Part 28 (2/2)
”Who comes he to see?”
”The little captive in the hands of Wa-on-mon.”
”She is there,” said the chief, pointing to the fallen tree upon which little Mabel sat; ”he can see her; he may speak to her.”
”The missionary thanks Wa-on-mon--may he call him his brother?”
”No,” was the sharp response, ”the missionary and Wa-on-mon were once brothers, but they are so no longer.”
”The missionary thanks Wa-on-mon, but he is not, as yet, ready to talk to the suffering little one.”
”Little time remains to do so; she dies at sunrise.”
”That is several hours distant; in the meanwhile, the missionary would speak to Wa-on-mon of the child.”
”What does he wish to say?”
”He has a prayer to make.”
”What is the prayer?” asked the chief, well aware what it was.
”Wa-on-mon has two little ones, a warrior and a sweet girl. The missionary has played and talked with them and held them on his knee; does Wa-on-mon believe that the missionary would not risk his life to save them from harm?”
Finley paused, but there was no response. The way had been opened at last, and it was too late now to turn back. He must press forward to the final solution, no matter what that should prove to be, but all the signs were ominous of the worst.
The question was anything but pleasing to the chieftain. He was silent a minute, and replied by means of a pointed question himself:
”Is the child on the tree the child of the missionary?”
”No, but she is the daughter of a friend; she is not a warrior who fires a gun at the Shawanoes of Wa-on-mon; she has harmed none of them.”
”But her parents did; to harm her will hurt them more than will a bullet fired from the gun of the chieftain; therefore, Wa-on-mon will kill her.”
”Let Wa-on-mon listen to the good spirit that whispers in his ears; let him show the same kindness to the prisoner that the missionary will show to the pappoose of the great chieftain; that the father of the captive would show to the children of Wa-on-mon if the Great Spirit gave them to him.”
”The missionary speaks with a double tongue; he lies; he is a dog, and he must say such words no more!” broke in The Panther, with a voice, a manner, and a glare that showed his patience was exhausted. ”The missionary deserves the death of a dog, but he may go back to his people; he cannot take the child with him; she shall die when the sun rises.”
”If the missionary cannot take the child of his friend with him then he will not go back to him.”
”If he stays till the sun shows itself above the woods then he shall die.”
Finley saw it would not do to hesitate longer. The moment had come for him to fall back on the last and only recourse left, and much as he regretted the act (for it was at variance with his principles), he now made it promptly and with a skill, a cunning and a delicacy that could not be excelled.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE LAST RECOURSE.
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