He sang in a low, not unmusical tone the death-chant of the Hurons.

His companions silently bowed their heads.

When he had finished singing he slowly rose to his great height, showing a commanding figure.
Slowly his features lost their stern pride, his face softened, and his dark eyes, gazing straight into the gloom of the forest, bespoke a superhuman vision.
"Wingenund has been a great chief.

He has crossed his last trail.
The deeds of Wingenund will be told in the wigwams of the Lenape," said the chief in a loud voice, and then sank back into the arms of his comrades.

They laid him gently down.
A convulsive shudder shook the stricken warrior's frame.