Here he passed the day, his little strength slowly
leaving him as the hours went by, until, near evening, he felt that
unless help came before the darkness fell, he could not survive the
night. Almost past caring whether the soldiers found him, he lay back
against a little heap of leaves he had scooped together, giving himself
up to the numb, delicious feeling of the last sleep - no more to be
feared and fought against - when his ear caught the sound of steps,
muffled by the leaves of the undergrowth carpeting the ground. He
started; life for an instant returned to him. Did that portend the
approach of the soldiers, or was it some friendly Indian roaming the
forest for game, and now on his return home? He gazed into the obscurity
of the approaching night, lying back too weak to move, though it were
his enemies come to take him again. But his fear was vain. It was an
Indian boy, not more than fifteen years old, on the way to his tribe. At
sight of him Pomponio was rejoiced, for the nearing Indian belonged to
his own tribe, and but for his extreme youth would have been included
among Pomponio's followers in the contemplated revolt.
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