Agnes bent over him. She remembered that he was a Christian. Her missionary heart overflowed with love for the guide's soul.
"Samowat," she tenderly pronounced his Indian name. "Samowat, friend of the white men, protector of the weak, brave and noble warrior that knows no fear, hear the voice of the little 'bird in the woods' that sings of Jesus. Samowat dies for his little friends that they might be safe. Jesus died for Samowat that he may be saved. Samowat, the blood of Jesus Christ cleanses you from all sin. Samowat, Jesus will come right away and take Samowat home to where happiness is. Samowat, hear my voice."
The Indian breathed heavily and he fought hard to speak. His native Mohican, pronounced with infinite tenderness by Agnes, had made a deep impression on him.
"Samowat," he stammered weakly, "has saved his little 'bird of the woods.' Samowat loves Jesus, and is not afraid to die."
For a moment he struggled in silence to gain strength for speech.
Fred poured some cold tea into his mouth which he sipped eagerly.
"It is well," he said after a few moments. "Samowat is going home to Jesus. But—-but little white warrior—-must go—-go—-north. Pequots on war path—-they south. Hurry, little paleface warrior. Kill horses—-go Indian fashion—-walk."
Fred bent over him for his voice was weak. Yet the Indian struggled bravely to finish his speech.
"He—-scout—-kill me. Pequots come soon. Flee."
These were his last words. Exhausted by the terrific loss of blood, his heart failed, and he died peacefully without even a trace of agony.