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As Nancy's mind was not the most susceptible
in the world of lasting impressions, especially of a
disagreeable kind, a short time was sufficient to restore
her usual vivacity and good humour; and as
both she and Maria now assisted their mother, supper
was soon got forward, and Charles and his host
were without delay summoned from their perambulation
on the porch.

When Charles saw the plentiful, and even luxurious
table that was spread before him, and the
good-hearted and contented family, whose own industry,
under the blessing of Providence, had thus
procured it for them in a wilderness, sitting down
to partake of it, his heart was filled with sensations
of pride for his species, arising from this proof before
his eyes of what their own efforts, if properly
directed, can do to supply their wants, and make
them happy in this world, under even the most unpromising
circumstances. What a contrast, thought
he, is what I now behold, to that scene of savage
wrath and vengeful feelings to which I was yesterday
so nearly becoming the victim!

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Impressed with these ideas, his heart was in a fit
state to join fervently and thankfully in that simple
but sincere address to the Giver of all good, which
Gilbert who, ever since he had been cut off from
all opportunity of enjoying public worship, had
been careful always to pronounce, not in set words,
but in the spontaneous expressions dictated by his
feelings at the moment, before partaking of the
bounty of his Maker. Sometimes this address,
being the only species of religious worship strictly
attended to by Gilbert, was extended through the
duration of several minutes. On the present occasion,
it was not so long, but it was still longer
than any fashionable clergyman would ever think
of making a grace. As it was, notwithstanding its
illiterate and unharmonious phraseology, at the
time, highly gratifying to Charles Adderly, I presume
it will not be unacceptable to the reader, and
shall, therefore, submit it to his perusal, as follows:

“Great God! oor Maker, an' the maker o' a'
things whilk are in the heavens or on the yearth,
an' the ruler o' baith the city an' the desert! thou
hast gien us these gude things oot o' the bountifu'
stores o' thy providence, that we may nourish oorsels
wi' them.—Albeit we are na' worthy o' the
sma'est morsel o' thy favour, an' could na' mak'
the grun' produce a single ear o' corn, or a koo
bring forth a single calf without thy ordering!—
yet thou hast gien us plenty o' baith, an' mair nor
that, thou hast gien us this e'ening, un'er oor roof,
what we hae na' had for near-han' thirty year, a
visiter, an Irishman's son, o' oor ain kind, frae
Maughrygowan. Oh! bless him, an' bless us a',
so that we may be nourished by this temporal food,
an' also, or a' be owre, wi' the spiritual food o'
grace an' glory in heaven. But thou kens better
what fits us than we do oorsels—we, therefore,

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lippen every thing to thy mercy, whilk we earnestly
pray for, through Christ our Redeemer—Amen.”

Many a more splendid supper than Gilbert Frazier,
the only cultivator of the ground, at this time
within, perhaps, a hundred miles of him, could afford,
has been more splendidly described than I
could describe it. No entertainment could, therefore,
be expected from a middling description of
what, at the table of a great man, would scarcely
be accounted a middling supper. I will, therefore,
be excused from not entering into tedious particulars
concerning it. I shall merely state, that at
the one end of the table, (the end where our hero
himself was stationed,) was placed an elegant roast-joint
of the fatted calf which Archy had speedily
sacrificed for this joyful occasion. By special request,
Charles had undertaken to carve and distribute
this, which I can assure any gay lady or gentleman,
who wishes to be informed on the subject,
that he did with exceeding good grace and gentility.
Mrs. Frazier and her son, Archy, had each
under their jurisdiction a large barn-door fowl,
elegantly and sumptuously stuffed with the most
sapid and agreeable ingredients the good hostess
could command; the very smell of which when
opened out would, in less than a quarter of an hour
after a full meal, have restored to original vigour
and voracity, the appetite of any hundred thousand
pound alderman in existence. Gilbert himself had
charge of a large dish of excellent potatoes, which
although he said they were as gude as he ever
could raise here, yet were naething like the rich,
laughing, mellow, an' meally jeanachies he used
to raise in Maughrygowan. Still wi' a' their fau'ts
they were aye a favourite dish wi' baith him him
an' Nelly.

When a reasonable havoc was made among
these substantials, Maria and Nancy distributed to

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the company and to themselves dainty and enticing
slices of apple pies, custards, or egg puddings, just
as the appetite of each desired. After the disappearance
of these, Gilbert returned thanks, and the
cloth being removed, (for, dear reader, Mrs. Frazier
had several table cloths,) he produced from a
cupboard, which was in one corner of the room, a
bottle of brandy; and soon the fragrant and inspiring
vapours of the punch-pitcher curled swately
and nately as Peter M`Fall would have said, over
the table, which was now lit with a flaming candle
of Gilbert's own mana acture.

On this occasion the social bowl did not frighten
away the ladies as it mostly does within the circles
of ultra civilization and high refinement. But in
Gilbert Frazier's house the superb customs of the
haut `on were unknown, or rather uncared for; and
as no excess from spiritous liquors was feared by
the ladies, for neither Gilbert nor Archy were
drunkards, and they had no reason to suppose
Charles Adderly one, they conceived that they
could spend the evening as comfortably and as
creditably in their society as any where else.—
Nay, they did not disdain, for the sake of complaisance
and good humour, to use a moderate portion
of the exhilarating fluid themselves, and to
pledge in its socializing draught their good wishes
for their visiter's health and prosperity. But the
degree of their complaisance, I can assure the
world of sobriety, was both as moderate and modest
as the most rigid could wish, and extended no
farther than the most precise-mannered and delicately-nerved
lady in Christendom might have
carried it, without risk to either her reputation or
her morals.

Neither did the gentlemen indulge too heartily
in the use of the fascinating liquor. They only
drank as much as tended to expel vapours and

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enliven conversation, thereby showing themselves
to be real men, whose strength of resolution enabled
them to stop at any assigned point in the path
of enjoyment. But we must confess that, although
the ladies only tasted a little for the sake of complaisance,
yet the gentlemen used a sufficiency of
the cordial fluid to render their situation comfortable,
and their conversation free. It was now that
Gilbert communicated to Charles the history of his
life from his leaving his native country till the present
time, excepting that passage which related to
Maria's birth. He explained, at the same time, in
his own homely language, the feelings that the
passing events had excited in his mind. In return,
Charles detailed to him the history of the expedition
that he had lately commanded, its unfortunate
result, and his own adventures with, and providential
deliverance from the Indians. Maria listened
to his recital with great interest, and seemed to be
particularly affected with his hair breadth escape.
She hung upon his story with fervid and enthusiastic
intensity, and when he had finished she could
not help exclaiming—

“Happy, happy Tonnaleuka, who has had it in
his power to do so much good!”

“Heaven bless ye, my bairn,” said Gilbert, “for
that gude-hearted sayin'. Oh! Mr. Adderly! gin
Tonnaleuka could only teach the Indians humanity
to their prisoners, I think he wad be amaist as
great an' usefu' a man as Moses, wha taucht the
Jews the sixth commandment, “Thou shalt not
kill!” Gin the savages only knew that commandment,
and feared to break it, I'm thinkin' I micht
soon hae white neighboors plenty roon me, and
may be some Irish families—an' its no' likely that
Nelly an' I wad then break oor hearts sae muckle
aboot Maughrygowan.”

“Alack!” cried Nelly, “bonny Maughrygowan

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will ne'er be oot o' my head gin a' the Irish in
America were to settle beside us. Its bonny green
meadows, an' its hawthorn hedges, wi' their sweet
smelling blossoms, an' its saft dimplin' burns, wi'
the yellow primroses an' speckled daisies on their
banks, an' the sweet pretty larks an' the thrushes,
an' the lads an' the lasses, an' the sports o' a simmer
evening, an' the jokes an' mirth o' a lang winter's
nicht—ah! I canna think o' them withoot a
sair heart—for—for I'll ne'er see them again!”

Here Nelly's heart filled, and she was wiping
away a tear that annoyed her, when Gilbert addressed
her—

“Dinna fret—dinna fret, Nelly, at misfortunes.
It micht hae been waur wi' us—God didna forsake
us a' thegither. We are aye leevin' examples o' his
gudeness, an' hae oor weans aboot us. We hae
mony comforts. Nelly, gin we should ne'er see Ireland
again. Dinna think think o't noo—it maks
ye greeve owre muckle.”

“Ah! ye may bid me no grieve, gin ye like,”
replied Nelly—“but dinna Gilbert, dinna bid me
no think o't, for I canna obey ye in that. I maun
aye think o't, though my heart should bleed for't—
though it should break for't, as it's sometimes like
to do. It would noo please me, Gilbert, to hear
Maria sing the sang she learned frae ye, an' which
ye're sae fond to hear yeresel, that was made by
Tam Beggs, oor neighboor on the Juniata, whom
the savages burned on that awfu' day at Catanyan.
He made it on leavin' Larne, an' I ne'er hear it
but it does my heart gude, its sae melancholy, an'
it shews that there were ither folk that grieved for
ither places as muckle as I do for Maughrygowan.
An' Maria aye sings it so sweetly, that it makes my
heart baith pleased and sorrowfu'. Ah! it's a
warm-hearted, comforting sang!”

“Weel, Nelly,” observed Gilbert, “if it will

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comfort ye ony thing, an' Mr. Adderly has nae
objection, I'm sure Maria will please ye. That sang
aye pleases me, though it aye mak's me mournfu'.”

Charles signified his desire to hear the song, and
Maria, knowing that it would yield satisfaction to
both her father and mother, required no further
solicitation, but sang as follows, with a voice, every
tone of which thrilled through Charles' heart, and
awakened all his feelings of sympathy, tenderness,
and admiration.

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When Maria had done singing, so deep was the
impression which her melodious voice and affecting
manner had made upon her auditors, that they
all, for a minute or two, sat silent, as if for the
purpose of prolonging that luxury of sorrow which
she had thus so strongly excited in their bosoms.
At length Nelly, whose feelings had become so
acute as evidently to require relief from weeping,
retired, that she might indulge her grief more privately.
Her daughters withdrew also, and as
Charles arose to bid them good-night, he was irresistibly
impelled to say to Maria. “This has
been my happiest night. I shall never, never forget
it!” He then checked himself as if he felt
that he had taken too much freedom, and resumed
his seat considerably embarrassed, with his eyes
fixed steadily upon the door through which she had
passed, as if still beholding the lovely image that
had there left them.

His meditations were soon interrupted by Gilbert
exclaiming, “Poor Tam Beggs! his story was a
mournfu' yen! But grievin's a folly, an' we maun
e'en just tak' the warl' as it comes—the sweet wi'
the soor. I yence ran through the gauntlet wi' the
savages mysel'. That was na to be sure sae bad
as being burnt. But there's na gude in complainin'—
what's gane past is done, an' canna be help't.
We'll e'en, Mr. Adderly, talk o' something else,
an' no' torment oorsel's this way wi' sorrow. Ye
hae na seen my son Paddy yet. I christened him
for oor auld Irish saint—he's a through-gaun chap—
winna min' the farm, an's awee owre fand o' the
drap by times. Ye hae na seen him yet, Mr. Adderly?”

“No,” replied Charles, who had by this time
thrown off his reverie, “no—but I have understood
that you had a son of that name.”

“Ay; but he's a quite different chap frae Archy.

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He's a smart fellow, sir, an' a wee crafty in his disposition,
that is, when he's dealin' wi' the Indians.
I'm no' pleased at it, for I dinna like them cunning
tricks, it's so much like cheatery. Though Paddy
winna cheat either, I'll no say that o' him—but
he'll no' gie the Indians fair play an' he can help
it. He palms on them shells, an' beads, an' brass
rings, an' ither things, no' worth a button, for
whilk they sometimes gie him hale back-burdens
o' skins o' musk-rat, an' beaver, an' buffalo, that
he sells to the traders comin' doon the river for
fifty times as muckle as they cost him I canna
think it a' thegither fair—forbye I canna see the
gude o' him tradin' this way. I'm sure that a' the
skins an' trumpery he has gathered thegither this
six year past wouldna get us a comfortable dinner
in thir woods. I kenna what they're gude for here,
but to look at.”

“Father,” observed Archy, who had just come in
from disposing of the cattle for the night, as Gilbert
commenced this complimentary picture of Paddy's
character and employment, `father, I maun say
you speak owre hard o' Paddy. He disna cheat
the Indians half so muckle as some o' the ither traders.
They aye say he deals fair, though he maks
hard bargains; but the men that come doon the
river often cheat them ootricht. The gentleman
maunna think Paddy sae bad as ye ca' him.”

“I hae na ca'd him a downricht cheat, Archy,
I canna think that badly o' him; but I think it
wad be a mair honest employment, forbye being
mair usefu', to stick by the lan', an' help us to raise
something that we can eat an' wear; for, atweel, I
can see nae gude in them wild beast's skins, an'
bits o' glass, an' auld brass rings that he's so fand
o'. They can neither be made into cakes nor
puddin', Archy; an' as to wearin' them—troth, a

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coat o' the coarest sacking that was ever made into
a beggar-man's poke, wad be mair comfortable.”

“I perceive,” said Charles, “that it is not with
your approbation that your son has devoted himself
to traffic rather than agriculture. But you
seem to get on with the latter tolerably well without
him; and, perhaps, the furs you speak of him
having amassed, may yet turn out much to his
benefit. They are very valuable in the eastern
cities. As to his obtaining them for articles of
such little real value, if the Indians attach an imaginary
importance to these articles, they have a
right to please themselves, as much as the white
people have to attach a value to gold and silver,
which are in themselves as intrinsically useless for
either sustenance or apparel, as any of the trinkets
you mention. Your son cannot be said, at least in
the common meaning of the word, to cheat the Indians,
when he makes them such a return for their
goods as renders them content to part with them.”

“It may be sae,” replied Gilbert, “I dinna dive
sae deeply into sitch arguments as to ken a' aboot
them; but I aye think, that Paddy wad hae mair
ease o' min', an' lieve happier, helpin' us here on
the farm, than in rinnin' after the tails o' the
savages to spy farlies, or to catch a chance o' a
bargain. Forbye, I'm awee flyed that he may
sometime or ither fa' in wi' some slut o' a squaw,
an' turn Indian himsel!”

“For aught I know,” observed Charles, “there
may be some danger in that respect, especially as
he never sees any other females except those of his
own family. A trip to the eastward might remove
this danger.”

“I hae aften thought sae,” returned Gilbert;
“an' sometimes whan I think o' my twa boys, I
canna help comparin' mysel to auld Isaac, wi' his
Esau and his Jacob. The auldest is the Esau, an'

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the youngest is the Jacob; the yen wilfu' an' stubborn,
an' the ither obedient an' gude-natured; an'
wi' respect to baith, I aften feel as if I could apply
to mysel' the words o' Rebekah: `I am weary of
my life because of the daughters of Heth: if Jacob
take a wife of the daughters of Heth, such as these
which are the daughters of the land, what good shall
my life do me?”'

“An' what wad ye hae yen to do,” said Archy,
who felt himself interested in the cause of his father's
uneasiness. “What wad ye hae yen to do,
whar' there are na ither women to be had? Ye
wad na surely ask yen to leeve a' his days withoot
a wife?”

“It's a hard matter, I acknowledge,” said his father;
“an' gin I could spare ye, Archy, I wad send
ye, wi' my blessing, owre the mountains eastward,
as Isaac did Jacob, to get a wife amang the daughters
o' yere ain kind.”

“But wad it no' be neest thing to impossible,”
said Archy, “to coax ony o' them white lasses at
the ither side o' the mountains, to come back here
to lieve in thir savage woods? An' ye ken, father,
ye wad na be pleased gin I staid awa frae ye
a' the gither. Trouth, I canna' tell weel hoo ye
could work the lan', and mind things right withoot
me, noo when ye're getting auld, an' hae sae
muckle mair cleared than ye had no mony years
ago. I think, Mr. Adderly,” said he, turning to
Charles, “that it wad be better for the auld man
that I should bide wi' him, an' gin I should tak' a
fancy to marry, to tak' a squaw, than gang twa or
three hundred miles owre the Alleghany mountains,
for a wife, or else ha nane ava. Want, ye
ken, is an unco bare word, sir.”

Charles acknowledged that the dilemma was
rather of a perplexing nature. All he could counsel
him to, was to stay with his father, and have

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patience; as fortune, by some unforeseen occurrence,
might throw a white woman in his way; in which
case, if he were too hastily to unite himself with a
squaw, he might feel inclined to regret his precipitancy.

“Oh! sir,” said Archy, “I'm na just yet sae
madrife for a wife as that comes to. I'm no' just
gaun to marry the first Indian woman I meet wi'.
I'm thinking that I'll gie fortune the opportunity
o' half a dozen o' years yet to bring me a white
wife; after that, I think the auld man canna say
muckle gin I should bring a red daughter-in-law
ben the hoose to him.”

“Guid forbid! Guid forbid! ye should do sae,
Archy!” exclaimed Gilbert, shaking his hand, “But
we'll no' talk mair aboot it noo. Gin ye only keep
your word, an' gie us six years to come an' go on, I
doot na but Providence will consider your case, and
provide some yen for you that we may a' like,
before that time. But as to Paddy, I dinna ken
but it wad be wiser in me.—”

Here Gilbert was interrupted by the door opening
without ceremony, and Paddy himself entered,
and Gilbert, in a kind of continuation of his discourse,
addressed him; “An' there ye are, my lad.
We were just talking o' ye, an' I was telling this
frien' o' mine.—Paddy, ye maun ken that's a frien'
o' mine, a sin o' my auld acquaintance, Thamas
Adderly, the young squire o' Maughrygown. Ye
didna ken the squire, Paddy, but your mither
kenned them a' weel; an' sair she grat this vera
nicht wi' joy to see the sin o' her auld frien' un'er
her roof in this wild wilderness.”

Paddy had by this time approached Charles,
and cordially shaked him by the hand, expressing
great pleasure to see him here so far safe from the
savages.

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This young man was rather below the middle
size, and of a slender, but very firm make, indicating
great agility and endurance of fatigue, rather
than muscular strength. He was not, however,
deficient in the latter respect, his want of sufficient
weight alone preventing him from being remarkably
powerful. His countenance was keen, smart,
and intelligent; expressive, however, of ingenuity
rather than deep thought, and of cunning rather
than caution. He was slightly pockpitted, and so
much sun-burnt as to be almost of that Indian hue
which he sometimes affected, when he wished to
flatter the native tribes. He also often dressed in
their fashion, and, on such occasions, as he had
learned several of their languages, and spoke them
fluently, he could not easily be distinguished from
any of his red brethren. He had been present, as
a spectator, at the Chippeway council, which had
so nearly sacrificed Charles, in his Indian costume,
on which account, as his dress was now more of a
European than of an Indian fashion, he was not recognised
by Charles, who had not, indeed, paid
much attention on that occasion, to the appearance
of the individuals forming the mass of the assembly.
He was at this time attired in a rudely formed white
flannel jacket, or rather long vest, with sleeves attached
to it, being put on in the manner of a shirt,
with that part of the front, usually permitted to open,
tied with tapes. A pair of long canvas drawers
came up to his waist, round which, outside of his
vest or shirt, they were bound with leathern thongs,
instead of buttons, and kept in their place by a
broad leathern strap carried over each shoulder in a
crossing direction, like modern suspenders. The
common Indian gaiters, and moccasins of half
tanned deer skin, and a bear skin cap, constituted
the residue of his dress, which, from its lightness
and freedom from every kind of incumbrance upon

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his motions, was well adapted to the full exercise
of that swiftness and dexterity in scouring the
woods, for which habit, and a healthy, sinewy, and
buoyant frame, had rendered him remarkable, even
among the wild sons of the forest.

When he first entered the room he had a musket
in his hand, and a long knife of the dagger form,
for bleeding any animal he might shoot on his excursions,
in a leathern sheath at his left side, which
sheath was suspended from a belt that crossed his
right shoulder. On perceiving Charles, without
paying any attention whatever to the address of his
father, before given, he hastily deposited his gun in
a corner of the room, and, with an air of recognition,
saluted him with the cordial expression of satisfaction
for his safety, we have mentioned, adding,
at the same time, “But I am sorry that you have
met with so rude and uncivil a reception in our
country.”

“In that respect,” replied Charles, “it is a question
whether I ought to complain or rejoice; for,
since coming to your Wilderness, I have met with
the extremes both of kindness and hatred—happiness
and misery.”

“Then you have met with all that life can give
you, since you came among us,” observed and who
“But I think you have purchased your pleasure,
whatever it may have been, dear, by the sufferings
you have paid for it.”

“But I, perhaps, enjoy it the more sensibly on
that account,” returned Charles; “and I do not
know if I can grudge the personal hardships and
trials I have sustained from the Indians, since they
have been the means of procuring me the happiness
your father's house has this night afforded me.”

“It was but a sma' thing we could do to make
you comfortable,” said Gilbert. “Could we do
mair, I wad be glad o't; for the very sicht o' ye, sae

[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]

Christianlike, sae like oorsel's, and o' oor ain kind,
has made us a' blither an' happier nor we hae been
for mony a year.”

“Mr. Adderly,” observed Paddy, “you have
gained one friend by your misfortunes, for whom
it was, indeed, worth while to endure something—
I mean Tonnaleuka—although, I confess, I should
be very loth to undergo what you did even for
such an acquisition.”

“To have acquired the esteem and friendship of
that good and wonderful man,” replied Charles,
“might itself have been sufficient remuneration for
my sufferings; but Providence has added to this
satisfaction others that”—(here he checked himself,
and hesitated for a moment; then continued)
“that providence has shown me in this house to-night,
that virtue can secure to herself happiness,
even in a `Wilderness,' amidst savages; and
henceforth I resolve to keep in her paths, so far as
I know them in despite of all temptations to the
contrary. Is not the arriving at such a result worth
all I have endured?”

I have no means of exactly comparing the benefits
such a resolution with the evils you have
undergone," observed Paddy; “for I do not understand
matter sufficiently. But this I know, that
yesterday saw you in a predicament, to get out of
which I would have thought you excusable in committing
any sin, although I confess I was better pleased
to see you escape by a miracle; and I only wish
that in every scrape of the kind you may fall into,
you may be so fortunate. To be sure, you have a
watchful and powerful friend in Tonnaleuka. If
any man can protect you from Indian violence, it
is he. But he cannot do every thing; and, to be
plain with you, for it is only this very day that he
desired me to be so, there are trap-doors of destruction
into which you may yet fall, if you be not

[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]

circumspect. Your arch-enemy, Carrawoona, is
intractable. He has vowed either to sacrifice himself
or you, and is, at the present time, ranging
the woods, like a wild and infuriated animal, in
search of you. You are safe here, in the mean
while, however; and I have reason to believe that
the prophet will manage matters so, that the implacable
savage will take the wrong direction in
pursuit of you.”

“Surely,” observed Charles, “I need not be
under much apprehension from the hostility of a
single man. His tribe relinquished their claim upon
me, and he will scarcely dare to destroy what it
was their pleasure to spare.”

“He has sworn your destruction,” said Paddy,
“and his tribe have abandoned any further concern
in the business. The contest is now between
you and him, and God grant the right side to be
successful, say I, which is a wish altogether at your
service.”

“With arms in my hand, and a watchful eye in
my head, I think,” said Charles, “if the contest be
only between him and me, I have nothing to fear.
He cannot be more terrible in fight than his son.”

“He is not, perhaps, more terrible,” rejoined
Paddy, “but he is more treacherous; and who
knows but he may seduce some of the haters of the
white men (for there are many of them in this
country) to join his cause. He would have had
half a dozen after you from Shanapins-town, but
for the timely interference of Tonnaleuka, who represented
to the warriors that you were under the
protection of the Great Spirit, who had denounced
vengeance against any one who would harm
you.”

“I fear much,” said Charles, “that the prophet's
generous zeal in my behalf will excite this
rancorous savage to his destruction, which would

[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]

be to the world a much greater loss than mine,
and a loss that would grieve me more than any evil
that can befall myself.”

“You have nothing to fear on that point,” returned
Paddy. “Carrawoona, with all his ferocity,
will not dare to harm the prophet. If he did,
every Indian arm of man, woman, and child, from
the Alleghany mountain to the Mississippi river,
would be lifted against him, and his name and memory
would be for ever held in abhorrence, as the
enemy and destroyer of the prophet of Maneto,
their chief deity.”

“For myself, then,” said Charles, “I will fear
nothing. Let the savage do his worst.”

“By heavens! sir,” said Paddy, who had learned
a number of civilized oaths from the white
traders he had so frequently dealt with, and with
which, when he wished to express himself with
more than usual energy, he never failed to garnish
his speech; “By heavens! sir, I like your spirit,
and shall keep an eye upon Carrawoona myself, if
he pursues you to this neighbourhood, where I
know every foot of the country a thousand times
better than either he or any one of his tribe.”

Charles thanked him for his friendly intentions,
observing, “With such protectors as you and Tonnaleuka,
I do not see why I should apprehend any
thing from a savage, whose power, unless I am
taken unawares, or unprepared, can do me no injury.”

“Paddy! ye please me noo,” said Gilbert; “I
aye kenned ye had some spunk in ye, though ye
never made a gude worker on the lan'. I thought
ye were carried awa' owre muckle wi' the Indians,
but I see ye hae nature in ye, an' aye like to serve
yere ain kind, when the pinch comes. Goth!
Archy! you an' I too maun hae an e'e to this
matter. We mauna sit still, an' see a

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Maughrygown man ill-used amang us. Na, na; fegs!
that wadna be natural.”

Archy having assented to the propriety of this
opinion, and Charles expressed his thanks for their
kindness and good-will, Paddy observed that the
night was pretty far advanced, and proposed retiring
to rest. Gilbert yielded to the proposal, although,
he said, he would hae been glad to hae
cracked an 'oor or twa langer wi' his Maughrygowan
freen'; but he comforted himself with observing,
that it wadna be the last nicht he should
share a jug o' punch wi' him.

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