died, and in that position it hung when I was last with him--his eyes were upon it, and his smile, until he drew his last breath. After his death his friend _Bobasheela_, and Jeffrey and the Doctor, laid him in his coffin, and, placing in it, according to the Indian mode, his faithful bow and quiver of arrows, his pipe and tobacco to last him through the "journey he was to perform," having dressed him in all his finest clothes, and painted his face, and placed his bow and quiver and his pouch by his side, and his medal on his breast, the coffin was closed, and his remains were buried, attended by his faithful friends around him, by the officers of the institution, and many citizens, who sympathized in his unlucky fate. Thus ended the career of _No-ho-mun-ya_ (or the Roman Nose), one of the most peaceable and well-disposed and finest men of the party, or of the tribe from which he came. The reader will now contemplate the Indians and their friend _Bobasheela_ again in their private rooms in Manchester, spending a week or so together, smoking their pipes, with their faces painted black, recounting the deeds of the vanished warrior, and recapitulating the events of their tour through England, Scotland, and Ireland, and trying to cheer the view that was ahead of them by drinking _chickabobboo_. These few days passed heavily by, and they soon became anxious to throw off the gloom that was cast over them, by seeing something new, and by resuming the exercise and excitements of the dance. Their thoughts were now on Paris, and I was there making arrangements for their reception. The reader will therefore, with my help, _imagine_ himself across the Channel (and probably for the first time in his life without being sea-sick), and ready to commence, with the Indians and me, amidst new scenes and new scenery, the following chapter. CHAPTER XXV.