"Our tribe is the Delaware," said the old Indian woman evasively—" they came from the great woods like a river."
"Like a river? Yes, they know their source. But where did I spring from, ma mere?"
"Where was my son born?"
"Yes, tell me everything," said Verty; "tell me if I am your son. Do not tell me that you love me as a son, or that I love you as my mother. I know that—but am I a Delaware?"
"Why does my son ask?"
"Because a bird of the air whispered to me—'You are not a Delaware, nor a Tuscarora, nor a Dacotah; you are a pale face.' Did the bird lie!"
The old woman did not answer.
"Ma mere," said Verty, tenderly taking the old woman's hand and sitting at her feet, "the Great Spirit has made me honest and open—I cannot conceal anything. I cannot pry and search. I might find out this from some other person—who knows? But I will not try. Come! speak with a straight tongue. Am I the son of a brave; am I a Delaware; or am I what my face makes me out—a Long-knife?"
"Ough! ough! ough!" groaned the old woman; "he wants to go, away from the nest where he was warmed, and nursed, and brought up. The Great Spirit has put evil into his heart—it is cold."
"No, no," said Verty, earnestly—"my heart is red, not white; every drop of my life-blood is yours, ma mere; you have loved me, cherished me: when my muscles were soft and hot with fever, you laid my head upon your bosom, and rocked me to sleep as softly as the topmost bough of the oak rocks the oriole; you loved me always. My heart shall run out of my breast and soak the ground, before it turns white; yet, I love you, and you love me. But, ma mere, I have grown well nigh to manhood; the bird's song is changed, and the dove has flown to me—the dove yonder at Apple Orchard—"