He would fain have sped northward himself to investigate the cause of this silence, but his dying friend still lingered, and as his end drew near he seemed more eagerly to crave the other’s society.
“George—it will not be long—wait and close my eyes, and say a Christian prayer over my grave.”
And George, in sore trouble, waited.
At length it was clear that the end was at hand and poor De Leon begged his friend not to leave his side that day. As George sat by the other’s couch his ear caught now and then the utterances of delirium of his dying comrade.
“George! they are coming, and will soon be here. If they come before the sun sinks behind Lake Rosalie, I shall die happy.”
Then he slumbered, and George’s head sank on his breast in sad and heavy meditation.
“See! they are coming!” suddenly cried De Leon, rousing from his stupor and startling the various members of the tribe within sound.
George glanced anxiously at his friend, who was now struggling to a sitting position, and pointing across the lake.
“Look! look!” continued the dying man, “they have come in time.”
As Montgomery’s eyes followed the other’s hand, he saw, far in the distance, a small steam-boat crossing the lake. He leaped to his feet and then sat down, bitterly adding aloud, “Why should I excite myself, it is probably a party of surveyors.”