than mere gratitude there. Holden's conduct, so different from that
of other white men; the disinterested nature of his character showing
itself in acts of kindness to all; his seclusion; his gravity,
which seldom admitted of a smile; his imposing appearance, and his
mysterious communings with some unseen power--for she had often seen
him as he stood to watch for the rising sun, and heard his wild bursts
of devotion--had made a deep impression on the squaw, and invested
him with the attributes of a superior being; a feeling which was
participated in by many of the Indians.

But if Ohquamehud could have seen all this, it would have served
only to aggravate the suspicions he begun to entertain about the
Long Beard, as he and the woman called Holden. As an Indian, he was
suspicious of even the kindness of the white man, lest some evil
design might lurk beneath. What wonder, when we consider the relation
of one to the other? How much of our history is that of the wolf, who
charged the lamb, who drank below him, with muddying the stream?

Ohquamehud, a Pequot by birth, was a stranger who, but a few days
before, had come from a Western tribe, into which he had been adopted,
either to visit the graves of his fathers, or for some of those
thousand causes of relationship, or friendship, or policy, which will
induce the North American Indian to journey hundreds of miles, and saw
the Recluse, for the first time, that morning. If the gratitude of the
squaw was explained, which, he doubted not, was undeserved, the Long
Beard's knowledge of the Indian tongue was not. How it was that he
should be thus familiar with and speak it with a grace and fluency
beyond the power of the few scattered members of the tribe in the
neighborhood, the most of whom had almost lost all remembrance of
it, was to him an interesting mystery. He mused in silence over his