"It was I, Jack Mount!" repeated the forest-runner, in a loud voice. "Hark! The Iroquois drums! The game's afoot, Cade! Rouse up, old friend! The trail is free!"
But the Weasel only stared at him with his solemn, aged eyes, and clasped his trembling hands in his lap.
Mount stood still for a long while. Slowly his eager head sank, his arms fell, hopelessly. Then, with a gulping sob, he sank down beside his ancient comrade, and hid his head in his huge hands.
The Weasel looked at him with sorrowful eyes; then rose, and came slowly towards Silver Heels.
"They say you are not my daughter," he said, taking Silver Heels's hands from mine. "They tell me I have forgotten many things—that you are not my little girl. But—we know better, my child."
He bent and kissed her hands. His hair was white as frost.
"We know better, child," he murmured. "You shall tell me all they say—for I cannot understand—and we will smile to remember it all, in the long summer evenings—will we not, my child?"
"Yes," said Silver Heels, faintly.
"There is much, sir, that I forget in these days," he said, turning gravely towards me—"much that I cannot recall. Age comes to us all with God's mercy, sir. Pray you forgive if I lack in aught of courtesy to my guests. There are many people who stay with us—and I cannot remember all names of new and welcome guests—believe me, most welcome. I think your name is Captain Butler?"
"Sir Michael Cardigan," whispered Silver Heels.