With that dying blessing his spirit took its flight. He had passed away, the last one of his kind, he who had lived a life of solitude, apart from the world, looking upon the white man as having taken from him his home, his lands, and the forests which would have been his if the white man had not, long years ago, laid them low; yes, he had breathed a blessing, with his last breath, upon the pale-face. He who had not a brother left to bury him, had thanked God that the Pale-face had come to close his eyes; yes, it was the voice of childhood which had made his last moments happy, had pointed out the road which leads the wanderer home.
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