"I swear!" cried Johnson, as he knelt beside his friend.
"Me—me next!" answered Fall-leaf. He made an effort to get upon his feet, but fell back.
"That voice again?" cried William, starting up, and listening.
"I hear nothing!" answered Johnson.
"But I do! It is a sound soft and plaintive. It echoes along the mountain, and I know its melody. It is the voice of Alibamo."
For a moment all were silent and listened eagerly to catch the distant sound, but it was so low and indistinct that nothing definite could be made of it.
"It is only the murmur of the river, William," said Johnson.
"To me it is the murmur of an angel, and I will trace its source. Johnson, you must remove Fall-leaf to our cabin. His wound is painful, and needs attention. Bury my father first, and then perform this duty. I will meet you to-morrow night."
Without further words, William darted from the spot, and commenced his course up the mountain toward the camp of Price. Now and then he paused to listen, but all was silent, save the murmur of the breeze among the oaks, and the rippling of the rills.
"Am I dreaming?" he at last exclaimed. "No—no! there is her voice again! Sister!"