At length he came upon the object of his search, a woman past middle age, whose features were unmistakably those of the white race.
She sat on the grass in the shade of a tree, near the door of a wigwam, her fingers busily employed in embroidering a moccasin.
She seemed scarcely aware of his presence as he stood before her vainly striving to still the tumultuous beating of his heart.
Controlling his voice by a great effort, he addressed her in English, in a quiet tone.
"How do you do, mother?"
She looked up for an instant, shook her head slowly, and dropped her eyes upon her work again.
"You understand me?" he said inquiringly, "you have not forgotten your native tongue?"
"Me squaw," was the laconic answer, unaccompanied by so much as a glance.
He sat down on a stump near at hand, the very same on which Lyttleton had seated himself the previous night, and watched her silently for a moment, while he considered the best manner of approaching her so as to win her confidence and learn whether she could indeed tell him aught of that which all these years he had been trying to discover.
"You are a white woman, why should you wish to conceal the fact?" he said at length in a soft, persuasive tone. "I have no design against you, but on the contrary would gladly do you any service in my power."