It became penetrating, thrillingly sweet, and hark! it spoke to him in a voice that he knew.
It was the same voice that he had heard on the Ohio, mystic, but telling him to be of heart and courage.

He would triumph over hardships and dangers, and he would see his friends again.
Henry started up from his vision.

The song was gone, and he heard only the wind softly moving the leaves.

It had been vague and shadowy as gossamer, light as the substance of a dream, but it was real to him, nevertheless, and the deep glow of certain triumph permeated his being, body and mind.

It was not strange that he had in his nature something of the Indian mysticism that personified the winds and the trees and everything about him.