When they landed, Panigwun took the lead. He led the way back from the water on and on, over plains and through unbroken forests. At night he stopped and said, “Here we will build a shelter, and in the morning we will return.”
Soon they had woven together some boughs and saplings, and had made a fire, and after they had eaten they rolled themselves in their blankets and lay down, but this time Panigwun took the precaution of keeping on his moccasins and leggings. In the middle of the night he arose, and bent over Mishosha to make sure that he was asleep. When he was certain of this he took both of the magician’s leggings and moccasins and threw them in the fire. He called upon his guardian spirit to send a deep snow, and then he lay down and went to sleep.
The magician was awakened the next morning by the piercing cold; he shivered in his blanket, and the teeth chattered in his head. He arose and looked for his moccasins and leggings. They were not where he had left them, and as he sought for them in vain a terrible fear came upon him. He looked at the boy beseechingly.
“Are you looking for your leggings and moccasins, grandfather,” asked Panigwun. “You know this is the month when fire attracts. I very much fear they have been drawn into it and burned.”
The magician made no answer but his legs failed under him.
Panigwun opened the door. “Come, grandfather,” he said. “It is time for us to start.”
He stepped out into the cold and Mishosha followed him, dragging his feet heavily. If it had been cold before, it was ten times more so now. The wind cut like a knife, and the sleet was like whips across their faces. Panigwun strode along bravely, and Mishosha stumbled after him, shuddering in the wind. Twice he stumbled in the snow, but he struggled up again, and still followed. But at last he could go no further. The cold seemed to strike from his feet up through all his limbs. His arms stiffened to branches; his gray hair turned to blowing boughs. Panigwun hearing no longer any sound behind him turned and looked. The magician had disappeared; in his place the boy saw only a stark gray sycamore tree, its branches rattling and moaning in the wind.
So ended the life of Mishosha, the magician of the lake. But Panigwun returned to the island where his brother and the two girls were awaiting him. Great was their rejoicing when they heard the magician was dead, and for many years they all lived there happily together.