“There was a time, in the days of Arcadia, when Philip would have laughed, and a second deer would have lain at the door of your wig-wam—­”

“Philip is changed.”

“He is quieter—­”

“Yes.”

“A little sterner—­”

“Yes.”

“Like one perhaps who has abandoned a dream!”

“I—­do—­not—­know.”

“Why does he ride away for days with Sho-caw?”

“I have wondered.”

The wind, wafting from the rain which splashed in the pool of Mic-co’s court, might have told, but the wind, with the business of rain upon its mind, was reticent.

“And Ronador?”

“I have not forgotten.”

“He is waiting.”

“Yes.  Day by day I have put off the thought of the inevitable reckoning.  It is another reason why presently I must hurry away.”

“A singular trio of suitors!” sighed the rain.  “A prince—­an Indian warrior—­and a spy!”

“Not that!” cried the girl’s heart.  “No, no—­not that!”

“You breathed it but a minute ago!”

“I know—­”

“And of the three, Sho-caw, bright copper though he is, is perhaps braver—­”

“No!”

“Taller—­”

“He is not so tall as Philip.”

“To be sure Philip is brown and handsome and sturdy and very strong, but Ronador—­ah!—­there imperial distinction and poise are blended with as true a native grace as Sho-caw’s—­”

“Humor and resource are better things.”

“Sho-caw’s grace is not so heavy as Ronador’s—­and not so sprightly as Philip’s—­”

“It may be.”

“One may tell much by the color and expression of a man’s eye.  Sho-caw’s eyes are keen, alert and grave; Ronador’s dark, compelling and very eloquent.  What though there is a constant sense of suppression and smouldering fire and not quite so much directness as one might wish—­”

“Philip’s eyes are calm and steady and very frank,” said the girl, “and he is false.”

“Yes,” said the rain with a noise like a shower of tears, “yes, he is very false.”

The wind sighed.  The steady drip of the rain, filtering through the vines twisted heavily about the oak trunks, was indescribably mournful.  Suddenly the nameless terror that had crept into the girl’s veins that first night in the Seminole camp came again.

“When the Mulberry Moon is at its full,” she said shuddering, “I will go back to the van with Keela.  I do not know what it is here that frightens me so.  And I will marry Ronador.  Every wild thing in the forest loves and mates.  And I—­I am very lonely.”

But by the time the Mulberry Moon of the Seminoles blanketed the great marsh in misty silver Diane was restlessly on her way back to the world of white men.

Philip followed.  Leaner, browner, a little too stern, perhaps, about the mouth and eyes, a gypsy of greater energy and resource than when he had struck recklessly into the Glades with the music-machine he had since exchanged for an Indian wagon, Philip camped and smoked and hunted with the skill and gravity of an Indian.