The men stood
silent and affected witnesses of the scene. Brushing the luxuriant
hair from the face of the dying Indian, the preacher said:
"Oonomoo, is there anything I can do for you?"
"Where be Niniotan?"
"Here," responded the boy, approaching him.
"Stand where you be, and see a Christian warrior die," he commanded, in
his native tongue. "Where is Fluellina's hand?"
The affectionate wife heard the inquiry, and instantly closed her hand
in his. He held it, in loving embrace. The missionary spread a
blanket over the body and limbs of the Huron, so as to hide his
frightful wounds from sight. A single stream, tiny, crimson and
glistening, wound down from the shoulder of Fluellina, over her bare
arm, to her waist, where it fell in rapid drops to the leaves below.
No one of her wounds were visible, although it was evident that
dissolution was proceeding rapidly with her.
The minister, at this point, noticed that the lips of Oonomoo were
moving. Thinking he had some request to make, he leaned forward and
listened. His soul was thrilled with holy joy when he heard
unmistakably the words of supplication. Oonomoo was addressing the
Great Spirit of the world, not as a craven does, at the last moment,
when overtaken by death, but as he had often done before, with the
assurance that his prayer was heard. With a simplicity as touching as
it was earnest, he spoke aloud his forgiveness of the Shawnees, saying
that he wished not their scalps, and had not taken any for several
years, not since the Great Spirit had sent a wonderful light in his
soul.
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