Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 11 Read Online Free

bitten him more dangerously than he knew; for
the dusk hid the wounds, and excitement kept him from feeling them at first. Reuben
thanked him heartily, and accepted his few words of warning with grateful
docility; then both hurried back to Eunice, who till next day knew nothing of
her brother's danger.
                            
Onawandah made light of his scratches, as he called them, got their supper, and
sent Reuben early to bed, for to-morrow they were to start again.
                            
Excited by his adventure, the boy slept lightly, and waking in the night, saw
by the flicker of the fire Onawandah binding up a deep wound in his breast with
wet moss and his own belt. A stifled groan betrayed how much he suffered; but
when Reuben went to him, he would accept no help, said it was nothing, and sent
him back to bed, preferring to endure the pain in stern silence, with true
Indian pride and courage.
                            
Next morning, they set out and pushed on as fast as Eunice's strength allowed.
But it was evident that Onawandah suffered much, though he would not rest,
forbade the children to speak of his wounds, and pressed on with feverish
haste, as if he feared that his strength might not hold out. Reuben watched him
anxiously, for there was a look in his face that troubled the boy and filled
him with alarm, as well as with remorse and love. Eunice would not let him
carry her as before, but trudged bravely behind him, though her feet ached and
her breath often failed as she tried to keep up; and both children did all they
could to comfort and sustain their friend, who seemed glad to give his life for
them.
                            
In three days they reached the river, and, as if Heaven helped them in their
greatest need, found a canoe, left by some hunter, near the shore. In they
sprang, and let the swift current bear them along, Eunice kneeling in the bow
like a little figure-head of Hope, Reuben steering with his paddle, and
Onawandah sitting with arms tightly folded over his breast, as if to control
the sharp anguish of the neglected wound. He knew that it was past help now, and only cared to see the children safe; then, worn out
but happy, he was proud to die, having paid his debt to the good parson, and
proved that he was not a liar nor a traitor.
                            
Hour after hour they floated down the great river, looking eagerly for signs of
home, and when at last they entered the familiar valley, while the little girl
cried for joy, and the boy paddled as he had never done before, Onawandah sat
erect, with his haggard eyes fixed on the dim distance, and sang his death-song
in a clear, strong voice,—though every breath was pain,—bent on dying like a
brave, without complaint or fear.
                            
At last they saw the smoke from the cabins on the hillside, and, hastily
mooring the canoe, all sprang out, eager to be at home after their long and
perilous wandering. But as his foot touched the land, Onawandah felt that he
could do no more, and stretching his arms toward the parsonage, the windows of
which glimmered as hospitably as they had done when he first saw them, he said,
with a pathetic sort of triumph in his broken voice: "Go. I cannot. Tell
the good father, Onawandah not lie, not forget. He keep his promise."
                            
Then he dropped upon the grass and lay as if dead,
while Reuben, bidding Eunice keep watch, ran as fast as his tired legs could
carry him to tell the tale and bring help.
                            
The little girl did her part tenderly, carrying water in her hands to wet the
white lips, tearing up her ragged skirt to lay fresh bandages on the wound that
had been bleeding the brave boy's life away, and, sitting by him, gathered his
head into her arms, begging him to wait