This, with the crackle of the twigs, was all which disturbed the silence of the solitary lodge.
The silence lasted for half an hour, at the end of which time Verty changed his position, and sighed. Then looking at the old woman with great affection, the young man said:
"I was thinking who I was; and I wanted to ask you, _ma mere_--tell me."
The old woman looked startled at this address, but concealing her emotion with the marvellous skill of her people, replied in her guttural accent--
"Yes, _ma mere_, that is it. I want to know if I really am your son."
The old woman turned her eyes from Verty.
"The fawn knows the deer, and the bear's cub knows his fellows," continued Verty, gazing into the fire; "but they laugh at me. I don't know my tribe."
"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_?"
"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?"
"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!"
"_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--"