“Enough,” answered the Indian.  “Let wild beasts find some other food than men.”

“It was a strong hand as well as true aim that sent this arrow,” said the young man, drawing the shaft out of the animal’s brain, in which the barbed point, coming off, remained behind, “and I must furnish you at least another arrow.”

“Waqua has plenty of arrows in his quiver, and can get more.”

“Thou art an independent fellow,” exclaimed Arundel; “but there is one thing I have to offer thee which thou must accept—­that is, my hand, and it is a sign that I will be thy brother.”

There was something in the action and expression of Arundel’s face that was irresistibly attractive to the Indian.  He took the offered hand into both of his and replied, “Waqua gives his two hands to the white man.  He loves the white man, and the Great Spirit sent Waqua to protect his brother.”

“Thou hast established a claim to, my friendship stronger than often exists.  Be sure we will be friends.  My brother is on a hunting path.  What success has he?”

“A deer,” replied Waqua, stepping into a bush, returning with the carcass on his shoulder, and throwing it upon the ground.

“Is my brother’s lodge distant?”

“It would not tire a new born fawn to run the distance.  My white brother shall see the wigwam of Waqua, and rest his limbs, and then Waqua will go with him to the lodges of the white men at Shawmut.”

It was yet early in the day.  There was no need of hurry, and the wish of the Indian of itself was enough.  It would have been indeed ungracious to deny acquiescence to one who had just saved his life, and Arundel therefore at once signified his assent.  But before they started, the Indian with the knife which he took from his neck, despoiled the panther of its skin.  Throwing it then across his shoulders on top of the deer’s carcass, he led the way out of the path in a direction different from that in which Arundel had been travelling.

It was truly as Waqua had said, and a few moments sufficed to reach his habitation.  It stood by itself, near the margin of the Charles river, which empties into Massachusetts Bay, and was merely a rough hunting lodge, made of bark, yet so constructed as effectually to answer the purpose for which it was designed during the milder months.  Doubtless in winter it was deserted for the more comfortable wigwam in the village.

Arrived at his dwelling, Waqua took down some skins suspended on one side, and spreading them upon the ground, courteously invited his companion to a seat.  Arundel was glad to rest after his late violent conflict, and availed himself of the opportunity to brush off the dirt, and re-arrange his torn and disordered dress.  Meanwhile, Waqua kindled a fire, and cutting off some bear steaks, threw them on the glowing coals.  The exercise and danger of Arundel had given him an appetite, and with no little interest he watched the