The first object that met his view was the aged Tamenund, who had fallen in his hurried endeavour to rush to the combat, but was now partly supported and partly detained by his wailing wives and daughters, while the tomahawk that had dropped from his nerveless arm lay upon the ground beside him. As soon as he saw Paul Müller, he called him, and said, in a low voice, “The breath of Tamenund is going; he has lived long enough; the voices of his fathers are calling to him from the far hunting–fields; he will go, and pray the Great Spirit to give the scalps of these snake–tongued Washashe to the knife of War–Eagle.” After a moment’s pause, the old man continued: “I know that the heart of the Black Father is good to the Lenapé; he has been a friend of many days to the lodge of Tamenund; he must be a father to Olitipa; she is a sweet–scented flower; the Great Spirit has given rain and sunshine to nourish its growth, and its roots are deep in Tamenund’s heart; the Black Father will not allow it to be trodden under the feet of Mahéga.” While saying these words he drew from under his blanket a small leathern bag, the neck of which was carefully closed with ligaments of deer sinew that had been dipped in wax, or some similarly adhesive substance. “This,” he added, “is the medicine–bag of Olitipa; the Black Father must keep it when Tamenund is gone, and, while it is safe, the steps of the Bad Spirit will not draw near her.” The missionary took the bag and concealed it immediately under his vest, but, before he had time to reply to his aged friend, a terrific cry announced that the Osages had succeeded in breaking through the Delaware ranks, and a fearful scene of confusion, plunder, and massacre ensued; the faithful missionary hastened to the side of his trembling pupil, resolved to die in defending her from injury, while the air was rent by the shouts of the victors, and the yells and shrieks of those suffering under their relentless fury.