“For three years the fierce St. Regis chief wooed her, offering her the first place in his lodge.  For three years she refused him, living in a bush-hut alone with her child, outside the St. Regis village, fed by them, and her solitude respected.  Then Munro came and his soldiers scattered the St. Regis and took her and her baby to the fort.  And the St. Regis chief sent word that he would kill her if she ever married.”

So painfully intent was I on his every low-spoken word that I scarce dared breathe as the story of my mother slowly unfolded.

“Guy Johnson and I took the young woman and her child to Edward,” he said.  “Her name was Marie Loskiel, and she told us that she was the widow of a Scotch fur trader, one Ian Loskiel, of Saint Sacrament.”

There was another silence, as though he were not willing to continue.  Then in a quiet voice I bade him speak; and he spoke, very gravely: 

“Your mother’s religion and Guy Johnson’s were different.  If that were the reason she would not marry him I do not know.  Only that when he went away, leaving her at Edward, they both wept.  I was standing by his stirrup; I saw him—­ and her.

“And—­ he rode away, Loskiel....  Why she tried to follow him the next spring, I do not know....  Perhaps she found that love was stronger than religion....  And after all the only difference seemed to be that she prayed to the mother of the God he prayed to....  We spoke of it together, the Great Serpent, young Uncas, and I. And Uncas told us this.  But the Serpent and I could make nothing of it.

“And while Guy Johnson was at Edward, only he and I and your mother ever saw or touched you....  And ever you were tracing with your baby fingers the great Ghost Bear rearing on my breast——­”

“Ah!” I exclaimed sharply.  “That is what I have struggled to remember!”

He drew a deep, unsteady breath: 

“Do you better understand our blood-brotherhood now, Loskiel?”

“I understand—­ profoundly.”

“That is well.  That is as it should be, O my blood-brother, pure from birth, and at adolescence undefiled.  Of such Hidden Ones were the White-Plumed Sagamores.  Of such was Tamanund, the Silver-Plumed; and the great Uncas, with his snowy-winged and feathered head—­ Hidden People, Loskiel—­ without stain, without reproach.

“And as it was to be recorded on the eternal wampum, you were found at Guy Johnson’s landing place asleep beside a stranded St. Regis canoe; and your dead mother lay beside you with a half ounce ball through her heart.  The St. Regis chief had spoken.”

“Why do you think he slew her?” I whispered.

“Strike flint.  It is safe here.”

I drew myself to my elbow, struck fire and blew the tinder to a glow.

“This is yours,” he said.  And laid in my hand a tiny, lacquered folder striped with the pattern of a Scotch tartan.

Wondering, I opened it.  Within was a bit of wool in which still remained three rusted needles.  And across the inside cover was written in faded ink: