Madame Tank looked into the reddened fireplace, and began to speak, but
hesitated. The whole thing was weird, like a dream resulting from the
cut on my head: the strange white faces; the camp stuff and saddlebags
unpacked from horses; the light on the coarse floor; the children
listening as to a ghost story; Mademoiselle de Chaumont presiding over
it all. The cabin had an arched roof and no loft. The top was full of
shadows.

"If you are the boy I take you to be," Madame Tank finally said, sinking
her voice, "you may find you have enemies."

"If I am the boy you take me to be, madame, who am I?"

She shook her head.

"I wish I had not spoken at all. To tell you anything more would only
plunge you into trouble. You are better off to be as you are, than to
know the truth and suffer from it. Besides, I may be mistaken. And I am
certainly too helpless myself to be of any use to you. This much I will
say: when you are older, if things occur that make it necessary for you
to know what I know, send a letter to me, and I will write it down."

With delicacy Monsieur Grignon began to play a whisper of a tune on his
violin. I did not know what she meant by a letter, though I understood
her. Madame Tank spoke the language as well as anybody. I thought then,
as idiom after idiom rushed back on my memory, that it was an universal
language, with the exception of Iroquois and English.

"We are going to a place called Green Bay, in the Northwest Territory.
Remember the name: Green Bay. It is in the Wisconsin country."