'Lois,' he said, 'before I go to join that matchless company, I think you ought to know that which will cause you to grieve less for me....

And so I tell you that I am not your father....

We found you at our door in Caughnwagha, strapped to a Seneca cradle-board.

Nor had you any name.

We did not seek you, but, having you so, bowed to God's will and suffered you to remain with us.
We strove to do our duty by you----' His vague gaze wandered toward the tent door where the armed guard stood, terrible and grim and ragged.
Then he unloosened my suddenly limp arms about him, muttering to himself of something he'd forgotten; and, rummaging in his pockets found it presently--a packet laced in deerskin.