“O Sagamore,” I said, lifting my head, “tell me her surname now, because I need it for this business. And I forgot to ask her at the Spring Waiontha.”

For a full minute the Indian’s countenance turned full on me remained moon-blank. Then, like lightning, flashed his smile.

“Loskiel, my friend, and now my own blood-brother, what magic singing birds have so enchanted your two ears. She is but a child, lonely and ragged — a tattered leaf still green, torn from the stem by storm and stress, blown through the woodlands and whirled here and yonder by every breath of wind. Is it fit that my brother Loskiel should notice such a woman?”

“She is in need, my brother.”

“Give, and pass on, Loskiel.”