Who can describe the passion made up of joy, sorrow, love, desire,
astonishment that rose in the Indian upon the sight of his dear
Yaratilda? He could express it by nothing but his tears, which ran
like a river down his cheeks as he looked upon her. He had not
stood in this posture long before he plunged into the stream that
lay before him, and finding it to be nothing but the phantom of a
river, stalked on the bottom of it till he arose on the other side.
At his approach Yaratilda flew into his arms, whilst Marraton wished
himself disencumbered of that body which kept her from his embraces.
After many questions and endearments on both sides, she conducted
him to a bower, which she had dressed with her own hands with all
the ornaments that could be met with in those blooming regions. She
had made it gay beyond imagination, and was every day adding
something new to it. As Marraton stood astonished at the
unspeakable beauty of her habitation, and ravished with the
fragrancy that came from every part of it, Yaratilda told him that
she was preparing this bower for his reception, as well knowing that
his piety to his God, and his faithful dealing towards men, would
certainly bring him to that happy place whenever his life should be
at an end.
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