and he was quite warm. It was a ghastly cut on his wrist, and I
thought, if he is dead, he will never tell me what I want to know. I
knew that he bound up cuts to stop the blood. I took some feathers
from the bed, and put a handful on the wound. After I had done it, I
bound his wrist up with a piece of fishing-line I had taken to secure
the sheath knife round my waist, and then I went for some water. I
poured some down his throat; this revived him, and he opened his eyes.

"Where am I?" said he faintly.

"Where are you?--why, in the cabin," said I.

"Give me some more water."

I did so, for I did not wish to kill him. I wanted him to live, and
to be in my power. After drinking the water he roused himself, and
crawled back to his bed-place. I left him then, and went down to bathe.

The reader may exclaim--What a horrid tyrant this boy is--why, he is
as bad as his companion. Exactly--I was so--but let the reader
reflect that I was made so by education. From the time that I could
first remember, I had been tyrannised over; cuffed, kicked, abused
and ill-treated. I had never known kindness. Most truly was the
question put by me, "Charity and mercy--what are they?" I never heard
of them. An American Indian has kind feelings--he is hospitable and
generous--yet, educated to inflict, and receive, the severest
tortures to and from, his enemies, he does the first with the most
savage and vindictive feelings, and submits to the latter with
indifference and stoicism. He has, indeed, the kindlier feelings of
his nature exercised; still, this changes him not. He has been from