To follow him, even with the aid of the vine he had severed, had been hopeless in the face of his rifle fire.  A thousand men could not have taken him that way, while his powder and lead held out, for they would have been obliged to ascend one by one in slow and painful file, and he had but to shove his gun-muzzle in their faces as they appeared.

The war-yelps of the Oneidas had subtly changed their timbre so that ever amid the shrill yelling I marked the guttural snarls of baffled rage.  The Mohican lay on his belly behind a tree, silent, but his eyes were like coals in their red intensity.

Presently the Oneidas, lying prone at our side, ceased their tumult and became silent.  And for a long while we lay waiting for a shot.

All this time the Erie had given no sign of life, and I had begun to hope that he had been hit and would ultimately perish there, as wild things perish in solitude and silence.

Then the Mohican said in my ear: 

“Unless we can stir him to move and expose himself, we must lose him.  For his fellows will surely track us to this place.”

“Good God!  By what unfortunate accident should such a hiding place exist so near!” I said miserably.

The Sagamore’s stern visage slightly relaxed.

“It is no accident, Loskiel.  Do you not suppose he knew it was here?  Else he had never dared attempt what he did.”

“The vile Witch-cat has been here many a time,” said the Grey-Feather, his ferocious gaze fixed on the cliff.

“Is the Mole dead?” I asked.

“He is with his God—­ Tharon or Christ, whichever it may be, Loskiel.”

“The Mole must not be scalped,” said Tahoontowhee softly.  “If the Senecas pass that way they will have at last one thing to boast of.”

I said to the Mohican: 

“Hold the Erie.  The Night-Hawk and I will go back and bury our dead against Seneca profanation.”

“Let the Grey-Feather go, Loskiel.”

“No.  The Mole was Christian.  Does a Christian fail his own kind at the last?”

“Loskiel has spoken,” said the Mohican gravely.  “The Grey-Feather and I will hold the filthy cat.”

So we went back together across the river, the young Oneida and I; and we hid the Mole deep in the bed of a rotting log, and laid his Testament on his breast over the painted cross, and his weapons beside him.  Then, working cautiously, we rolled back the log, replaced the dead leaves, brushed up the deep green pile of the moss, and smoothed all as craftily us we might, so that no Seneca prowling might suspect that a grave was here, and disinter the dead to take his scalp.

Over the blood-wet leaves where he had fallen, we made a fire of dry twigs, letting it burn enough to deceive.  Then we covered it as hunters cover their ashes; the Oneida took the Erie’s hatchet; and we hastened back to the others.

They were still lying exactly where we left them.  Neither the Erie nor they had stirred or spoken.  And, as I settled down in my ambush beside the Mohican, I asked him again whether there was any possible way to provoke the Erie so that he might stir and expose some portion of his limbs or body.