“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.