“Another pair of moccasins was left outside my door last night.”

“What!  At Croghan’s?  Inside our line!” I exclaimed incredulously.

“Aye.  But this time the message sewed within them differed from all the others.  And on the shred of bark was written:  ’Swift moccasins for little feet as swift.  The long trail opens.  Come!’”

“You think your mother wrote it?” I asked, astounded.

“Yes....  She wrote the others.”

“Well?”

“This writing is the same.”

“The same hand that wrote the other messages throughout the years?”

“The same.”

“Have you told the Sagamore of this?”

“I told him but now—­ and for the first time.”

“You told him everything?”

“Yes—­ concerning my first finding—­ and the messages that came every year with the moccasins.”

“And did you show him the Indian writing also?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing.  But there flashed up suddenly in his eyes a reddish light that frightened me, and his face became so hideous and terrible that I could have cried out.  But I contrived to maintain my composure, and I said:  ‘What do you make of it, O Sagamore?’ And he spat out a word I did not clearly understand——­”

“Amochol?”

“Yes—­ it sounded like that.  What did he mean, Euan?”

“I will presently ask him,” said I, thoroughly alarmed.  “And in the meanwhile, you must now be persuaded to remain at this post.  You are contented and happy here.  When we march, you will go back to Schenectady or to Albany with the ladies of the garrison, and wait there some word of our fate.

“If we win through, I swear to you that if your mother be there in Catharines-town I will bring news of her, or, God willing, bring her herself to you.”

I rose and aided her to stand; and her hands remained limply in mine.

“I had rather take you from her arms,” I said in a low voice, “——­ if you ever deign to give yourself to me.”

“That is sweetly said....  Such giving leaves the giver unashamed.”

“Could you promise yourself to me?”

She stood with head averted, watching the last faint stain of color fade from the west.

“Would you have me at any cost, Euan?”

“Any cost.”

“Suppose that when I find my mother—­ I find no name for myself—­ save hers?”

“You shall have mine then.”

“Dear lad!...  But—­ suppose, even then I do not love you—­ as men mean love.”

“So that you love no other man, I should still want you.”

“Am I then so vital to you?”

“Utterly.”

“To how many other women have you spoken thus?” she asked gravely.

“To none.”

“Truly?”

“Truly, Lois.”

She said in a low voice: