For El-Soo was beautiful—­not as white women are beautiful, not as Indian women are beautiful.  It was the flame of her, that did not depend upon feature, that was her beauty.  So far as mere line and feature went, she was the classic Indian type.  The black hair and the fine bronze were hers, and the black eyes, brilliant and bold, keen as sword-light, proud; and hers the delicate eagle nose with the thin, quivering nostrils, the high cheek-bones that were not broad apart, and the thin lips that were not too thin.  But over all and through all poured the flame of her—­the unanalysable something that was fire and that was the soul of her, that lay mellow-warm or blazed in her eyes, that sprayed the cheeks of her, that distended the nostrils, that curled the lips, or, when the lip was in repose, that was still there in the lip, the lip palpitant with its presence.

And El-Soo had wit—­rarely sharp to hurt, yet quick to search out forgivable weakness.  The laughter of her mind played like lambent flame over all about her, and from all about her arose answering laughter.  Yet she was never the centre of things.  This she would not permit.  The large house, and all of which it was significant, was her father’s; and through it, to the last, moved his heroic figure—­host, master of the revels, and giver of the law.  It is true, as the strength oozed from him, that she caught up responsibilities from his failing hands.  But in appearance he still ruled, dozing, ofttimes at the board, a bacchanalian ruin, yet in all seeming the ruler of the feast.

And through the large house moved the figure of Porportuk, ominous, with shaking head, coldly disapproving, paying for it all.  Not that he really paid, for he compounded interest in weird ways, and year by year absorbed the properties of Klakee-Nah.  Porportuk once took it upon himself to chide El-Soo upon the wasteful way of life in the large house—­it was when he had about absorbed the last of Klakee-Nah’s wealth—­but he never ventured so to chide again.  El-Soo, like her father, was an aristocrat, as disdainful of money as he, and with an equal sense of honour as finely strung.

Porportuk continued grudgingly to advance money, and ever the money flowed in golden foam away.  Upon one thing El-Soo was resolved—­her father should die as he had lived.  There should be for him no passing from high to low, no diminution of the revels, no lessening of the lavish hospitality.  When there was famine, as of old, the Indians came groaning to the large house and went away content.  When there was famine and no money, money was borrowed from Porportuk, and the Indians still went away content.  El-Soo might well have repeated, after the aristocrats of another time and place, that after her came the deluge.  In her case the deluge was old Porportuk.  With every advance of money, he looked upon her with a more possessive eye, and felt bourgeoning within him ancient fires.