Behind the old chief, and ready to do his
slightest bidding, stood a tall, slender, but remarkably handsome
youth, in whose hair was braided a scarlet feather that shone against
the dark tresses like a vivid flame. His face was lighted with a quick
intelligence, and he evidently took a keen interest in the subject
which the others were discussing, though, as became his years, he took
no part in their conversation.
At length the old chief turned to the lad with a kindly smile and said,
"What is thy opinion, my brave Bow-bearer? Can there be enmity between
these white friends of thine and others of their own color who also
come from across the great waters?"
Very proud of having his opinion thus asked, Has-se--for it was none
other than the beloved Indian friend of Rene de Veaux--answered,
modestly,
"It seems to me not unlikely that there should be. Do not different
tribes of our own race and color often war against one another?"
"Well answered, my son," replied the chief; "thou art right, and I am
inclined to believe that what we have just learned is only too true.
If it be, then am I deeply grieved for the sad fate of those who were
our friends."
The tidings of which Micco spoke had been brought that day by an Indian
runner from a far-eastern tribe. They told of the arrival upon the
coast of the Spaniards under Menendez, and of their destruction of
Seloy and capture of Fort Caroline.
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