wind blew; the dragging hours brought
gloom that entered in. This seemed indeed the direst strait of his lot.
Crippled, dying of cold, helpless, nothing to do but wait and die, and
from his groaning lips there came the half-forgotten prayer his mother
taught him long ago, "O God, have mercy on me!" and then he forgot.

When he awoke, the stars were shining; he was numb with cold, but his
mind was clear.

"This is war," he thought, "and God knows we never sought it." And again
the thought: "When I offered to serve my country, I offered my life. I
am willing to die, but this is not a way of my choosing," and a blessed,
forgetfulness came upon him again.

But his was a stubborn-fibred race; his spark of life was not so quickly
quenched; its blazing torch might waver, wane, and wax again. In the
chill, dark hour when the life-lamp flickers most, he wakened to hear
the sweet, sweet music of a dog's loud bark; in a minute he heard it
nearer, and yet again at hand, and Skookum, erratic, unruly, faithful
Skookum, was bounding around and barking madly at the calm, unblinking
stars.

A human "halloo" rang not far away; then others, and Skookum barked and
barked.

Now the bushes rustled near, a man came out, kneeled down, laid hand
on the dying soldier's brow, and his heart. He opened his eyes, the man
bent over him and softly said, "Nibowaka! it's Quonab."

That night when the victorious rangers had returned to Plattsburg it
was a town of glad, thankful hearts, and human love ran strong.
The thrilling stories of the day were told, the crucial moment, the
providential way in which at every hopeless pass, some easy, natural
miracle took place to fight their battle and back their country's cause.
The harrying of the flying rear-guard, the ambuscade over the hill, the
appearance of an American scout at the nick of time to warn them--the
shooting, and his disappearance--all were discussed.

Then rollicking Seymour and silent Fiske told of their scouting on the
trail of the beaten foe; and all asked, "Where is Kittering?" So talk
was rife, and there was one who showed a knife he had picked up near the
ambuscade with R. K. on the shaft.

Now a dark-faced scout rose up, stared at the knife, and quickly left
the room. In three minutes he stood before General Macomb, his words
were few, but from his heart:

"It is my boy, Nibowaka; it is Rolf; my heart tells me. Let me go. I
feel him praying for me to come. Let me go, general. I