I dropped on my knees and stretched my arms above my head, crying aloud as women cry with gasps and chokings in sudden bereavement.  Nebulous memories twisted all around me and I could grasp nothing.  I raged for what had been mine—­for some high estate out of which I had fallen into degradation.  I clawed the ground in what must have seemed convulsions to the girl.  Her poppet cried and she hushed it.

“Give me my mother’s book!” I strangled out of the depths of my throat; and repeated, as if torn by a devil—­“Give me my mother’s book!”

She blanched so white that her lips looked seared, and instead of disputing my claim, or inquiring about my mother, or telling me to begone, she was up on her feet.  Taking her dress in her finger tips and settling back almost to the ground in the most beautiful obeisance I ever saw, she said—­

“Sire!”

Neither in Iroquois nor in Iroquois-French had such a name been given to me before.  I had a long title signifying Tree-Cutter, which belonged to every chief of our family.  But that word—–­“Sire!”—­and her deep reverence seemed to atone in some way for what I had lost.  I sat up, quieting myself, still moved as water heaves.  She put the missal on the lap of my single garment, and drew back a step, formally standing.  My scarred ankles, at which the Indian children used to point, were exposed to her gaze, for I never would sit on them after the manner of the tribe.  There was no restraining the tears that ran down my face.  She might have mocked me, but she remained white and quiet; while I sat as dumb as a dog, and as full of unuttered speech.  Looking back now I can see what passionate necessity shook me with throbs to be the equal of her who had received me as a superior.

De Chaumont’s manor house, facing a winding avenue, could be seen from where we were.  It was of stone, built to enclose a court on three sides, in the form that I afterwards recognized as that of French palaces.  There were a great many flowers in the court, and vines covered the ends of the wings.  All those misty half remembered hunting seasons that I had spent on Lake George were not without some knowledge.  The chimneys and roofs of Le Ray de Chaumont’s manor often looked at me through trees as I steered my boat among the islands.  He was a great land owner, having more than three hundred thousand acres of wilderness.  And he was friendly with both Indians and Americans.  His figure did not mean much to me when I saw it, being merely a type of wealth, and wealth extends little power into the wilderness.

The poppet of a child climbed up and held to the girl’s dress.  She stooped over and kissed it, saying, “Sit down, Paul.”  The toy human being seemed full of intelligence, and after the first protest examined me fearlessly, with enchanting smiles about the mouth and eyes.  I noticed even then an upward curling of the mouth corners and a kind of magic in the liquid blue gaze, of which Paul might never be conscious, but which would work on every beholder.