There was a good-natured old Indian, by the name of Pamanack, belonging to one of the tribes which still clung to Long Island, in the vicinity of Montaukett, who occasionally made his appearance off old Scip’s hut, in the Sound, in his periogue, accompanied by some half dozen long-legged, straight-haired, copper-coloured youths, his descendants. They every now and then came cruising along the various fishing-grounds, and always, when in the vicinity of Scip, the old Indian would pay him a visit, and receive a return for the hospitality paid to the black man, when, in his similar excursions, he got as far eastward as Montaukett. On the particular occasion to which I have alluded, old Pamanack had drank more than was good for him, when the Pequot presented himself silently at the door of Scipio’s hut, and leaning upon his long ducking-gun, looked in upon the group. After a few words of recognition passed between them, Pamanack held out his black bottle, and invited the visiter to drink. Pequot drew himself up to his extreme height, and for a moment there was a mingled expression of loathing, abhorrence, and ferocity, flashing from his countenance that showed that his whole Indian’s nature was in a blaze; but it was only momentary, for in another, the expression vanished from his countenance, the habitual melancholy resumed its place upon his features, and the words fell slowly, almost musically, from his lips:—“The fire water—the fire water—ay, the same—the Indian and his deadly enemy.” Then looking steadily at Pamanack, as he held the bottle still towards him:—“Pequot will not drink. Why should Pamanack swallow the white man’s poison, and with his own hands dig his grave?