“You are asking, my sister tells me, for Roger Boscowen,” said Loïs, returning his salute. “He is not at home; he is gone on an expedition, and will not be back for some days perhaps; we can never tell how long he may absent himself.”
“I am sorry,” said the stranger, in a rich, musical voice, and with an accent which told Loïs that he was no colonist, but an Englishman fresh from the old country; “doubtless,” he continued, “there is some inn where we can put up our horses and remain until his return?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Loïs; “but if you have come on business to Roger, you had better wait and see Father Nat. You look travel-stained; have you come from far?”
“We have come all the way from Albany,” answered the stranger, smiling pleasantly, “and we wish to take up our abode in your village—at least, for a time.”
“Indeed,” said Loïs, looking surprised; but too modest to question him further, she added, “If you will go with your men to the house yonder I will send for Father Nat, and you can explain your business to him.”
“But is not this Roger Boscowen’s house?” asked the traveller.
“No,” said Loïs; “this is Alpha Marsh, the Langlades’ homestead; the Boscowens live next door at Omega Marsh. But indeed it is much the same, only as you ask for Roger you had better go to his own place. I will send men to take your horses, and Nokomis will provide refreshments for your men.” She bent her head with a certain stately grace, and re-entered the house.
“Quick, Marie,” she said; “find Jim and tell him to go in search of Father Nat, and let him know of the arrival of the new-comers. I will go round to Nokomis and see that she deals out proper hospitality; she is not over given to generosity.”
Half an hour later the strangers were seated in Omega Marsh kitchen, partaking of a plentiful meal, which was rendered still more palatable served as it was by two such handmaids as Loïs and Marie. Father Nat had returned in haste when he heard of the arrival of the strangers, but he would not allow their chief to enter into any explanations until he had refreshed himself.
They were five in number: four men in the prime of life, and one lad of seventeen, whom Nathaniel recognised immediately as the son of an old acquaintance, William Parkmann, of Massachusetts. He was a mere boy in appearance, unusually tall and lanky, overgrown one might say, with an almost girl’s face—he looked so very young: yet there was no lack of character in it; the mouth and chin were firm, and the hazel eyes intelligent and even searching.