“My dear child, whenever an Indian wants a present he dreams that you give it to him, or he claims it.  Chief Williams’ boy wanted your valuable illuminated book.  I only wonder he had the taste.  The rings on your hands are more to an Indian’s liking.”

“But he is not an Indian, count.  He is as white as we are.”

“That signifies nothing.  Plenty of white children have been brought up among the tribes.  Chief Williams’ grandmother, I have heard, was a Yankee woman.”

Not one word of their rapid talk escaped an ear trained to faintest noises in the woods.  I felt like a tree, well set up and sound, but rooted and voiceless in my ignorant helplessness before the two so frankly considering me.

My father stopped when he saw Madame de Ferrier, and called to me in Iroquois.  It was plain that he and Doctor Chantry disagreed.  Skenedonk, put out of countenance by my behavior, and the stubbornness of the chief, looked ready to lay his hand upon his mouth in sign of being confounded before white men; for his learning had altered none of his inherited instincts.

But as for me, I was as De Chaumont had said, Chief Williams’ boy, faint from blood letting and twenty-four hours’ fasting; and the father’s command reminded me of the mother’s dinner pot.  I stood up erect and drew the flowered silk robe around me.  It would have been easier to walk on burning coals, but I felt obliged to return the book to Madame de Ferrier.  She would not take it.  I closed her grasp upon it, and stooping, saluted her hand with courtesy as De Chaumont had done.  If he had roared I must have done this devoir.  But all he did was to widen his eyes and strike his leg with his riding whip.

My father and I seldom talked.  An Indian boy who lives in water and forest all summer and on snowshoes all winter, finds talk enough in the natural world without falling back upon his family.  Dignified manners were not lacking among my elders, but speech had seemed of little account to me before this day.

The chief paddled and I sat naked in our canoe;—­for we left the flowered robe with a horse-boy at the stables;—­the sun warm upon my skin, the lake’s blue glamour affecting me like enchantment.

Neither love nor aversion was associated with my father.  I took my head between my hands and tried to remember a face that was associated with aversion.

“Father,” I inquired, “was anybody ever very cruel to me?”

He looked startled, but spoke harshly.

“What have you got in your head?  These white people have been making a fool of you.”

“I remember better to-day than I ever remembered before.  I am different.  I was a child:  but to-day manhood has come.  Father, what is a dauphin?”

The chief made no answer.

“What is a temple?  Is it a church, like ours at St. Regis?”

“Ask the priest.”

“Do you know what Bourbon is, father,—­particularly a Bourbon ear?”