The old Spaniard in his gruff and haughty way has been kind to Grant and me.  He’s not well—­some obscure cardiac trouble from which he suffers at times most horribly.  He has confided to me a singular secret.  The young foreigner who divorced Nanca is the crown prince of some obscure little mountain kingdom called Houdania.  His name is Theodomir.  He had wild revolutionary notions, hated royalty and fled at the death of his father.  But America and its boasted liberty had cankers and inequalities too, and heartsick, Theodomir roamed about until at length on a hunting trip he came into the village of the Seminoles.  Here was the communistic organization of which this aristocratic young socialist had dreamed—­tribal ownership of lands, cooeperative equality of men and women—­no jails, no poor-houses, no bolts or bars or locks—­honorable old age and perfect moral order without law.  What wonder that he lingered?  Now that he is divorced from Nanca he wanders about from tribe to tribe.  I’d like to see him.

* * * * * *

Ann, I must write the truth.  The face of this Spanish girl haunts me day and night.  There is a madness in my blood.  I wish you were here!  I am tormented by terrible doubts and misgivings.  If Dad were not so intolerant!

* * * * * *

Nanca has fled from the Indian village with Grant and me.  Oh, Ann, it had to come!  I lost my head.  The old Spaniard died three days ago.  That was the cause of it.  Nanca’s grief was wild and terrible.  Her wailing dirge was all Indian, yet immediately she cried out that the Indian way of life for her was impossible without her father.  She begged me to take her away.  And yet—­Oh, Ann, Ann!  How could I take that other man’s child?  We left her outside the old chief’s wigwam.

Much as I have scoffed at marriage, I have married Nanca.  Grant insisted.  He was a little bitter.  I do not know what makes him so.

I have seen Dad.  We quarreled bitterly.  Agatha was there with him.  I can hardly write what followed.  By some God-forsaken twist of Fate, a jealous, sullen-eyed young Indian who had loved Nanca and had been spurned by her father, followed us relentlessly from the Glades to St. Augustine.  He told Dad that Nanca had not been married to the artist—­that she was a mother and not a wife—­and Dad believed it.  I told him patiently enough that there is no ceremony among the Seminoles—­that the man goes forth to the home of the girl at the setting of the sun, and that he is then as legally her husband as if all the courts in Christendom had tied the knot.  Dad can not see it.  I shall be in New York in two weeks.  Nanca and I are going to Spain.  I can not forget Dad’s white, horror-struck face nor what he said.  He is bigoted and unjust.  God help me, I hope that I may never set eyes upon him again!

* * * * * *