“Eh, what, Katarina?”

“This is the boy.”

“But what boy?”

“The boy I saw on the ship.”

“The one who was sent to America—­”

Madame Tank put up her hand, and the other stopped.

“But that was a child,” Madame Grignon then objected.

“Nine years ago.  He would be about eighteen now.”

“How old are you?” they both put to me.

Remembering what my father had told Doctor Chantry, I was obliged to own that I was about eighteen.  Annabel de Chaumont sat on the lowest log of the chimney with her feet on a bench, and her chin in her hand, interested to the point of silence.  Something in her eyes made it very galling to be overhauled and have my blemishes enumerated before her and Croghan.  What had uplifted me to Madame de Ferrier’s recognition now mocked, and I found it hard to submit.  It would not go well with the next stranger who declared he knew me by my scars.

“What do they call you in this country?” inquired Madame Tank.

I said my name was Lazarre Williams.

“It is not!” she said in an undertone, shaking her head.

I made bold to ask with some warmth what my name was then, and she whispered—­“Poor child!”

It seemed that I was to be pitied in any case.  In dim self-knowledge I saw that the core of my resentment was her treating me with commiseration.  Madame de Ferrier had not treated me so.

“You live among the Indians?” Madame Tank resumed.

The fact was evident.

“Have they been kind to you?”

I said they had.

Madame Tank’s young daughter edged near her and inquired in a whisper,

“Who is he, mother?”

“Hush!” answered Madame Tank.

The head of the party laid down his violin and bow, and explained to us: 

“Madame Tank was maid of honor to the queen of Holland, before reverses overtook her.  She knows court secrets.”

“But she might at least tell us,” coaxed Annabel, “if this Mohawk is a Dutchman.”

Madame Tank said nothing.

“What could happen in the court of Holland?  The Dutch are slow coaches.  I saw the Van Rensselaers once, near Albany, riding in a wagon with straw under their feet, on common chairs, the old Patroon himself driving.  This boy is some off-scouring.”

“He outranks you, mademoiselle,” retorted Madame Tank.

“That’s what I wanted to find out,” said Annabel.

I kept half an eye on Croghan to see what he thought of all this woman talk.  For you cannot help being more dominated by the opinion of your contemporaries than by that of the fore-running or following generation.  He held his countenance in excellent command, and did not meddle even by a word.  You could be sure, however, that he was no credulous person who accepted everything that was said to him.

Madame Tank looked into the reddened fireplace, and began to speak, but hesitated.  The whole thing was weird, like a dream resulting from the cut on my head:  the strange white faces; the camp stuff and saddlebags unpacked from horses; the light on the coarse floor; the children listening as to a ghost story; Mademoiselle de Chaumont presiding over it all.  The cabin had an arched roof and no loft.  The top was full of shadows.