Then shaking his arm at his successful foe, his swarthy
countenance appearing to struggle with volumes of scorn and hatred,
that he could not utter with the tongue, he cast himself headlong into
one of the most rapid veins of the current, his hand still waving in
triumph above the fluid, even after his body had sunk into the tide
for ever. Hard-Heart was by this time free. The silence, which had
hitherto reigned in the bands, was suddenly broken by general and
tumultuous shouts. Fifty of the adverse warriors were already in the
river, hastening to destroy or to defend the conqueror, and the combat
was rather on the eve of its commencement than near its termination.
But to all these signs of danger and need, the young victor was
insensible. He sprang for the knife, and bounded with the foot of an
antelope along the sands, looking for the receding fluid which
concealed his prize. A dark, bloody spot indicated the place, and,
armed with the knife, he plunged into the stream, resolute to die in
the flood, or to return with his trophy.
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