them; they never deceive you. Dare you say they are not good neighbors? I say, pilgrim, they are better neighbors than you can hope to know in this jealous world, where the multitude has but little of honesty that is not tainted with money and place getting!
"But time is passing; your friend and companion will be here presently, and I must hurry on. A year passed, and still my stranger remained incog, a student, happy so far as I could discover, and an occupant with his tamed companions of the log cabin; a voluntary or involuntary exile from home and friends, I knew not which. Another year passed. There was no change in his methods or occupation. He appeared, if any thing, a little more contented, a good deal more absorbed in his books and natural studies, and quite as attentive to his fellow-prisoners. Still another and another year passed—five years in all—and every thing went on as during the first season, his time being fully occupied in a round of camp work, recreation, and study, the monotony being varied only by an occasional visit to some place where he obtained supplies.
"Strange man! In all these years there was never a murmur or complaint—an apparent impatient moment, an expressed or implied desire for any thing more or different. He was, so far as outside show went, perfectly satisfied with every thing, and purposing to spend his days in this romantic and sequestered spot. I thought it too bad. I argued that he ought to return or be returned to his friends. But how was it to be done? That was the question that confronted me, and which I could not quickly solve. At last I hit upon a plan. There was a village a few miles below. I would decoy him thither and interest some of the men in his behalf. This was more easily devised than accomplished. Somehow he did not launch his canoe as early that season as heretofore, and consequently I did not catch him adrift. What was to be done?
"I will tell you, traveler, I soured on him just as men and women sour on each other, for no other reason in the world than that they have some sinister purpose to accomplish. No hard words were spoken, no reason for a change of heart and purpose was given, and no suspicions were aroused. I had resolved to do a mean thing, and hence my conduct was not unlike that which you have witnessed in the world. I was preparing to break up his camp. It might be his ruin, possibly his death, but why should I hesitate? Why? There was no reason, or, to put myself on an equality with unreasonable men—unreasonable to all reason that would call a halt in his purpose—there was none which weighed a feather with me. I had determined that he must go, and go he must and should!
"One dark night, a week later, a storm came on. The wind blew a hurricane and the rain fell in torrents. This was my opportunity. I became turbulent. I burst through the dam a mile above and came down upon him 'like a wolf on the fold!' I inundated his cabin, and when he attempted to save his pet friends, I carried him away in an angry flood. He was courageous and gamey. I dashed him against the rocks and plunged him about among drifting logs; I bumped him against fallen trees and thumped him against ledges and bowlders, and yet he struggled manfully. I did not kill him, however. I simply carried him on and on in whirling, bounding delight, until I came to the village, and then, half dead that he was, I tossed him upon the bank. The villagers discovered him at once. They gave him the most humane care, and yet he was so exhausted that it was several days before he could make known his misfortune. In the meanwhile the people of the place were, naturally enough, very inquisitive, and the authorities anxious mainly to discover his identity.
