The good feeling, however, of the old sachem did not descend to his son Philip, who succeeded him. He saw that the English were gradually encroaching upon the grounds of his race, and that, unless their progress should soon be arrested, the red man would not have where to lay his head in the country of his forefathers. He resolved, therefore, to unite, if possible, all the Indians of New England, from the Penobscot to the Hudson, in one last great attempt to recover from their white invaders their ancient dominions. In a short time, by this artful manœuvre, he had gained over to his cause the warlike nation of the Narragansets, and all the tribes of Maine, for two hundred miles along the coast. But the Indians of New Hampshire, for the most part, kept aloof from the contest, and the Mohicans, under their sachem Uncas, remained ever faithful to the English. The war between the colonies and the English, commonly called Philip’s War, broke out in the summer of 1675. The savage chief is said to have wept when he heard of the first outrage of the war. He called to mind the long, unbroken friendship, that for half a century had subsisted between the red man and the whites; and his stern heart relented, when he saw that it must now be broken, and forever. But it was too late to retreat. From that hour he never smiled; but his whole soul was bent upon the business before him. At first, his success was tremendous; in a short time the country was in flames, from one end of the colonies to the other. Thirteen towns were entirely destroyed; seven hundred dwelling houses burnt; and as many Englishmen killed. There was not a family throughout New England, which did not mourn the loss of a relation. But his good fortune did not continue long; the colonies gathered all their strength to meet him; the Mohicans assailed him from the south; and the Mohawks on the north were his implacable enemies. He was defeated in several battles; his allies deserted him; his friends and relations were killed or made prisoners by the English; and he himself was hunted, like a spent deer by blood-hounds, from place to place. Still, even in his worst days, he would not think of peace; one of his attendants, who dared to propose it to him, he killed with his own hand. It was by the brother of the same man, that he was himself slain. A few minutes before his death, he is said to have been telling his few remaining friends of his gloomy dreams, and urging them to leave him, and provide for their own safety. On a sudden, the swamp in which he lay concealed, was surrounded by the English, and in attempting to escape, he was shot.