"It is like another life," she said. "It was too lovely to last. Ah, those dear people in Albany, and their great kindness to me! And now I shall never see them again."
"Why not?" asked Sir George. "My aunt Livingston would welcome you."
"I cannot abandon my own kin, Sir George," she said, raising her distressed eyes to his.
"There are moments when it is best to sever such ties," I observed.
"Perhaps," she said, quickly; "but this is not the moment, Mr. Ormond. My kinsmen are exiled fugitives, deprived of their own lands by those who have risen in rebellion against our King. How can I, whom they loved in their prosperity, leave them in their adversity?"
"You speak of Guy Johnson and Sir John?" I asked.
"Yes; and of those brave people whose blood flows in my veins," she said, quietly. "Where is the Mohawk nation now, Sir George? This is their country, secured to them by solemn oath and covenant, inviolate for all time. Their belts lie with the King of England; his belts lie still with my people, the Mohawks. Where are they?"
"Fled to Oswego with Sir John," I said.
"And homeless!" she added, in a low, tense voice--"homeless, without clothing, without food, save what Guy Johnson gives them; their women and children utterly helpless, the graves of their fathers abandoned, their fireplace at Onondaga cold, and the brands scattered for the first time in a thousand years I This have you Boston people done--done already, without striking a blow."
She turned her head proudly and looked straight at Sir George.