“Where she was born returns the rosy Forest Pigeon to her native tree for mating.  White-Throat—­ White-Throat—­ your course is flown!  For this is Amochol’s frontier; and by tomorrow night we enter Catharines-town—­ thou and I, little Lois—­ two Hidden Children—­ one hidden by the Western Gate, one by the Eastern Gate’s dark threshold, ’hidden in the husks.’...How shall it be with us now, 0 little rosy spirit of the home-wood?  My Indians will ask.  What shall I say to them concerning you?”

“All laws break of themselves before us twain, who, having been hidden, are prepared for mating—­ where we will—­ and when....  And if the long flight be truly ended—­ and the home forests guard our secret—­ and if Tharon be God also—­ and His stars the altar lights—­ and his river-mist my veil——­” She faltered, and her clear gaze became confused.  “Why should your Indians question you?” she asked.

The last ray of the sun reddened the forest, lingered, faded, and went out in ashes.  I said: 

“God and Tharon are one.  Priest and Sagamore, clergyman and Sachem, minister, ensign, Roya-neh—­ red men or white, all are consecrated before the Master of Life.  If in these Indians’ eyes you are still to remain sacred, then must you promise yourself to me, little Lois.  And let the Sagamore perform the rite at once.”

“Betroth myself, Euan?”

“Yes, under the Rite of the Hidden Children.  Will you do this—­ so that my Indians can lay your hands upon their hearts?  Else they may turn from you now—­ perhaps prove hostile.”

“I had desired to have you take me from my mother’s arms.”

“And so I will, in marriage—­ if she be alive to give you.”

“Then—­ what is this we do?”

“It is our White Bridal.”

“Summon the Sagamore,” she said faintly.

And so it was done there, I prompting her with her responses, and the mysterious rite witnessed by the priesthood of two nations—­ Sachem and Sagamore, Iroquois and Algonquin, with the tall lodge-poles of the pines confirming it, and the pale ghost-flowers on the moss fulfilling it, and the stars coming one by one to nail our lodge door with silver nails, and the night winds, enchanted, chanting the Karenna of the Uncut Corn.

And now the final and most sacred symbol of betrothal was at hand; and the Oneida Sachem drew away, and the Yellow Moth and the Night Hawk stood aside, with heads quietly averted, leaving the Sagamore alone before us.  For only a Sagamore of the Enchanted Clan might stand as witness to the mystery, where now the awful, viewless form of Tharon was supposed to stand, white winged and plumed, and robed like the Eight Thunders in snowy white.

“Listen, Loskiel,” he said, “my younger brother, blood-brother to a Siwanois.  Listen, also, O Rosy-Throated Pigeon of the Woods—­ home from the unseen flight to mate at last!”

He plucked four ghost-flowers, and cast the pale blossoms one by one to the four great winds.