"And as it was to be recorded on the eternal wampum, you were found at Guy Johnson's landing place asleep beside a stranded St. Regis canoe; and your dead mother lay beside you with a half ounce ball through her heart. The St. Regis chief had spoken."
"Why do you think he slew her?" I whispered.
I drew myself to my elbow, struck fire and blew the tinder to a glow.
"This is yours," he said. And laid in my hand a tiny, lacquered folder striped with the pattern of a Scotch tartan.
Wondering, I opened it. Within was a bit of wool in which still remained three rusted needles. And across the inside cover was written in faded ink:
"How came you by this?" I stammered, the quick tears blinding me.
"I took it from the St. Regis hunter whom Tahoontowhee slew."
"Who knows?" said the Sagamore softly. "Yet, this needle-book is a poor thing for an Indian to treasure--and carry in a pouch around his neck for twenty years."
The glow-worm spark in my tinder grew dull and went out. For a long while I lay there, thinking, awed by the ways of God--so certain, so inscrutable. And understood how at the last all things must be revealed--even the momentary and lightest impulse, and every deepest and most secret thought.
Lying there, I asked of the Master of Life His compassion on us all, and said my tremulous and silent thanks to Him for the dear, sad secret that His mercy had revealed.
And, my lips resting on my mother's needle-book, I thought of Lois, and how like mine in a measure was her strange history, not yet fully revealed.
"Sagamore, my elder brother?" I said at last.
"How is it then with Lois de Contrecoeur that you already knew she was of the Hidden Children?"
"I knew it when I first laid eyes on her, Loskiel."
"The moccasins. She lay under a cow-shed asleep in her red cloak, her head on her arms. Beside her the kerchief tied around her bundle lay unknotted, revealing the moccasins that lay within. I saw, and knew. And for that reason have I been her friend."
There was no answer to this. An Indian is an Indian.
"What mark is there on the moccasins that you knew them?"
"The wings, worked in white wampum. A mother makes a pair with wings each year for her Hidden One, so that they will bring her little child to her one day, swiftly and surely as the swallow that returns with spring."