She was standing as she spoke, gazing off far across the Lake. She was brown and broad-cheeked, as so many Virginians are. In that setting she took character; and her pride as she said, “They were the leaders of the Six Nations!” caused Richard to wonder. Great-grandfather Wells, friend of Chief Red Jacket, had been received into the Seneca tribe. Could it be a touch of Indian blood that gave the erect figure, the dark skin and the swart hair?
“Are you a Seneca maiden, I wonder?” he asked.
She turned swiftly and posed like a statue.
“You should see me in my birch canoe,” she spoke after a second or two. “For your private joy I’ll braid my hair in two thick plaits and put on a genuine Tshoti-non-da-waga costume out of ‘Grandfather’s Room.’ Then you will wonder. Oh, my dear Sir Richard, you are not the only one to have mysterious pasts!”
Instantly he took up the jest—if it were a jest—and parodied Longfellow at her:
“Tell me, tell me, lovely maiden
Of the Tshoti-non-da-waga,
Do you still sneak up behind one
With a scalping-knife extended
For to—uh—lift one’s curling ringlets?”