“I am sorry,” said the boy, pathetically.

He was lost again in spasms of pain.  When he revived, Marlowe Mann had come.  The boy lifted his eyes to his beloved teacher vacantly; then the light of intelligence came back to them, and he knew him.

“I can’t go,” he said.  “We shall never go to the lakes of the honks together.  Boston tilicum, I am going to die; I am going away like my brothers—­where?”

It was near the gray light of the morning, and a flock of wild geese were heard trumpeting in the air.  The boy heard the sound, and started.

“Boston tilicum!”

“What can I do for you?”

“Boston tilicum, listen.  Do you hear?  What taught the honks where to go?”

“The Great Father of all.”

“He leads them?”

“Yes.”

“He will lead me?”

“Yes.”

“And teach me when I am gone away.  I can trust him.  But my father—­my father!  Boston tilicum, he loves me, and he is old.”

Flock after flock of wild geese flew overhead in the dim light.  The boy lay and listened.  He seemed to have learned a lesson of faith from the instincts of these migratory birds.  He once turned to the master and said, almost in Gretchen’s words: 

“There is One above that will save me.”

As the morning drew nearer, the air seemed filled with a long procession of Canadian geese going toward the sea.  The air rang with their calls.  The poor boy seemed to think that somehow they were calling to him.

There was silence at last in the air, and he turned toward Gretchen his strangely quiet face, and said, “Play.”

Gretchen raised her bow.  As she did so a sharp spasm came over him.  He lifted his hand and tried to feel of one of the feathers from the Black Eagle’s nest.  He was evidently wandering to the Falls of the Missouri.  His hand fell.  He passed into a stertorous sleep, and lay there, watched by the old chief and the silent tribe.

Just as the light of early morn was flaming through the tall, cool, dewy trees, the breathing became labored, and ceased.

There he lay in the rising sun, silent and dead, with the helpless chief standing statue-like above him, and the tribe, motionless as a picture, circled around him, and with Gretchen at his feet.

“Make way!” said the old chief, in a deep voice.

He stepped down from the platform, and walked in a kingly manner, yet with tottering steps, toward the forest.  Gretchen followed him.  He heard her step, but did not look around.

“White girl, go back,” he said; “I want to be alone.”

He entered the forest slowly and disappeared.

Just at night he was seen coming out of the forest again.  He spoke to but a single warrior, and only said: 

“Bury him as the white men bury; open the blanket of the earth; and command the tribe to be there—­to-morrow at sundown.  Take them all away—­I will watch.  Where is the white girl?”