Part 8 (1/2)
”Ah,” exclaimed Fred; ”brave and good guide! I understand it all now.
First the enemy shot the arrow and missed you, and then when you moved he fell on you from behind, and struck you with the knife. You, as a hero, without saying a word, rose and seized him by the throat, until he was dead. Brave Mohican!”
Tears gathered in the eyes of Agnes. ”Oh, Fred,” she whispered; ”this is terrible. Let's go away.”
”Sister,” the boy said, ”you must not talk that way; we will go away as soon as we can. But you have fear in your heart, and that is bad. Only courage and boldness will now by the grace of G.o.d save us. Be brave.”
”Pardon me,” Agnes stammered; ”it was wrong of me to show fright. I will never do it again. G.o.d is with us, all is well.”
”Thank you, dear sister,” Fred said; ”that makes it easier for me. And now let us bury our good guide.”
Softly he touched the body, when suddenly the Indian moved. The wound in the back was serious, but the knife had not struck a vital organ.
Only the loss of blood had been severe, as without flinching he held his foe in the death grip.
”The Mohican is alive!” Agnes exclaimed; ”perhaps we can save his life.”
Tenderly they lifted his body and laid it on the gra.s.s. The Mohican opened his eyes, but there was in them a gla.s.sy stare. Agnes rubbed his arms and patted his hair.
After a few moments a smile stole over the guide's face. He had recognized the girl.
”My good friend and brother,” Fred spoke to him in the Mohican language; ”I am so sorry. We thank you---we thank you---as the rain falls from the sky in summer. The pale face children are safe because of your valor. The Mohican fought like the brave warrior he always was. The men will sing of his bravery in the wigwam, and the women will tell his tale when the dusk falls. Never will be forgotten the brave Mohican guide who fought and conquered his foe in battle.”
The Mohican tried to speak, but his tongue would not move. He grasped the lad's hand firmly.
Agnes bent over him. She remembered that he was a Christian. Her missionary heart overflowed with love for the guide's soul.
”Samowat,” she tenderly p.r.o.nounced his Indian name. ”Samowat, friend of the white men, protector of the weak, brave and n.o.ble warrior that knows no fear, hear the voice of the little 'bird in the woods' that sings of Jesus. Samowat dies for his little friends that they might be safe. Jesus died for Samowat that he may be saved. Samowat, the blood of Jesus Christ cleanses you from all sin. Samowat, Jesus will come right away and take Samowat home to where happiness is. Samowat, hear my voice.”
The Indian breathed heavily and he fought hard to speak. His native Mohican, p.r.o.nounced with infinite tenderness by Agnes, had made a deep impression on him.
”Samowat,” he stammered weakly, ”has saved his little 'bird of the woods.' Samowat loves Jesus, and is not afraid to die.”
For a moment he struggled in silence to gain strength for speech.
Fred poured some cold tea into his mouth which he sipped eagerly.
”It is well,” he said after a few moments. ”Samowat is going home to Jesus. But---but little white warrior---must go---go---north. Pequots on war path---they south. Hurry, little paleface warrior. Kill horses---go Indian fas.h.i.+on---walk.”
Fred bent over him for his voice was weak. Yet the Indian struggled bravely to finish his speech.
”He---scout---kill me. Pequots come soon. Flee.”
These were his last words. Exhausted by the terrific loss of blood, his heart failed, and he died peacefully without even a trace of agony.
Agnes wept bitterly, as she pressed the guide's hand. Also Fred was overcome with emotion, and he bit his lips until the blood flowed.
”Sister,” he said, ”call Matthew and the Indian servant; we must bury the brave guide.”
The task was a.s.signed to the Indian servant, who alone knew how to bury him in a manner that would hide him from the curious and keen eyes of the Indians. The servant covered the graves with leaves and so skillfully did he conceal the resting place that not even Fred could see where it was.