"He is past recovery," Loyal Heart replied, shaking his head.
Nevertheless the wounded man revived a little.
"My God," said he, in a weak and broken voice, "I am dying! I feel I am dying!"
"Hope!" said Belhumeur, kindly.
A fugitive tinge passed across the pale cheeks of the wounded man, and a sad smile curled the corners of his lips.
"Why should I live?" he murmured. "The Indians have massacred all my companions, after having horribly mutilated them. Life would be too heavy a burden for me."
"If, before you die, you wish anything to be done that is in our power to do, speak, and by the word of hunters, we will do it."
The eyes of the dying man flashed faintly.
"Your gourd," he said to Belhumeur.
The latter gave it to him, and he drank greedily. His brow was covered with a moist perspiration, and a feverish redness inflamed his countenance, which assumed a frightful expression.