“I will try,” said the wounded youth. “Nelatu’s hour has not yet come. He must not die till he has paid his debt to Warren.”
“Then lean on me. My canoe is close by. Once in it you can rest at your ease.”
Nelatu nodded consent.
Warren assisted him to rise, and, half carrying, half supporting, conducted him to the canoe.
Carefully helping him aboard, he shoved the craft from the shore, and turned its prow in the direction of the white settlement.
The moon, that had become again obscured, once more burst through the black clouds, lighting up the fronds of the feathery palms that flung their shadows far over the pellucid waves.
The concert of the nocturnal forest, for a time stayed by the report of the rifle, burst out anew as the boat glided silently out of sight.
Chapter Two.
The Settlement
The site of the settlement to which the canoe was being directed merits description.
It was upon the northern shore of Tampa Bay.
The soil that had been cleared was rich in crops of cotton, indigo, sugar, with oranges, and the ordinary staples of food.
Through the cultivated lands, mapped out like a painter’s palette, ran a crystal stream, from which the rice fields were watered by intersecting rivulets, looking like silver threads in a tissue.
Orange groves margined its course, running sinuously through the settlement.
In places it was lost to sight, only to re-appear with some new feature of beauty.
Here and there it exhibited cascades and slight waterfalls that danced in the sunlight, sending up showers of prismatic spray.
There were islets upon which grew reeds, sedges, and canes, surmounted by groups of caricas, and laurel-magnolias, the exogenous trees overtopped by the tall, feathery palm.
In its waters wild fowl disported themselves, scattering showers of luminous spray as they flapped their wings in delight.
Birds of rare plumage darted hither and thither along its banks, enlivening the groves with their jocund notes.
Far beyond, the swamp forest formed a dark, dreary back-ground, which, by contrast, enhanced the cheerfulness of the scene.
Looking seaward, the prospect was no less resplendent of beauty.
The water, dashing and fretting against the rocky quays, glanced back in mist and foam.
Snow-white gulls hurried along the horizon, their wings cutting sharply against an azure sky, while along the silvery beach, tall, blue herons, brown cranes, and scarlet flamingoes, stood in rows, their forms reflected in the pellucid element.
Such were the surroundings of the settlement on Tampa Bay.
The village itself nestled beneath the hills already mentioned, and comprised a church, some half-dozen stores, with a number of substantial dwellings, whilst a rude wharf, and several schooners moored near by, gave tokens of intercourse with other places.
It was a morning in May, in Florida, as elsewhere, the sweetest month in the year.
Borne upon the balmy atmosphere was the hum of bees and the melody of birds, mingled with the voices of young girls and men engaged in the labour of their farms and fields.
The lowing of cattle could be heard in the distant grazing grounds, while the tillers of the soil were seen at work upon their respective plantations.
There was one who looked upon this cheerful scene without seeming to partake of its cheerfulness.
Standing upon the top of the hill was a man of tall, gaunt figure, with a face somewhat austere in its expression.
His strongly lined features, with a firm expression about the mouth, marked him for a man of no common mould.
He appeared to be about sixty.
As his keen grey eyes wandered over the fields below, there was a cold, determined light in them which betrayed no pleasant train of thought.
It spoke of covetous ambition.
Behind him, upon the hill top, of table shape, were poles standing up out of the earth. Around them the sward was trampled, and the scorched grass, worn in many directions into paths, signified that at no distant period the place had been inhabited.
The sign could not be mistaken; it was the site of an Indian encampment.
Elias Rody, as he turned from gazing on the panoramic view beneath, cast a glance of strange significance at these vestiges of the red-man’s habitation.
His features assumed a sharper cast, while a cloud came over his face.
“But for them,” he muttered, “my wishes would be accomplished, my desires fulfilled.”
What were his wishes? What his desires?
Ask the covetous man such a question, and, if he answered truly, his answer would tell a tale of selfish aspirations. He would envy youth its brightness, old age its wisdom, virtue its content, love its joys, ay, even Heaven itself its rewards, and yet, in the narrow bigotry of egotism, think he only claimed his own.
Elias Rody was a covetous man, and such were the thoughts at that moment in his mind.
They were too bitter for silence, and vented themselves in words, which the winds alone listened to.
“Why should these red-skins possess what I so deeply long for; and only for their short temporary enjoyment? I would be fair with them; but they wrap themselves up in their selfish obstinacy, and scorn my offers.”
How selfish others appear to a selfish man!
“Why should they continue to restrain me? If gold is worth anything, surely it should repay them for what can be only a mere fancy. I shall try Oluski once again, and if he refuse – ”
Here the speaker paused.
For some time he stood in contemplation, his eye roving over the distant view.
As it again lighted upon the settlement a smile, not a pleasant one, curled his lip.
“Well, there is time yet,” said he, as if concluding an argument with himself. “I will once more try the golden bribe. I will use caution; but here will I build my house, come what may.”
This natural conclusion, to an egotistic mind, appeared satisfactory.
It seemed to soothe him, for he strode down the hill with a springy, elastic step, more like that of a young man than one over whose head had passed sixty eventful years.
Chapter Three.
Elias Rody
Whilst Elias Rody is pondering upon his scheme, let us tell the reader who he is.
A Georgian, who began life without any fixed idea.
His father, a wealthy merchant of Savannah, had brought him up to do nothing; and, until he had attained man’s estate, he faithfully carried out his father’s teaching.
Like many Southern lads borne to competence, he could not appreciate the dignity of labour, and accordingly loitered through his youthful life, wasting both time and patrimony before discovering that idleness is a curse.
At his father’s death, which happened upon Elias reaching his twentieth year, all the worthy merchant’s property descended to the son, and the idler suddenly found himself the possessor of a large sum of money with a sort of feeling that something was to be done with it.
He accordingly spent it.
Spent it recklessly, freely and rapidly, and then discovered that what he had done was not the thing he should have done.
He then became reformed.
Which meant, that from a liberal, open-handed, careless fellow, he changed to a cynical, cautious man.
With