heart than the mightiest
sound, and which is appropriately designated by the popular saying,
"There is an angel flitting through the room."

This stillness might have lasted long; but now the noise and uproar
arise again outside, and with full power the sounds of delight and mirth
break into the dingy cell like mighty waves. With the departure of life
from the body, it is as if a barrier that forbade entrance to noise from
the outer world had been drawn away, permitting the sounds of joy to
come in triumphantly, now that the soul is free. They find an echo
inside, a dismal echo of lamentations and tears. Mitsha cannot weep
boisterously like the rest, neither can Okoya. The two lean toward each
other sobbing; the girl has grasped his arm with both hands, her head
rests on his shoulder, and she weeps.

The lament below has been heard on the roof; it is a signal to rush down
and join in it. Soon the room is crowded with people; the women grasp
their hair and pull it over their faces. Dismal wailing fills the cell.
Among the others stands Shyuote, who has been told that his mother is
dead. He plants himself squarely with the rest, and howls at the top of
his voice. In front of the house the dance continues, and the monotonous
chant and the dull drumming ascend to the sky; alongside of it the
death-wail.

Tanos also crowd into the room; the throng is so great that the last
comers must stand on the beam. Suddenly they are pushed aside; a tall
young man rushes down and makes room, regardless of the weeping and
howling crowd. Up to Okoya he forces his way; throws his left arm around
him and Mitsha; his right hand seizes the hand of the youth and presses
it against his breast. It is Hayoue, who has come from the north at
last,--his heart guiding him to that friend whom he has so bravely, so
unwearyingly sought.

Another Indian rushes down after Hayoue, his motions not less anxious,
not less rapid and determined. He makes his way to the body and falls
down upon his knees, staring with heaving chest but tearless eyes into
the placid, emaciated face. It is Zashue Tihua. With a tension akin to
despair he searches for lingering life in the features of that wife whom
he formerly neglected and afterward suspected, whom he at last anxiously
sought, and now finds asleep in death.

CONCLUSION.

After twenty-one long and it may be tedious chapters, no apology is
required for a short one in conclusion. I cannot take leave of