"Look at that boy--he has been hurt--the blood is running down his cheek!" she cried. "I thought he was an Indian--and he is white!" She came down as lightly as she had gone up, and caused me to be haled against my will to the middle of a bench. I wanted the women to leave me alone, and told them my head had been broken two days before, and was nearly well. The mothers, too keen to wash and bandage to let me escape, opened a saddle pack and tore good linen. George Croghan stood by the chimney, slim and tall and handsome. His head and face were long, his hair was of a sunny color, and his mouth corners were shrewd and good natured. I liked him the moment I saw him. Younger in years than I, he was older in wit and manly carriage. While he looked on it was hard to have Madame Tank seize my head in her hands and examine my eyebrow. She next took my wrists, and not satisfied, stripped up the right sleeve and 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: