d exposed a crescent-shaped scar, one of
the rare vaccination marks of those days. I did not know what it was.
Her animated dark eyes drew the brows together so that a pucker came
between them. I looked at Croghan, and wanted to exclaim--"Help
yourself! Anybody may handle me!"

"Ursule Grignon!" she said sharply, and Madame Grignon answered,

"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