The white lad had made many pleasant friendships among these simple
people, and it was with feelings of sadness that he bade farewell to
the beautiful Nethla, the grave and stately Micco, the good chief of
the Alachuas, and many others who had been kind to him, and whom he
feared he might never see again.
The little fleet of twenty canoes, twelve of which were heavily laden
with corn, started on their long journey at daybreak of a still, cool
morning, in the presence of the entire population of Micco's camp, and
a great number of the Alachuas who had collected to see them off. In
the leading canoe were Rene, Has-se, Yah-chi-la-ne, and a young warrior
named Oli-catara (the Bear's Paw). As it shot from the bank, the
entire assembly of Indians on shore shouted,
"Farewell, Ta-lah-lo-ko!"
[Illustration: "Farewell, Ta-lah-lo-ko!"]
"Farewell to the young white chief!"
"Do not forget us, Ta-lah-lo-ko."
These shouts sounded very pleasantly to Rene, for they showed that he
had succeeded in gaining not only the respect but the affection of
these kindly people, and he stood up and waved his cap to them until
they were hidden from his sight by a bend in the river.
On this journey nothing worthy of note happened until the party had
nearly passed through the great swamp, when some of the warriors
detected signs that led them to suspect that another party, eastward
bound, had passed that way shortly before.
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