“I will not deceive you, dear Wingenund; no human skill can avail our departing friend. He is now within the tent; Prairie–bird watched with him all the night; she spoke to him often words from God’s own book, and they seemed to comfort him, for he smiled, and said he would gladly hear more. She has retired to take a few hours’ sleep, then she will return and resume her sad but endearing task.”
“Wingenund will go to him; but first let Netis say whence the wounds of War–Eagle came. Have enemies been near the camp?”
With the eloquence of deep feeling Reginald briefly related the circumstances attending War–Eagle’s devoted and heroic defence of Prairie–bird from the bears.
Ethelston and Paul Müller listened with suspended breath, and as he concluded exclaimed together, “Noble, brave, and generous War–Eagle!” while the youth, pressing his lips together as if steeling his breast against softer impressions, said in a low tone, “‘Twas well done; few are the warriors whose single knife has reached the heart of a grisly bear. Let us go on to the tent.”
Reginald led the way, and, lifting the flap, entered, followed by Ethelston, Wingenund, and Paul Müller.
The chief was seated in the centre, propped by bales of cloth and fur; his sunken eye was closed from sleeplessness and exhaustion, and a blanket loosely thrown over his shoulders, covered the emaciated remains of his once powerful and athletic frame. At his side lay his favourite pipe, his war–club, knife, and rifle; while the faithful Lita, stretched at his feet, strove in vain to restore their natural warmth, by applying to them hot stones enveloped in the shreds of a blanket, which she had torn up for the purpose. The entrance of the party was not unmarked by the wounded chief, and a smile passed over his wasted features when he unclosed his eyes, and recognised Wingenund and the two others whom he had rescued from the Crows.
“The Black Father is welcome,” he said, in a faint, but cheerful voice, “and so is the friend of Netis; and War–Eagle is glad to see the face of his brother Wingenund.”
We have seen how the youth had, by a desperate effort, nerved himself to bear, without giving way, the description of his brother’s wounds and hopeless condition; yet when the feeble tones of that loved voice thrilled upon his ear, when his eye fell upon the wasted frame, and when he saw written upon that noble countenance proofs not to be mistaken, of torture endured, and death approaching, the string which had refused to be relaxed started asunder, and he fell senseless to the ground, while a stream of blood gushed from his mouth.
Half–raising himself by the aid of his yet unwounded arm, War–Eagle made a vain effort to move towards his young brother, and his eye shone with something of its former eager lustre, as he said, in a voice louder than he was deemed capable of uttering, “Let the Black Father lend his aid and skill to the youth; he is the last leaf on the Unâmi branch; dear is his blood to the Lenapé.”