“Pardon my interruption,” he replied. “Please go on with your story.”
“When I was ten years old, we were encamped upon the Maumee. There it was that I first saw Hiram Bradford—so far as I know. It was in the autumn when he came among us. He appeared to have great influence with my father, Tenskwatawa. One day I overheard the two talking—or quarreling, rather. Both were very angry. I heard my name mentioned; and with childish intuition I knew that some calamity threatened me. I ran and hid; but shortly my father found me, and told me I was to leave the tribe and accompany Scar Face—that is the name Bradford bears among the Indians. I remember I cried bitterly and clung to Crane Bill, my nurse. But Bradford took me in his arms and bore me away. He took me to Quebec and placed me in charge of some French women, who taught a mission school. There I remained six years—and there I received the little education I possess. Two years ago he took me from my good friends—whom I had learned to love dearly—and brought me back to the tribe.”
She stopped abruptly, her breast heaving.
“Go on,” Ross said gently.
“There is no more to tell,” was the half-whispered reply.
“That’s all you know of yourself?”
“It is”—nodding.
“Do you know anything of Bradford’s history?”
“Nothing.”