later arrive," continued Hawkeye,
turning with a sad and humbled look to Uncas. "The varlet knows his
advantage and will keep it! God bless you, boy; you have found friends
among your natural kin, and I hope they will prove as true as some you
have met who had no Indian cross. As for me, sooner or later, I
must die; it is, therefore, fortunate there are but few to make my
death-howl. After all, it is likely the imps would have managed to
master my scalp, so a day or two will make no great difference in
the everlasting reckoning of time. God bless you," added the rugged
woodsman, bending his head aside, and then instantly changing its
direction again, with a wistful look toward the youth; "I loved both you
and your father, Uncas, though our skins are not altogether of a color,
and our gifts are somewhat different. Tell the Sagamore I never lost
sight of him in my greatest trouble; and, as for you, think of me
sometimes when on a lucky trail, and depend on it, boy, whether there
be one heaven or two, there is a path in the other world by which honest
men may come together again. You'll find the rifle in the place we hid
it; take it, and keep it for my sake; and, harkee, lad, as your natural
gifts don't deny you the use of vengeance, use it a little freely on the
Mingoes; it may unburden griefs at my loss, and ease your mind. Huron, I
accept your offer; release the woman. I am your prisoner!"

A suppressed, but still distinct murmur of approbation ran through the
crowd at this generous proposition; even the fiercest among the
Delaware warriors manifesting pleasure at the manliness of the intended
sacrifice. Magua paused, and for an anxious moment, it might be said,
he doubted; then, casting his eyes on Cora, with an expression in which
ferocity and admiration were strangely mingled, his purpose became fixed
forever.

He intimated his contempt of the offer with a backward motion of his
head, and said, in a steady and settled voice:

"Le Renard Subtil is a great chief; he has but one mind. Come," he
added, laying his hand too familiarly on the shoulder of his captive to
urge her onward; "a Huron is no tattler; we will go."

The maiden drew back in lofty womanly reserve, and her dark eye kindled,
while the rich blood shot, like the passing brightness of the sun, into
her very temples, at the indignity.

"I am your prisoner, and, at a fitting time shall be ready to follow,
even to my death. But violence is unnecessary,"