"Your boy? This lad is white."

"My grandmother was white," condescended the chief. "A white prisoner
from Deerfield. Eunice Williams."

"I see, sir. You get your Williams from the Yankees. And is this lad's
mother white, too?"

"No. Mohawk."

"Why, man, his body is like milk! He is no son of yours."

The chief marched toward me.

"Let him alone! If you try to drag him out of the manor I will appeal to
the authority of Le Ray de Chaumont."

My father spoke to me with sharp authority--

"Lazarre!"

"What do you call him?" the little man inquired, ambling beside the
chief.

"Eleazer Williams is his name. But in the lodges, at St. Regis,
everywhere, it is Lazarre."

"How old is he?"

"About eighteen years."