"I thank my father," he said, "for the signal honour he has done me; but I am very young to command chiefs and renowned warriors, and I fear that I shall break down in the heavy task imposed on me. My father leaves a son; Stronghand is one of the great braves of our nation, and his wisdom is renowned."
"My son is a paleface; he does not know the wants of the Papazos so well as Sparrowhawk. Sparrowhawk will command."
"I obey my father since he insists; but Stronghand will ever be one of the great chiefs of my nation."
A flattering murmur greeted these clever remarks.
"I thank my son Sparrowhawk in the name of Stronghand. Modesty becomes a chief so celebrated as is my son," the sachem continued; "the Great Spirit will inspire him, and he will do great things. I have spoken. Do the chiefs approve my choice?"
"We could not have chosen better," Peccary answered. "We sincerely thank our father for having anticipated our dearest wishes by choosing Sparrowhawk."
This scene so simple in its grandeur, and so truly patriarchal, affected all the spectators, who felt their hearts swollen by sorrow. The sachem continued—
"I feel my strength rapidly leaving me, and life is abandoning me; the Great Spirit will soon call me to Him. My sons will carry me beneath a tent of my nation, in order that I may breathe my last sigh in their midst."
Stronghand, the Marquis, Peccary, and Sparrowhawk gently lifted the wounded man on their shoulders, and carried him to the front yard of the hacienda, followed by all the rest, who walked silently and thoughtfully in the rear. A lodge, formed of stakes covered with buffalo hides, had been prepared to receive the great chief; the bed on which he was lying was softly put down, and the chief's eyes were turned toward the setting sun. Then all the warriors and their squaws, whom messengers had informed of the sachem's wound, and who had hurried to the hacienda, surrounded the tent. The Mexicans themselves mingled with the crowd, and a deadly silence brooded over the hacienda, in which, however, more than six thousand persons were assembled at this moment.
All eyes were turned toward the dying sachem, by whose side were standing the members of his family, Padre Serapio, and the principal chiefs of the Papazos. Now and then the aged man uttered a few words, which he addressed at times to the monk, at others to his brother, or to the Indian chiefs. When the sun was beginning to sink on the horizon, the wounded man's breathing began to grow panting, his eyes gradually became covered by a mist, and he did not speak; but he tightly grasped his son's and wife's hands in his right hand, and Sparrowhawk's in his left.