"Yes; but I don't want you to die, only to go back home," he pleaded. "We are going home--to our beautiful home in the woods, which I told you of. "Dear me, I'm tired of the woods." "Tired of the woods?" "Yes, I _am_ tired. They are nice to play in, but it isn't home, no way. How far is it, Malaeska, to where grandfather lives?" "I don't know--I don't want to know. We shall never--never go there again," said the Indian, passionately. "You are mine, all mine." The boy struggled in her embrace, restively. "But I won't stay in the woods. I want to be in a real house, and sleep in a soft bed, and--and--there, now, it is going to rain; I hear it thunder. Oh, how I want to go home!" There was in truth a storm mustering over them; the wind rose and moaned hoarsely through the pines. Malaeska was greatly distressed, and gathered the tired boy lovingly to her bosom for shelter. "Have patience, William; nothing shall hurt you. To-morrow we will row the boat all day. You shall pull the oars yourself." "Shall I, though?" said the boy, brightening a little; "but will it be on the way home?" "We shall go across the mountains where the Indians live. The brave warriors who will make William their king." "But I don't want to be a king, Malaeska!" "A chief--a great chief--who shall go to the war-path and fight battles." "Ah, I should like that, with your pretty bow and arrow, Malaeska; wouldn't I shoot the wicked red-skins?" "Ah, my boy, don't say that." "Oh," said the child, shivering, "the wind is cold; how it sobs in the pine boughs. Don't you wish we were at home now?" "Don't be afraid of the cold," said Malaeska, in a troubled voice; "see, I will wrap this cloak about you, and no rain can come through the fur blanket. We are brave, you and I--what do we care for a little thunder and rain--it makes me feel brave." "But you don't care for home; you love the woods and the rain. The thunder and lightning makes your eyes bright, but I don't like it; so take me home, please, and then you may go to the woods; I won't tell." "Oh, don't--don't. It breaks my heart," cried the poor mother. "Listen, William; the Indians--my people--the brave Indians want you for a chief. In a few years you shall lead them to war." "But I hate the Indians." "No, no." "They are fierce and cruel." "Not to you--not to you!" "I won't live with the Indians!" "They are a brave people--you shall be their chief." "They killed my father." "But I am of those people. I saved you and brought you among the white people." "Yes, I know; grandmother told me that." "And I belonged to the woods." "Among the Indians?" "Yes. Your father loved these Indians, William." "Did he--but they killed him." "But it was in battle." "In fair battle; did you say that?" "Yes, child. Your father was friendly with them, but they thought he had turned enemy. A great chief met him in the midst of the fight, and they killed each other. They fell and died together."