raged in my person came upon me mightily, and snatching the wholesome
lancet I turned its spring upon the doctor. He yelled. I leaped through
the door like a deer, and ran barefooted, the loose robe curdling above
my knees. I had the fleetest foot among the Indian racers, and was going
to throw the garment away for the pure joy of feeling the air slide past
my naked body, when I saw the girl and poppet baby who had looked at me
during my first consciousness. They were sitting on a blanket under the
trees of De Chaumont's park, which deepened into wilderness.

The baby put up a lip, and the girl surrounded it with her arm,
dividing her sympathy with me. I must have been a charming object.
Though ravenous for food and broken-headed, I forgot my state, and
turned off the road of escape to stare at her like a tame deer.

She lowered her eyes wisely, and I got near enough without taking fright
to see a book spread open on the blanket, showing two illuminated pages.
Something parted in me. I saw my mother, as I had seen her in some past
life:--not Marianne the Mohawk, wife of Thomas Williams, but a fair
oval-faced mother with arched brows. I saw even her pointed waist and
puffed skirts, and the lace around her open neck. She held the book in
her hands and read to me from it.

I dropped on my knees and stretched my arms above my head, crying aloud
as women cry with gasps and chokings in sudden bereavement. Nebulous
memories twisted all around me and I could grasp nothing. I raged for
what had been mine--for some high estate out of which I had fallen into
degradation. I clawed the ground in what must have seemed convulsions to
the girl. Her poppet cried and she hushed it.

"Give me my mother's book!" I strangled out of the depths of my throat;
and repeated, as if torn by a devil--"Give me my mother's book!"

She blanched so white that her lips looked seared, and instead of
disputing my claim, or inquiring about my mother, or telling me to
begone, she was up on her feet. Taking her dress in her finger tips and
settling back almost to the ground in the most beautiful obeisance I
ever saw, she said--

"Sire!"

Neither in Iroquois nor in Iroquois-French had such a name been given to
me before. I had a long title signifying Tree-Cutter, which belonged to
every chief of our family. But that word---"Sire!"--and her deep
reverence seemed to atone in some way for what I had lost. I sat up,
quieting myself, still moved as water he