which his opponent had thrust into his back, to the heft.

"Ah," exclaimed Fred; "brave and good guide! I understand it all now.
First the enemy shot the arrow and missed you, and then when you moved
he fell on you from behind, and struck you with the knife. You, as a
hero, without saying a word, rose and seized him by the throat, until
he was dead. Brave Mohican!"

Tears gathered in the eyes of Agnes. "Oh, Fred," she whispered; "this
is terrible. Let's go away."

"Sister," the boy said, "you must not talk that way; we will go away as
soon as we can. But you have fear in your heart, and that is bad. Only
courage and boldness will now by the grace of God save us. Be brave."

"Pardon me," Agnes stammered; "it was wrong of me to show fright. I
will never do it again. God is with us, all is well."

"Thank you, dear sister," Fred said; "that makes it easier for me. And
now let us bury our good guide."

Softly he touched the body, when suddenly the Indian moved. The wound
in the back was serious, but the knife had not struck a vital organ.
Only the loss of blood had been severe, as without flinching he held his
foe in the death grip.

"The Mohican is alive!" Agnes exclaimed; "perhaps we can save his life."

Tenderly they lifted his body and laid it on the grass. The Mohican
opened his eyes, but there was in them a glassy stare. Agnes rubbed his
arms and patted his hair.

After a few moments a smile stole over the guide's face. He had
recognized the girl.

"My good friend and brother," Fred spoke to him in the Mohican language;
"I am so sorry. We thank you---we thank you---as the rain falls from
the sky in summer. The pale face children are safe because of your
valor. The Mohican fought like the brave warrior he always was. The men
will sing of his bravery in the wigwam, and the women will tell his tale
when the dusk falls. Never will be forgotten the brave Mohican guide
who fought and conquered his foe in battle."

The Mohican tried to speak, but his tongue would not move. He grasped
the lad's hand firmly.

Agnes bent over him. She remembered that he was a Christian. Her
missionary heart overflowed with love for the guide's soul.

"Samowat," she tenderly pronounced his Indian name. "Samowat, friend
of the white men, protector of the weak, brave and noble warrior that
knows no fear, hear the voice of the little 'bird in the woods' that
sings of Jesus. Samowat dies for his little friends