Meanwhile let us follow the lonely Indian in his terrible journey to the distant and unexplored lands of Bolivia.
Like all true savages, he despised the ordinary routes of traffic or trade; his track must be a bee-line, guiding himself by the sun by day, but more particularly by the stars by night.
Benee knew the difference betwixt stars and planets. The latter were always shifting, but certain stars--most to him were like lighthouses to mariners who are approaching land--shone over the country of the cannibals, and he could tell from their very altitude how much progress he was making night after night.
So lonesome, so long, was his thrice dreary journey, that had it been undertaken by a white man, in all probability he would soon have been a raving maniac.
But Benee had all the cunning, all the daring, and all the wisdom of a true savage, and for weeks he felt a proud exhilaration, a glorious sense of freedom and happiness, at being once more his own master, no work to do, and hope ever pointing him onwards to his goal.
What was that goal? it may well be asked. Was Benee disinterested? Did he really feel love for the white man and the white man's children? Can aught save selfishness dwell in the breast of a savage? In brief, was it he who had been the spy, he who was the guilty man; or was it Peter who was the villain? Look at it in any light we please, one thing is certain, this strange Indian was making his way back to his own country and to his own friends, and Indians are surely not less fond of each other than are the wild beasts who herd together in the forest, on the mountain-side, or on the ice in the far-off land of the frozen north. And well we know that these creatures will die for each other.
If there was a mystery about Peter, there was something approaching to one about Benee also.
But then it must be remembered that since his residence on the St. Clair plantation, Benee had been taught the truths of that glorious religion of ours, the religion of love that smoothes the rugged paths of life for us, that gives a silver lining to every cloud of grief and sorrow, and gilds even the dark portals of death itself.
Benee believed even as little children do. And little Peggy in her quiet moods used to tell him the story of life by redemption in her almost infantile way.
For all that, it is hard and difficult to vanquish old superstitions, and this man was only a savage at heart after all, though, nevertheless, there seemed to be much good in his rough, rude nature, and you may ofttimes see the sweetest and most lovely little flowers growing on the blackest and ruggedest of rocks.