speak. It was some time before she could shape words to thank her deliverer, though she knew who it was.

She had been told it was Wacora.

The young chief had been unremitting in his attentions, and showed great solicitude for her recovery. He found time, amidst the warlike preparations constantly going on, to make frequent calls at her dwelling, and make anxious inquiry about her progress.

The nurses who attended upon her did not fail to note his anxiety.

Nelatu had been absent and did not return to the town until she was convalescent.

He was grieved to the heart on hearing what had happened.

Wacora, suspecting that Maracota was the guilty one, sought him in every direction, but the vengeful warrior was nowhere to be found.

He had fled from the presence of his indignant chief.

It was not until long after that his fate became known.

He had been captured in his flight by some of the settlers, and shot; thus dying by the hands of the enemies he so hated.

Several weeks elapsed, and no active movement had, as yet, been made by the government troops. Wacora's tribe still continued to reside in their town undisturbed.

His captive continued to recover, and, along with her restored strength, came a change over the spirit of her existence. She seemed transformed into a different being.

The past had vanished like a dream. Only dimly did she remember her residence at Tampa Bay, her father, the conflict on the hill, the ma.s.sacre, her brother's sad fate, all seemed to have faded from her memory, until they appeared as things that had never been, or of which she had no personal knowledge, but had only heard of them long, long ago.

It is true they still had a shadowy existence in her mind, but entirely disa.s.sociated with the events of her life, since she had been a captive among the Indians. Nor was there much to regret in this impaired recollection, for both the events and personages had been among the miseries of her life.

Of her present she had a more pleasurable appreciation. She was living a new life, and thinking new thoughts.

Nelatu and Wacora both strove in a thousand kind ways to render her contented and happy.

They had no great luxuries to offer her, but such as they had were bestowed with true delicacy.

Strange to say, that in this common solicitude there was not a spark of jealousy between the two cousins.

Nelatu's nature was generosity itself; and self-sacrifice appeared to him as if it was his duty or fate!

Still, while he basked in the sunshine of the young girl's beauty, he had not the courage to imagine to himself that she could ever belong to another. Not to him might her love be given, but surely not to another!

He could not think of that.

True that at times he fancied he could perceive a look bestowed on Wacora such as she never vouchsafed to him--a tremor in her voice when speaking to his cousin, which had never betrayed itself in her discourse with himself.

But he might be mistaken. Might? He was certain of it. If she did not love him, at any rate he could not think that she loved Wacora.

Thus did the Indian youth beguile himself!