“‘Oh, Monsieur Cataline—I am distress—I am sick—I was hope he is not true—oh I am mortify. Wi-jun-jon was coot Ingin—he was my bruddare—eh bien—eh bien.’ “Now, my friend Ba’tiste, I see you are distressed, and I regret exceedingly that it must be so; he was your friend and relative, and I myself feel sad at the poor fellow’s unhappy and luckless fate; for he was a handsome, an honest, and a noble Indian.” “‘C’est vrais. Monsieur, c’est vrai.’ “This man’s death, Ba’tiste, has been a loss to himself, to his friends, and to the world, but you and I may profit by it, nevertheless, if we bear it in mind—— “‘Oui! yes, Monsr. mais, suppose, ’tis bad wind dat blows nary way, ha?’ “Yes, Ba’tiste, we may profit by his misfortune, if we choose. We may call it a ‘caution;’ for instance, when I come to write your book, as you have proposed, the fate of this poor fellow, who was relating no more than what he actually saw, will _caution_ you against the _imprudence of telling all that you actually know_, and narrating all that you have _seen_, lest like him you sink into disgrace for telling the truth. You know, Ba’tiste, that there are many things to be seen in the kind of life that you and I have been living for some years past, which it would be more prudent for us to suppress than to tell. “‘Oui, Monsieur. Well, súppose, perhaps I am discourage about de book. Mais, we shall see, ha?’” Thus ended the last night’s gossip, and in the cool of this morning, we bid adieu to the quiet and stillness of this wild place, of which I have resolved to give a little further account before we take leave of it.