they were not liable to his touch. He at length came to the side of
a great river, and, being a good fisherman himself, stood upon the
banks of it some time to look upon an angler that had taken a great
many shapes of fishes, which lay flouncing up and down by him.

I should have told my reader that this Indian had been formerly
married to one of the greatest beauties of his country, by whom he
had several children. This couple were so famous for their love and
constancy to one another that the Indians to this day, when they
give a married man joy of his wife, wish that they may live together
like Marraton and Yaratilda. Marraton had not stood long by the
fisherman when he saw the shadow of his beloved Yaratilda, who had
for some time fixed her eye upon him before he discovered her. Her
arms were stretched out towards him; floods of tears ran down her
eyes; her looks, her hands, her voice called him over to her, and,
at the same time, seemed to tell him that the river was unpassable.
Who can describe the passion made up of joy, sorrow, love, desire,
astonishment that rose in the Indian upon the sight of his dear
Yaratilda? He could express it by nothing but his tears, which ran
like a river down his cheeks as he looked upon her. He had not
stood in this posture long before he plunged into the stream that
lay before him, and finding it to be nothing but the phantom of a
river, stalked on the bottom of it till he arose on the other side.
At his approach Yaratilda flew into his arms, whilst Marraton wished
himself disencumbered of that body which kept her from his embraces.
After many questions and endearments on both sides, she conducted
him to a bower, which she had dressed with her own hands with all
the ornaments that could be met with in those blooming regions. She
had made it gay beyond imagination, and was every day adding
something new to it. As Marraton stood astonished at the