“O untainted winds that blow the Indian corn,” he said, “winds of the wilderness, winds of the sounding skies—­ clean and pure as ye are, not one of you has blown the green and silken blankets loose from these, our Hidden Children, nestling unseen, untouched, unstained, close cradled in a green embrace.  Nor wind, nor rain, nor hail, not the fierce heat of many summers have revealed these Hidden Ones, stripped them of the folded verdure that conceals them still, each wrapped within the green leaves of the corn.

“Continue to listen, winds of the sounding skies.  Let the Eight White-plumed Thunders listen.  An ensign of the Magic Clan bears witness under Tharon.  A Sagamore veils his face.  Let Tharon hear these children when they speak.  Let Tamenund listen!”

Standing straight and tall there in the starlight, he drew his blanket across his eyes.  The Oneidas and the Stockbridge did the same.

Slowly, timidly, in compliance with my whispered bidding, the slender, trembling hands of Lois unlaced my throat-points to the shoulder, baring my chest.  Then she said aloud, but in a voice scarce audible, I prompting every word: 

“It is true!  Under the folded leaves a Hidden Youth is sleeping.  I bid him sleep awhile.  I promise to disturb no leaf.  This is the White Bridal.  I close what I have scarcely parted.  I bid him sleep this night.  When—­ when——­”

I whispered, prompting her, and she found her voice, continuing: 

“When at his lodge door they shall come softly and lay shadows to bar it, a moon to seal it, and many stars to nail it fast, then, in the dark within, I shall hear the painted quiver rattle as he puts it off; and the antlers fall clashing to the ground.  Only the green and tender cloak of innocence shall endure—­ a little while—­ then, falling, enfold us twain embraced where only one had slept before.  A promised bride has spoken.”

She bowed her head, took my hands in hers, laid them lightly on her heart; then straightened up, with a long-drawn, quivering breath, and stood, eyes closed, as I unlaced her throat-points, parting the fawn-skin cape till the soft thrums lay on her snowy shoulders.

“It is true,” I whispered.  “Under the folded leaves a Hidden Maid lies sleeping.  I bid her sleep awhile; I bid her dream in innocence through this White Bridal night.  I promise to disturb no leaf that sheathes her.  I now refold and close again what I have scarcely touched and opened.  I bid her sleep.

“When on my lodge door they nail the Oneida stars, and seal my door with the moon of Tharon, and lay long shadows there to bar it; then I, within the darkness there, shall hear the tender rustle of her clinging husks, parting to cradle two where one alone had slept since she was born,”

Gently I drew the points, closing the cape around her slender throat, knotted the laces, smoothed out the thrums, took her small hands and laid them on my breast.