Now I knew after the first start that she was a living girl holding a living baby, and when my father, Thomas Williams, appeared at the door of the room, it was certain I could not be in heaven. It came over me in a flash that I myself was changed. In spite of the bandages my head was as clear as if all its faculties were washed and newly arranged. I could look back into my life and perceive things that I had only sensed as a dumb brute. A fish thawed out after being frozen, and reanimated through every sparkling scale and tremulous fin, could not have felt its resurrection more keenly. My broken head gave me no trouble at all. The girl and baby disappeared as soon as I saw my father; which was not surprising, for he could not be called a prepossessing half-breed. His lower lip protruded and hung sullenly. He had heavy brows and a shaggy thatch of hair. Our St. Regis Iroquois kept to the buckskins, though they often had hunting shirts of fulled flannel; and my father's buckskins were very dirty. A little man, that I did not know was in the room, shuffled across the floor to keep my father from entering. Around the base of his head he had a thin curtain of hair scarcely reaching his shoulders. His nose pointed upward. Its tip was the shape of a candle extinguisher. He wore horn spectacles; and knee breeches, waistcoat and coat of black like the ink which fades to brown in a drying ink-horn. He put his hands together and took them apart uncertainly, and shot out his lip and frowned, as if he had an universal grudge and dared not vent it. He said something in a language I did not understand, and my father made no answer. Then he began a kind of Anglo-French, worse than the patois we used at St. Regis when we did not speak Iroquois. I made out the talk between the two, understanding each without hesitation. "Sir, who are you?" "The chief, Thomas Williams," answered my father. "Pardon me, sir; but you are unmistakably an Indian." "Iroquois chief," said my father. "Mohawk." "That being the case, what authority have you for calling yourself Thomas Williams?" challenged the little man. "Thomas Williams is my name." "Impossible, sir! Skenedonk, the Oneida, does not assume so much. He lays no claim to William Jones or John Smith, or some other honest British name." The chief maintained silent dignity. "Come, sir, let me have your Indian name! I can hear it if I cannot repeat it." Silently contemptuous, my father turned toward me. "Stop, sir!" the man in the horn spectacles cried. "What do you want?" "I want my boy." "Your boy? This lad is white." "My grandmother was white," condescended the chief. "A white prisoner from Deerfield. Eunice Williams." "I see, sir. You get your Williams from the Yankees. And is this lad's mother white, too?" "No. Mohawk." "Why, man, his body is like milk! He is no son of yours." The chief marched toward me.