“Squaw!” Ross answered in a tone of deep disgust. “She’s no squaw—not a half-breed, even. She’s a vision of loveliness. If she be mortal, she’s a pure Caucasian. Who is she?” “Tenskwatawa’s daughter,” replied Bradford, his bright eyes twinkling mischievously. “The Prophet’s daughter—bah!” was the scornful rejoinder. “Do you expect me to believe so transparent a falsehood? Do you think me blind? She’s a Caucasian, I tell you. Her eyes, her complexion, her hair—all indicate the fact.” “You forget there are red-headed Indians,” Bradford suggested. “I forget nothing. I have seen red-haired savages. But their complexions were swarthy, their eyes black.” “And I’ve seen them fair, with blue eyes and auburn hair.” “They were of mixed blood, then,” Douglas said positively. “Possibly.” “Possibly! You know they were. No Indian, male or female, pure blood or cross-breed, could be as fair as this young woman. Her features, her manner, her every characteristic bespeaks the white blood in her veins and stamps her as a white woman. You’re trying to deceive me. Now tell me. Who is she?” “I have told you what Tenskwatawa says and what his tribe believes. Like you, he calls her an angel, and tells how the Great Spirit sent her to him.” Again Bradford was smiling, a peculiar, unfathomable smile. “The lying impostor stole her somewhere,” Ross answered earnestly. His companion continued to smile, but said nothing. “How long has she been among the savages?” the younger man pursued. “Since her birth, perhaps. How should I know.” “But you _do_ know.” Again the older man was silent. “Why do you refuse to answer my questions?” Ross cried irritably. Once more that peculiar, fleeting smile elevated the corners of Bradford’s mouth and accentuated the puckered scar upon his cheek. Swiftly the two strode forward, overtaking and passing groups of stragglers, as they went. Descending into the river valley, they overhauled the main body of savages; and with them crossed the stream. As they were toiling up the opposite slope, Douglas turned to his companion and asked suddenly: “What’s her name?” “The Indians call her La Violette,” Bradford answered, as he gave a hitch to the pouch at his side and shifted his gun from one shoulder to the other. “Ah!” Ross ejaculated. “What do you mean by that knowing exclamation?” the older man inquired sharply. “Nothing; only——” “Only what?” “That’s not an Indian name.” “No?” “No, it’s not. It’s French.” “Indeed?” “Yes.” “And it signifies?” “You know its significance as well as I. La Violette means the violet.” “Well?” “Her name confirms my belief. She’s a white woman.” “Ah!” “Yes. The appellation refers to the color of her eyes.” “Do you think she’s French?” “I don’t know—but _you_ do, Hiram Bradford. Some person familiar with the French language gave her the name. She’s a prisoner—was kidnapped when a child, probably.” “What a keen observer and logician you are,” Bradford chuckled dryly.