Le Bourdon had been busy with his pots, during the whole time this discourse was going on, and had warmed up a sufficiency of food to supply the wants of all his guests.  In a few minutes each was busy quietly eating his morning’s meal, Gershom having taken his bitters aside, and, as he fancied, unobserved.  This was not so much owing to niggardliness, as to a distrust of his having a sufficient supply of the liquor, that long indulgence had made, in a measure, necessary to him, to last until he could get back to the barrels that were still to be found in his cabin, down on the shore of the lake.

During the breakfast little was said, conversation forming no material part of the entertainment, at the meals of any but the cultivated.  When each had risen, however, and by certain preliminary arrangements it was obvious that the two Indians intended to depart, the Pottawatamie advanced to le Bourdon, and thrust out a hand.

“Thankee”—­he said, in the brief way in which he clipped his English—­“good supper—­good sleep—­good breakfast.  Now go.  Thankee—­ when any friend come to Pottawatamie village, good wigwam dere, and no door.”

“I thank you, Elksfoot—­and should you pass this way, ag’in, soon, I hope you’ll just step into this chiente and help yourself it I should happen to be off on a hunt.  Good luck to you, and a happy sight of home.”

The Pottawatamie then turned and thrust out a hand to each of the others, who met his offered leave-taking with apparent friendship.  The bee-hunter observed that neither of the Indians said anything to the other touching the path he was about to travel, but that each seemed ready to pursue his own way as if entirely independent, and without the expectation of having a companion.

Elksfoot left the spot the first.  After completing his adieus, the Pottawattamie threw his rifle into the hollow of his arm, felt at his belt, as if to settle it into its place, made some little disposition of his light summer covering, and moved off in a southwesterly direction, passing through the open glades, and almost equally unobstructed groves, as steady in his movements as if led by an instinct.

“There he goes, on a bee-line,” said le Bourdon, as the straight form of the old savage disappeared at length, behind a thicket of trees.  “On a bee-line for the St. Joseph’s river, where he will shortly be, among friends and neighbors, I do not doubt.  What, Chippewa! are you in motion too?”

“Must go, now,” returned Pigeonswing, in a friendly way.  “Bye’m by come back and eat more honey-bring sweet news, hope-no Canada here,” placing a finger on his heart-"all Yankee.”

“God be with you, Chippewa-God be with you.  We shall have a stirring summer of it, and I expect to hear of your name in the wars, as of a chief who knows no fear.”