Exhausted by efforts that had been nearly
supernatural, the breathless warrior cast his person prostrate on the
earth, and lay for several minutes as if he were dead.
During this breathing-time, his throbbing pulses grew more calm, his heart
beat less violently, and the circulation was gradually returning to the
tranquil flow of nature in a state of rest. It was at this moment, when
his energies were recruited by rest, that the chief heard the tread of the
moccasons on his trail. Rising, he looked back on the course over which he
had just passed with so much pain. But a single warrior was in view. Hope
for an instant regained the ascendency, and he raised his musket to fell
his approaching adversary. The aim was cool, long, and it would have been
fatal, had not the useless tick of the lock reminded him of the condition
of the gun. He cast the wet and unserviceable piece away, and grasped his
tomahawk; but a band of Pequots rushed in to the rescue, rendering
resistance madness. Perceiving the hopelessness of his situation, the
Sachem of the Narragansetts dropped his tomahawk, loosened his belt, and
advanced unarmed, with a noble resignation, to meet his foes.
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