thongs that bound his hands, placed the spear of the dead chief in his hand, and waving her hands in the air above him:
“Behold your chief!” she cried. “The White Chief of the Zaparo Indians, sent by the Great Spirit to rule over them—and I am his mother!”
Then wild exclamations rent the air, as the Indians crowded round their new king and threw themselves on the ground before him.
All had been peace for years after this in the camping ground of the Zaparos. They became less nomadic in their tendencies, and built themselves better villages by the river. And whenever they were insulted by other tribes Bernard led them on the war-path; and they never failed to gain the victory, and to return home rejoicing, laden with spoil and many scalps.
The Zaparos are very warlike when roused; but prefer hunting to fishing, and are the most expert woodsmen probably in the world, and this is saying a great deal. The spear and the blow-gun are their weapons par excellence, and they are experts with either.
Bernard made a noble young chief. He had all the wisdom of the white race, combined with the cunning and training of the savages he had dwelt so long amongst. He had no fear, either when hunting or fighting. From hunting his party would return laden with skins and meat. He tackled single-handed either the jaguar or puma, and many a sturdy tapir fell beneath his spear. From a raid on the foe Bernard’s warriors came back with joy and song, and for weeks thereafter the sound of the war-drum was heard in all the villages by the river’s bank.
But Bernard was not wholly a savage; and it had come to pass that he was seized with an irresistible longing to see the ocean once more, and find out if possible if his mother still lived. So he chose from among his warriors fifty of the bravest and most trustworthy, and bidding the ayah adieu, amidst the tears of his people he departed on his dangerous journey.
Then fell the curtain over his life-drama. The dying ayah knew no more. He had never returned; but rumours reached the tribe that their white chief had been captured far beyond the rocky Andes, and that all his followers were killed by the hands of hostile Spaniards.
The poor ayah! She held Tom’s hand as her life was ebbing away. But she evidently was not afraid to die. The religion that had been instilled into her mind on board the Southern Hope had been all through her weary life a guiding star to her, and let us hope that when daylight streamed through the fence, and fell on her pale dead face, the soul had gone to a land where there is no more sorrow.