process.  The meal was soon ready, and justice done to it by both; and upon its conclusion, it became apparent that it was not on its account only that Waqua had desired to return to his wigwam.  It was also to make some alteration in his toilette, therein betraying that fondness for ornament which is equally active in the savage and in the civilized exquisite.  For the garments he had worn, others were substituted of finer quality, and more showy appearance.  Over his shoulders was thrown a robe of beaver skins; in his hair were stuck some red feathers, and from his ears hung pendants carved out of bone, into a rude imitation of birds.  Belts of wampompeag encircled the arms above the elbow, and fell over the robe, hanging down the shoulders.  The preparation was completed by painting the cheeks and forehead vermillion.  Thus decorated, with bow in hand, an ornamented quiver on his back, and tomahawk in girdle, Waqua considered himself fit to be presented at any court in the world.

Nor when he advanced, conscious of the improvement in his appearance, and stepping as though he were lord of the unbounded wilderness, did Arundel attempt to conceal his admiration of the forest Apollo.  Waqua remarked it in the other’s eyes, and a gleam of satisfaction lighted up his face.  Throwing the deer he had killed over his shoulder, and taking a small bundle of skins in his hand, the Indian preceded his companion on their way to the settlement.

CHAPTER VIII.

  “Absit, quoth the doctor.”

  DON QUIXOTE.

Upon arriving at the little town of Boston, Arundel made the Indian promise to return to him at the ordinary or inn where he had his quarters, after the furs and venison should be disposed of.  Waqua was glad to make the promise, and the two separated; the one, directing his steps towards his lodging; and the other, to seek a purchaser for his commodities.  Arundel was anxious to express his gratitude, and, besides, was interested by the talk of the child of the forest; while Waqua, on his part, was evidently disposed to meet any advances.

Eleazar Nettles, the worthy host of the Ship-tavern, who Stood at the door of the low rambling building, welcomed his lodger with all the cordiality he could throw into a face originally not ill-looking or unpleasing, but which, in consequence of practising an appearance of mortification, (in order to stand well with the grave citizens), which neither belonged to the calling wherein he was engaged, nor by nature to itself, seemed an odd mixture of earthly depravity and of heavenly grace.  Not that Eleazar was a bad fellow.  Nature had originally enclosed in his dumpy body a good-humoured soul enough, and, in a less austere community, where the bent of his disposition might have had fair play, he would have been a rather jolly dog.  He was, however, a victim of fate.  By what disastrous chance his lot was cast in that