On the farther side of this our poor lad faltered, staggered, and then sank with a groan. The nervous strength that had borne him thus far was exhausted, and in this place of temporary safety it yielded to the weakness of his long imprisonment. He had made a splendid dash for liberty, but now he had reached the limit of his powers, and must either be recaptured within a short space or die of the bitter cold. Even as he lay with closed eyes gasping for breath he felt its numbing clutch, and knew that very shortly he would be powerless against it. But it did not matter. He would at least die in possession of the freedom for which he had longed, and, after all, what had he to live for? He was friendless, homeless, and without even a people whom he might call his own. No tribe claimed him, there was no lodge within which he had the right of shelter. It would be much better in the land of spirits, for there his own would know him as he would know them. The trail to it was easy and short, also it was a very pleasant path, bright with sunshine and gay with flowers. There was music of singing birds, and already were the voices of his own people calling to him. "Massasoit!" they cried, "Massasoit!" Then they named him brother and bade him open his eyes that he might see them. So he opened his eyes and gazed into the anxious face of Tasquanto, who knelt beside him rubbing vigorously at his limbs and slapping him smartly to restore circulation in the numbing body.
He smiled happily at sight of Nahma's unclosed eyes, but did not for an instant desist from his rubbings and slappings until the other at length sat up, and then unsteadily regained his feet.
"Now, my brother," said Tasquanto, taking a robe of skins from his own shoulders as he spoke and throwing it about Nahma, "together must we reach the lodge I have prepared, for I will never return to it alone. The trail is long and hard, but it must be overcome or we shall perish together."
So the journey was begun, Nahma at first leaning heavily on his comrade's supporting arm, but gaining new strength with each step. As he had taken neither nourishment nor stimulant, this was wholly owing to the effect upon his spirits of renewed hope and a cheery companionship. As they walked Tasquanto told him how, ever since the storm, his attempts at communication had been frustrated, how in the mean time he had increased the comforts of his hidden lodge, how at sound of Chauvin's cannon he had hastened towards the fort to learn the cause of the firing, and of the overwhelming joy with which he had discovered Nahma as the latter topped the ice-ridge in the middle of the river. Then Nahma related as well as he could the details of his wonderful escape from the fort, and by the time his narrative was ended they were come to the rude lodge that Tasquanto had built in anticipation of just such a need as had now arisen.
CHAPTER XVII A DEATH-DEALING THUNDER-STICK
Tasquanto's lodge was snugly hidden in a dense growth of heavy timber near the place where the Chaudière flows into the St. Lawrence. It was merely a frame of poles covered so thickly with branches of fragrant spruce and balsam that it presented the appearance of a green mound rising above the surrounding snow. Its walls were so thick as to be almost wind-proof, and in the middle of its earthen floor was a small circle of stones that formed a rude fireplace. In this only the dryest of wood was burned, and the little smoke that resulted escaped through an aperture left in the roof. On two sides were elastic beds of spruce boughs covered deep with flat hemlock branches and balsam tips. The very air of the place was a tonic, and the escaped captive, fresh from the foulness of his prison, drew in eager breaths of its life-giving sweetness as he sank wearily, but happily, down on the nearest pile of boughs.
As he lay there gazing about the rude shelter with an air of perfect content he uttered frequent exclamations of amazement, for Tasquanto was drawing from various hiding-places an array of treasures such as no Indian of Nahma's acquaintance had ever before possessed: a copper kettle, a steel hatchet, two knives, a blanket, several glass bottles, and a fragment of mirror. Then, with conscious pride, but also with evident trepidation, he produced the most wonderful trophy of all, a rusty musket, one of the awful thunder-sticks that rendered the white man all-powerful.
During the night of the great storm the entire garrison of Quebec had gathered for warmth in the hall of the commandant's house, and Tasquanto had taken advantage of this to make a foray into the deserted barracks with the above result. He had brought away the musket with fear and trembling, dreading lest it might explode and kill him at any moment. Even now he handled it cautiously, while Nahma could not for some time be persuaded to touch it. So it was laid carefully down, and he was permitted to feast his eyes on the marvel while Tasquanto busied himself in preparing a feast of more substantial character.