“Rosalie had been conveyed to the nearest house, and restoratives were applied, which soon brought her to a state of recollection. She recognized with joy, the form of her husband, as he knelt by the side of her couch, and pressed, with a mother’s fondness, the hand of her affectionate son. But her eyes wandered around the room as if in search of another object. ‘It was a dream then,’ she murmured, ‘it was not his, but thy dear arm that drew thy mother from the waves.’
“ ‘Alas! no, it was he, the generous and the good,’ replied her son.
“ ‘Wiccónsat! brave chief! but why those looks of anguish; is this, my son, a time for sorrow, when Heaven has been so kind? And my preserver, where lingers he?’
“ ‘Where his bright virtues will be best rewarded,’ replied her husband, solemnly.
“ ‘What mean you? Surely he is safe.’
“ ‘He perished in an attempt to save my life.’ She heard no more, for she had fainted in the arms of her son, and it was long ere she revived, to mingle with theirs her tears of unavailing regret.
“In the afternoon the body of the generous Indian was washed on shore. With every mark of respect it was conveyed to the town, and preparations made for its interment on the following day at the point, in a spot once pointed out, by the chief, to young Egerton. The grief of this affectionate boy burst without restraint, as he leaned over the body of his departed friend, and his tears flowed afresh, when he was shown a folded paper, which had been found in his bosom. It was wet through, and contained the faded belt, the treasured gift of Rosalie.
“Intelligence of the sad event was conveyed to the sister of the chief, and the next day, accompanied by her husband and sons, and several warriors of the Youcómaco tribe, Oskwena arrived, just as the funeral procession was moving to the grave. Time had altered this once beautiful daughter of the forest; there was a mildness in her look of grief, as she left the canoe, and led by her two sons, approached the open grave, where, seating herself by its side, she silently awaited the mournful train that bore her brother to his last home. She uttered a faint cry as her eye rested on the coffin, and her whole frame shook with agitation, when it was lowered from her sight.
“The chiefs arranged themselves in gloomy silence around the grave of him, who, in early youth, had been the boast of their tribe, and heard, rather than listened, to the funeral service. It was scarcely ended, when the hitherto restrained grief of Oskwena burst forth. She tore from her dishevelled locks the rude ornaments of her tribe, scattering them on the ground, but a necklace of beads she retained in her hand, and wept bitterly as she looked on it.
“ ‘It was thy gift, Wiccónsat,’ said the mourner, ‘thy face glowed with youth and hope on the happy day thou gavest it. Our aged father blessed his children, for he had not then passed to the spirit-land above. The beads are bright yet, but thou art faded and gone. I can gaze on them no more, they shall be hid with thee,’ and she dropped them into the grave. The spectators looked on her with pity and disturbed her not, as in a low voice she chaunted a wild funeral melody. When she ceased, several young maidens of St. Mary’s, arrayed in white, approached, and scattered flowers around the grave. The oldest son of Oskwena stood, with his father, among the chiefs. To him the beauty of the white maidens was new, for he had never before been allowed to visit the town.