“If this is the sort of friendship you bring me, what is your love worth?” she asked almost fiercely.  “And—­I cared for you—­cared for the man I believed you to be; bared my heart to you—­wrung every secret from it—­thinking you understood!  And you turn on me counselling the law, divorce, horrors unthinkable!—­because you say you love me!...  And I tell you that if I loved you—­dearly—­blindly—­I could not endure to free myself at the expense of pain—­to them—­even for your sake!  They took me, nameless, as I was—­a—­a foundling.  If they ever learn what I have done I shall ask their pardon on my knees, and accept life with the man I married.  But if they never learn I shall remain with them—­always.  You have asked me what chance you have.  Now you know!  It is useless to love me.  I cared enough for you to try to kill what you call love last night.  I cared enough to-day to strip my heart naked for you—­to show you there was no chance.  If I have done right or wrong I do not know—­but I did it for your sake.”

His face reddened painfully, but as he offered no reply she put her horse in motion and rode on, proud little head averted.  For a few minutes neither he nor she spoke, their horses pacing neck and neck through the forest.  At last he said:  “You are right, Shiela; I am not worth it.  Forgive me.”

She turned, eyes level and fearless.  Suddenly her mouth quivered.

“Forgive me,” she said impulsively; “you are worth more than I dare give you.  Love me in your own fashion.  I wish it.  And I will care for you very faithfully in mine.”

They were very young, very hopeless, deeply impressed with one another, and quite inexperienced enough to trust each other.  She leaned from her saddle and laid her slim bare hands in both of his, lifting her gaze bravely to his—­a little dim of eye and still tremulous of lip.  And he looked back, love’s tragedy dawning in his gaze, yet forcing the smile that the very young employ as a defiance to destiny and an artistic insult in the face of Fate; that Fate which looks back so placid and unmoved.

“Can you forgive me, Shiela?”

“Look at me?” she whispered.

* * * * *

A few moments later she hastily disengaged her hand.

“There seems to be a fire, yonder,” he said; “and somebody seated before it; your Seminole, I think.  By Jove, Shiela, he’s certainly picturesque!”

A sullen-eyed Indian rose as they rode up, his turban brilliant in the declining sunshine, his fringed leggings softly luminous as woven cloth of gold.

“He—­a—­mah, Coacochee!” said the girl in friendly greeting.  “It is good to see you, Little Tiger.  The people of the East salute the Uchee Seminoles.”

The Indian answered briefly and with dignity, then stood impassive, not noticing Hamil.

“Mr. Hamil,” she said, “this is my old friend Coacochee or Little Tiger; an Okichobi Seminole of the Clan of the Wind; a brave hunter and an upright man.”