He had been for some time ignorant that any living being but himself was upon the hill. His attention was now called to Crookleg, who, assured of his enemy's death, could no longer restrain his immense joy, but was giving vent to it in cries and fantastic caperings. "Ho, ho--dead! It am 'plendid sport to de ole nigga! Only to tink dat dis poor ole lame darkey hab been de cause ob a war 'tween de whites and de red-skins! Ha, ha, ha! it am most too good to be beliebed! But it am true--it am true!" As the monstrous creature concluded the speech he was seen to spring suddenly into the air and fall flat upon his face--a corpse! A long hunting-knife had penetrated his back! "There, ye black hound! If you have been the cause of one war, you'll never have a hand in another. I swore not to fight agin my own blood, nor to take part agin the red-skins, but black blood don't count in my bargain!" Saying this, Cris Carrol drew his blade from the negro's body and coolly sauntered away from the spot. CHAPTER THIRTY. ROBBED OF HIS REVENGE. Wacora, after reaching the camp, dismissed his warriors, and entered his tent alone. The remainder of that night he passed in meditation. Was it the influence of the white blood flowing in his veins that made him think of the slaughter he had directed and taken part in? Strange inconsistency of nature. The heroic chief, still decked in the war paint of his father's race, as he reviewed the events of the past few hours, could not restrain himself from shuddering. His mother's spirit seemed to hover around him; her eyes sad and reproachful; her heart heavy. "They were the people of my race, and so of yours, that you have immolated on the throne of your vengeance." So seemed it to say! His head sank upon his breast. He sighed heavily. Long he continued in his gloomy abstraction; his thoughts deeper than plummet ever sounded. The weary hours of night crept slowly past, and yet he stirred not. Fears and forebodings filled his warrior's heart. "I have done all for the best," muttered he to himself. "Witness it, thou Great Spirit; all for the best. For the future of my father's race I have closed my heart to pity. It was not for present vengeance alone that I urged on the wild people to the slaughter. It was that they might then begin the great work of regeneration, assured in their strength, and conscious of their invincibility." Like all high-strung natures, Wacora was subject to fits of despondency. With want of action this had come upon him. The excitement over, gloomy doubt had succeeded to bright hope. The sun was high in the heavens ere he could bestir himself, and shake off such thoughts. He at length made the effort, and emerged from his tent to consult with the warriors of his tribe. As he stepped forth, he perceived Maracota slowly approaching. In an instant the slumbering passion of hate was awakened; he saw in the young Indian's eye that he had news to communicate.