oner by treachery and
died in captivity.

_Hunter._ Now I will tell you the particulars of his death; for I only
said before, that he died pillowed on the faithful bosom of his wife.
He had his two wives with him when he died, but one was his favourite.

_Austin._ Please to let us know every thing about him. It was at Fort
Moultrie in Charleston, South Carolina.

_Hunter._ Finding himself at the point of death, he made signs that
the chiefs and officers might be assembled, and his wishes were
immediately complied with. The next thing he desired was, that his
war-dress, that dress in which he had so often led his tribe to
victory, might be brought to him. His wife waited obediently upon him,
and his war-dress was placed before him.

_Basil._ What could he want of his war-dress when he was going to die?

_Austin._ Wait a little, Basil, and you will hear all about it, I dare
say.

_Hunter._ It was an affecting sight, to see him get up from his bed on
the floor, once more to dress himself as a chief of his tribe, just as
if he was about to head an expedition against the whites. Well, he put
on his rich mocassins, his leggings adorned with scalp-locks, his
shirt and his ornamental belt of war. Nor did he forget the pouch that
carried his bullets, the horn that held his powder; nor the knife with
which he had taken so many scalps.

_Brian._ How very strange for a dying man to dress himself in that
way!

_Hunter._ In all this, he was as calm and as steady as though about to
hunt in the woods with his tribe. He then made signs, while sitting up
in his bed, that his red paint should be given him, and his
looking-glass held up, that he might paint his face.

_Austin._ And did he paint his face himself?

_Hunter._ Only one half of it; after which his throat, neck, wrists
and the backs of his hands were made as red as vermilion would make
them. The very handle of his knife was coloured over in the same way.

_Basil._ What did he paint his hands and his knife-handle for?

_Hunter._ Because it was the custom of his tribe, and of his fathers
before him, to paint themselves and their weapons red, whenever they
took an oath of destruction to their enemies. Oseola did it, no doubt,
that he might die like a chief of his tribe; that he might show those
around him, that, even in death, he did not forget that he was a
Seminole warrior. In that awful hour, he put on his splendid turban
with its three ostrich feathers, and then,