Still, he insisted upon a verbal reply.
"There is no need of concealing the truth from you," she answered. "I
have a dear young friend--"
"Who ish he?"
"Lieutenant Canfield, who is in service with my father," she replied.
"Oh, den he don't know notting about it?"
"I am not sure of that. Oonomoo has acted as a runner or bearer of
messages between many of the men in the American army and their
families, upon the frontier, and the last time I saw him he brought me
word that Lieutenant Canfield intended shortly to visit me on furlough.
He may have arrived immediately after the Indians burnt our place."
"A good t'ing; a good t'ing if he only has."
"Why would it be a good thing?"
"Does he know Oonomoo?"
"Certainly; he has known him for several years."
"Well, den, dey will come together, and dey'll fix up fings so dat dey
will got you out of dis place afore long."
"I hope so; I hope so. Death would not be more terrible than the
suffering I undergo here, especially at night. Oh! will you not stay
by me?" asked the prisoner, the tears starting to her eyes.
Hans Vanderbum gouged his fists into his own visual organs, and
muttered something about "de dunderin' shmoke," before he could reply.
"Yesh, yesh, I 'tends to you. You needn't be 'fraid. Dey won't hurt
you, I doesn't t'ink. Dey jist keeps you. May be dey burns you, but
dat ain't sartain. I must go to Oonomoo now, for I've been away from
him a good long while.
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