“A good man,” said I, “and brave.  But his honest Stockbridge Indians know no more of Catharines-town than do the converted Oneidas yonder,”

Boyd nodded:  “I prophesy they quit us one and all within an arrow-flight of Wyalusing.  Do you take me, Loskiel?”

“No, you are right,” I said.  “The fear of the Long House chains them, and their long servitude has worn like fetters to their very bones.  Redcoats they can face, and have done so gallantly.  But there is in them a fear of the Five Nations past all understanding of a white man.”

I spoke to a diminished audience, for already Boyd and Lana Helmer had strolled a little way together, clearly much interested in each other’s conversation.  Presently our precious senior Consign sauntered the other way with pretty Mistress Lansing on his arm.  As for me, I was contented to see them go—­ had been only waiting for it.  And what I had thought I might venture to say to Lana Helmer by warrant of old acquaintance, I was now glad that I had not said at all—­ the years having in no wise subdued the mischief in her, nor her custom of plaguing me.  And how much she had ever really meant I could not truly guess.  No, it had been anything but wise to speak to her of Lois.  But now I meant to mention Lois to Mrs. Bleecker.

We had seated ourselves on the sun-crisped Indian grass, and for a while I let her chatter of Guy Park and our pleasant acquaintance there, and of Albany, too, where we had met sometimes at the Ten Broecks, the Schuylers, and the Patroons.  And all the while I was debating within my mind how this proud and handsome, newly-married girl might receive my halting story.  For it would not do to conceal anything vital to the case.  Her clear, wise eyes would see instantly through any evasion, not to say deception—­ even a harmless deception.  No; if she were to be of any aid in this deeply-perplexing business, I must tell her the story of Lois—­ not betraying anything that the girl might shrink from having others know, but stating her case and her condition as briefly and as honestly as I might.

And no sooner did I come to this conclusion than I spoke; and after the first word or two Mrs. Bleecker put off her sun-mask and turned, looking me directly in the eyes.

I said that the young lady’s name was Lois de Contrecoeur—­ and if it were not that it was nothing, and human creatures require a name!  But this I did not say to her, nor thought it necessary to mention any doubt as to the girl’s parentage, only to say she was the child of captives taken by the Senecas after the Lake George rout.

I told of her dreary girlhood, saying merely that her foster parents were now dead and that the child had conceived the senseless project of penetrating to Catharines-town, where she believed her mother, at least, was still held captive.

The tall, handsome girl beside me listened without a word, her intent gaze never leaving me; and when I had done, and the last word in my brief for Lois had been uttered, she bent her head in thought, and so continued minute after minute while I sat there waiting.