The years since that far night when I had seen two maidens in Grecian robes beside the Flat Rock in the “Moon of the Peach Blossom,” had left no trace on Eloise St. Vrain, save to imprint the graces of womanliness on her girlish face.  But the picturesque Indian maiden of that night looked aged and sorrowful in the pine forest of her native land, bent, as she was, with the dull existence of her own people; she, who had known and loved a different form of life.  Only the big, luminous eyes held their old charm.

We came together in a little open space with pine-trees all about us.  The minutes went swiftly then—­and I must hurry to what came hurrying on, for much of it is lost in mist and wonder.

In the moment of glad reunion Aunty Boone suddenly gave a whoop the like of which I had never heard before, and, dashing wildly toward Eloise and Sister Gloria, she drove them in a fierce charge straight back into the shelter of the pine-trees.

At the same time a sudden rain of bullets, like a swift hail-storm, and a yell—­the Apache cry of vengeance—­filled the air.  Long afterward we learned that our Indian runner had met this band and tried to turn it back—­and failed.  He would have saved us if he could.

It was over soon—­that encounter in the forest where each tree was a shield.  The cavalrymen and maybe, too, we who had been plainsmen, knew how to drive back a villianous handful of Apaches.  In any other moment since we had ridden out of Sante Fe we would have laughed at such a struggle.  They took us in the most unguarded instant of that fortnight’s journey.

The Hopis fled wildly out of sight.  Here and there, from the defeated, scattered band, an Apache warrior sprang back and lost himself quickly in the shadows.  But Santan, plunging into our very midst, seized Little Blue Flower in his iron grip, and the bullet from a cavalry carbine, meant for him, struck her.

He laughed and threw her back and, whirling, dashed—­into the arms of Aunty Boone—­and stopped.

We carried our wounded tenderly up the steep wooded slope and out into the sweet sunlight of its crest, where we laid them down beside that wondrous rift with its shimmering mist and velvet shadows, and colorings of splendor, folded all in the magnificence of its immensity and its eternal silence.

We knew that Jondo’s wound was mortal, and Father Josef and Eloise and Rex Krane sat beside him, as the brave eyes looked out across the sublimity of earthly beauty toward the far land no eye hath seen, facing, unafraid, the outward-leading trail.

But Beverly was in the prime of young manhood, and we felt sure of him, as Esmond Clarenden and Sister Gloria; and I ministered to his wants.

“It’s no use, Gail.”  My cousin lifted a pleading face to mine a moment, as on that day, years ago on the parade-ground at Fort Leavenworth.  Then the bright smile came back to stay.

“Why, Bev, you have a life before you, and you aren’t the only Eighteenth Kansas man who deserted.  We can pull you through somehow—­and people will forget.  Even General Sheridan was willing to send a squad with us, on the possibility of a mistake somewhere.”