But Agnes shook her head. "It is not a Mohican arrow, but a Pequot one," she said. "It was driven into the tree by a warbow. See, how deeply it entered the tree! And how strong the flint is and how well preserved, in spite of its being driven into the hard wood. That arrow was sent to kill a man." "We must not paint the devil on the wall," Fred said cheerfully; but suddenly he became pale, for at his feet the grass was crushed down, and two forms were lying on the ground covered with blood. One was that of the guide, whose hand gripped the throat of his foe, a large and burly Pequot Indian. The Pequot was dead, choked by the steel clasp of his enemy's hand. All around, the grass was trodden down, and the ground showed what a fierce struggle had been carried on in silence, while the rest slept in peace. Suddenly Agnes bent over the form of the Mohican and pointed to a knife which his opponent had thrust into his back, to the heft. "Ah," exclaimed Fred; "brave and good guide! I understand it all now. First the enemy shot the arrow and missed you, and then when you moved he fell on you from behind, and struck you with the knife. You, as a hero, without saying a word, rose and seized him by the throat, until he was dead. Brave Mohican!" Tears gathered in the eyes of Agnes. "Oh, Fred," she whispered; "this is terrible. Let's go away." "Sister," the boy said, "you must not talk that way; we will go away as soon as we can. But you have fear in your heart, and that is bad. Only courage and boldness will now by the grace of God save us. Be brave." "Pardon me," Agnes stammered; "it was wrong of me to show fright. I will never do it again. God is with us, all is well." "Thank you, dear sister," Fred said; "that makes it easier for me. And now let us bury our good guide." Softly he touched the body, when suddenly the Indian moved. The wound in the back was serious, but the knife had not struck a vital organ. Only the loss of blood had been severe, as without flinching he held his foe in the death grip. "The Mohican is alive!" Agnes exclaimed; "perhaps we can save his life." Tenderly they lifted his body and laid it on the grass. The Mohican opened his eyes, but there was in them a glassy stare. Agnes rubbed his arms and patted his hair. After a few moments a smile stole over the guide's face. He had recognized the girl. "My good friend and brother," Fred spoke to him in the Mohican language; "I am so sorry. We thank you---we thank you---as the rain falls from the sky in summer. The pale face children are safe because of your valor. The Mohican fought like the brave warrior he always was. The men will sing of his bravery in the wigwam, and the women will tell his tale when the dusk falls. Never will be forgotten the brave Mohican guide who fought and conquered his foe in battle." The Mohican tried to speak, but his tongue would not move. He grasped the lad's hand firmly.