“Lay his head on your breast,” I said to Winnetou. “If he sees you when he opens his eyes, his death will be happier.”
Without a word Winnetou followed my suggestion, and his eyes never wandered from the dying man.
At last he opened his eyes, and seeing Winnetou bending over him a peaceful smile came over his suffering face, and he whispered: “Winnetou, O my son, Winnetou!” Then his failing eyes seemed to seek something, till he saw me, and he said to me in German: “Stay with him; be true to him; carry on my work.”
He raised his hand imploringly; I took it, and replied: “I will, I promise you I will.”
An ineffable expression came upon his face, and he murmured in a faint voice: “My leaves are cut off, not fading; it is—wiped out. I die—as—I—wished. God, forgive—forgive. Jesus, mercy—mercy—Mary, pray—mercy—” He folded his hands, a flood of blood burst from his wound, his head fell back: he was dead.
Now I knew what had led him to unburden his heart to me—the inspiration of God, as he had said. He had wished to die for Winnetou; how quickly had his wish been fulfilled! The last trace of his sin had been washed away. God is love and infinite compassion; the contrite He will in no wise cast out.
Winnetou laid the dead man’s head in the grass, slowly rose, and looked interrogatively at his father.
“There lies the murderer where I have struck him down; he is yours,” I said.
“Fire-water!” Only this brief reply came from the chief’s lips in contemptuous tones.
“I will be your friend, your brother; I will go with you.” The words burst from me involuntarily.