“Keep her quiet till I get back,” he said, and disappeared.

Rhoda was in a stupor and lay quietly unconscious with the stars blinking down on her, a limp dark heap against the mountain wall.  The three Indians munched mule meat, then Molly curled herself on the ground and in three minutes was snoring.  Alchise stood erect and still on the ledge for perhaps ten minutes after Kut-le’s departure.  Then he touched Cesca on the shoulder, lifted Rhoda in his arms and, followed by Cesca, left the sleeping Molly alone on the ledge.

Swiftly, silently, Alchise strode up the mountainside, Rhoda making neither sound nor motion.  For hours, with wonderful endurance the two Indians held the pace.  They moved up the mountain to the summit, which they crossed, then dropped rapidly downward.  Just at dawn Alchise stopped at a gray campos under some pines and called.  A voice from the hut answered him.  The canvas flap was put back and an old Indian buck appeared, followed by several squaws and young bucks, yawning and staring.

Alchise laid Rhoda on the ground while he spoke rapidly to the Indian.  The old man protested at first but on the repeated use of Kut-le’s name he finally nodded and Alchise carried Rhoda into the campos.  A squaw kindled a fire which, blazing up brightly, showed a huge, dark room, canvas-roofed and dirt-floored, quite bare except for the soiled blankets on the floor.

Rhoda was laid in the center of the hut.  The old buck knelt beside her.  He was very old indeed.  His time-ravaged features were lean and ascetic.  His clay-matted hair was streaked with white; his black eyes were deep-sunk and his temples were hollow.  But there was a fine sort of dignity about the old medicine-man, despite his squalor.  He gazed on Rhoda in silence for some time.  Alchise and Cesca sat on the floor, and little by little they were joined by a dozen other Indians who formed a circle about the girl.  The firelight flickered on the dark, intent faces and on Rhoda’s delicate beauty as she lay passing rapidly from stupor to delirium.

Suddenly the old man raised his lean hand, shaking a gourd filled with pebbles, and began softly to chant.  Instantly the other Indians joined him and the campos was filled with the rhythm of a weird song.  Rhoda tossed her arms and began to cough a little from the smoke.  The chant quickened.  It was but the mechanical repetition of two notes falling always from high to low.  Yet it had an indescribable effect of melancholy, this aboriginal song.  It was as hopeless and melancholy as all of nature’s chants:  the wail of the wind, the sob of the rain, the beat of the waves.

Rhoda sat erect, her eyes wild and wide.  The old buck, without ceasing his song, attempted to thrust her back with one lean brown claw, but Rhoda struck him feebly.

“Go away!” she cried.  “Be quiet!  You hurt my head!  Don’t make that dreadful noise!”