boiled to a paste, and some venison; then spreading some skins of
animals slain in the chase, for his bed, he signed to him to occupy
it, and left him to his repose.

The light of dawn had not yet appeared in the east when the Indian
awoke Sullivan; and after a slight repast, they both started for the
settlement of the whites. The Indian kept in advance of his companion,
and threaded his way through the still darkened forest with a
precision and a rapidity which showed him to be well acquainted with
its paths and secret recesses. As he took the most direct way, without
fear of losing his course, being guided by signs unknown to any save
some of the oldest and most experienced hunters, they traversed the
forest far more quickly than Sullivan had done, and before the golden
sun had sunk behind the summits of the far-off mountains, Sullivan
once more stood within view of his beloved home. There it lay in calm
repose, and at a sight so dear he could not restrain a cry of joy;
then turning toward the Indian, he poured forth his heartfelt thanks
for the service he had rendered him.

The warrior, who, till then, had not allowed his face to be seen by
Sullivan, except in the imperfect light of his wigwam, now fronted
him, allowing the sun's rays to fall upon his person, and revealed to
the astonished young man the features of the very same Indian whom,
five months before, he had so cruelly repulsed. An expression of
dignified yet mild rebuke was exhibited in his face as he gazed upon
the abashed Sullivan; but his voice was gentle and low as he said:
"Five moons ago, when I was faint and weary, you called me 'Indian
dog,' and drove me from your door. I might last night have been
revenged; but the white dove fed me, and for her sake I spared her
mate. Carcoochee bids you to go home, and when hereafter you see a red