They gazed upon him almost in stupefaction. Then they began to murmur expressions of wonder, not unmingled with awe. To their superstitious minds it seemed like a direct interposition of God in Tom’s favor. And who shall say that it was not so? Who shall say that the kindly and compassionate impulse which led Miantonimo to Tom’s rescue was not God’s work?
New hope sprang up in Tom’s heart as he felt the arms of the Indian boy closely encircling him. He knew that Miantonimo was the chief’s son, and likely to prove a powerful intercessor. He would have returned the embrace if he could, but his arms were pinioned, or failing that, have thanked him warmly, but he knew the Indian boy could not understand him.
“Miantonimo!” he said, softly, and his eyes were full of gratitude, which the boy chief could understand.
Miantonimo, still encircling Tom with his arms, turned his head, and in the Indian language, said:
“Save him, my father, let him be my brother.”
193
“The Great Spirit has spoken through my son,” said Wanuka, the chief, gravely.
“Then shall he live?”
“He shall live. No harm shall come to him,” said the chief. “Unbind him. He shall stay with us, and be brother of Miantonimo.”
This decision seemed to please the Indian braves, who murmured in approval.
Two of them, at a signal from Wanuka advanced, and loosened the ropes that confined the boy prisoner.
Peter Brush and Lycurgus B. Spooner looked on with joy, not unmingled with amazement.
“It is wonderful!” ejaculated Brush.
“Wonderful, indeed, friend Brush. It seems to me like a direct interposition of the Almighty.”
“That Indian boy is a trump. I’d like to shake hands with him.”
“So would I, but it might be misunderstood. It will be best to keep quiet and let things take their course.”
No sooner was Tom unbound, than with boyish warmth of heart he threw his arms around the neck of Miantonimo and gave him a brotherly embrace.
Wanuka and the Indian warriors looked on with approval, for was not Tom to remain with them and become the brother of their future chief. Their satisfaction was increased by the improved looks of Miantonimo. He no longer looked sick, but his manner was sprightly and his eyes sparkled. It was difficult to believe that he was the same boy who for days reclined, weak and spiritless, by the log-fire, wrapped in blankets.
194 “The Great Spirit has cured him!” went from mouth to mouth.
“Give me my bow,” said the Indian boy.
It was brought to him in wonder, and in place of resuming his position on the ground, he signed to Tom to come with him to a vacant spot near by, and putting up a mark, made him shoot at it.
Tom was no archer, and his shot was wide of the mark.
Miantonimo, laughing, took the bow, and carefully adjusting it, struck the object at which he aimed.
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CHAPTER XXXVI. TOM’S DEADLY PERIL.
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CHAPTER XXXVIII. THREE MONTHS IN CAPTIVITY.
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