There were only two benches in the cabin, but it was floored and better made than our hunting lodges.  The temporary inmates and their guests sat down in a long row before the fire.  I was glad to make a pillow of a saddle near the wall, and watch their backs, as an outsider.  Mademoiselle de Chaumont absorbed all eyes and all attention.  She told about a ball, to which she had ridden with her governess and servants a three days’ journey, and from which all the dancers were riding back a three days’ journey to join in another ball at her father’s house.  With the hospitality which made Le Ray de Chaumont’s manor the palace of the wilderness as it existed then, she invited the hosts who sheltered her for the night, to come to the ball and stay all summer.  And they lamented that they could not accept the invitation, being obliged to hurry on to Albany, where a larger party would give them escort on a long westward journey.

The head of the house took up his bow, as if musing on the ball, and Annabel de Chaumont wriggled her feet faster and faster.  Tireless as thistledown that rolls here and there at the will of the wind, up she sprang and began to dance.  The children watched her spellbound.  None of us had ever seen the many figures through which she passed, or such wonderful dancing.  The chimney was built of logs and clay, forming terraces.  As if it was no longer possible for her to stay on the ground she darted from the bench-end to the lowest log, and stepped on up as fearlessly as a thing of air, until her head touched the roof.  Monsieur Grignon played like mad, and the others clapped their hands.  While she poised so I sat up to watch her, and she noticed me for the first time by firelight.

“Look at that boy—­he has been hurt—­the blood is running down his cheek!” she cried.  “I thought he was an Indian—­and he is white!”

She came down as lightly as she had gone up, and caused me to be haled against my will to the middle of a bench.  I wanted the women to leave me alone, and told them my head had been broken two days before, and was nearly well.  The mothers, too keen to wash and bandage to let me escape, opened a saddle pack and tore good linen.

George Croghan stood by the chimney, slim and tall and handsome.  His head and face were long, his hair was of a sunny color, and his mouth corners were shrewd and good natured.  I liked him the moment I saw him.  Younger in years than I, he was older in wit and manly carriage.  While he looked on it was hard to have Madame Tank seize my head in her hands and examine my eyebrow.  She next took my wrists, and not satisfied, stripped up the right sleeve and exposed a crescent-shaped scar, one of the rare vaccination marks of those days.  I did not know what it was.  Her animated dark eyes drew the brows together so that a pucker came between them.  I looked at Croghan, and wanted to exclaim—­“Help yourself!  Anybody may handle me!”

“Ursule Grignon!” she said sharply, and Madame Grignon answered,