Are they dead? exclaimed a rough, stentorian voice that could be heard above the slash of the water, emanating from a person now for the first time introduced to our readers.
I guess so father, they don’t move, replied Tom.
The old man jumped into the canoe and bent his head over the prostrate form of the child. After listening for a moment, he snatched her in his arms and said:
Her heart beats; as long as that beats, there is life, and as long as there is life, there is hope. Take her to the house, Drake, and tell Betsy to put her to bed and cover her with bear skins.
Drake caught her in his arms and waded across the Bennykill, and gently laid her in bed and covered her with skins.
The old man now made an examination of the mother, during which time Rolla kept whining. He would jump up to her and bark—as much as to say “Look up Mary, you are in the hands of friends.” But no signs of life appeared. Tapping the dog on the head, the old man said:
Faithful animal, more faithful than some that claim to have souls; not only to death, but faithful after. Yes, dog, you may bark—you have a right to bark, but you can’t bark her back, she has gone to the Indians’ fair Hunting Ground. But we must respect the dead. Here, Tom, help place her in the canoe, we will take her ashore and give her Christian burial.
Tom raised her up, and as he did so, large quantities of water came from her mouth. The dog barked and sprang towards her.
That is a good sign, said the old man, the dog has discovered life. Brute, as he is, yet instinct tells him more than the wisest men know.