Her arms fell.  Slowly she sank again to her knees, bending her head until her forehead touched the ground.  For many minutes she lay thus prostrate while the glory of the rising sun bathed the sea in splendor.  Yet, when at last she rose, her eyes were dim with tears.

But now from the beach below there drifted up to her the sounds of a village astir.  Shrill voices of women mingled with the crackling of freshly kindled fires.  A canoe, pushed hastily into the water, grated harshly on the pebbles.  Still the maiden did not stir.  Leaning against the rocky ledge, her chin in her hands, she gazed listlessly out over the shining sea.  If any interests lived for her among the dark-skinned people beneath the cliffs, for the moment at least she gave no sign.

Then, suddenly, above the ordinary din of the Indian village, rose the hoarse shouting of men.  Wildenai lifted her eyes, — eyes that widened first with wonder, then with fear.  For there, far down the shoreline to the south, her sails gleaming white against the walls of rock behind her as she rounded a distant point, a ship came slowly into view.  With wildly beating heart the young girl watched the vessel tack to clear the long curve of the coast.  But once before in all her life had she seen such another monster winged canoe, and that had been when Senor Don Cabrillo first cast anchor in the Bay of Moons below, now almost a year ago.  For many a week had the young man lingered, renewing the friendship with the Mariposa cemented more than eighteen years before when his father, hindered by storms in his adventurous journey up the coast, cast anchor off the shore, — the first white man to see their island.  Nor was the lingering without result.  Torquam he taught to speak the Spanish tongue, learning in his turn safer and easier routes to the gold fields of the north, while not the least among the treasures carried with him when at last he sailed away did he hold the promise that the beautiful daughter of the chief should become his bride when next he touched upon that shore.  Could this, then, be the Spaniard’s fleet returning?  Was the Great Spirit powerless, after all, to save her?  In sore bewilderment and terror Wildenai watched the distant ship.

Nearer and nearer it came.  But, as its outline grew each moment more distinct, gradually her fears departed.  For this was not the clumsy Spanish galleon she remembered.  The prow was not nearly so high, nor was the incoming vessel as large in any respect as had been that other.  Yet, though fear died, wonder grew.  What new variety of strangers, then, was about to visit them?  For that the ship intended to anchor she was by this time sure.  Steadily it bore on until within a scant half mile of the crescent shaped beach where lay the royal village of the tribe.  At length, as if in fear to trust themselves closer to the rocky shore, the crew were seen to bring the vessel sharply about.  An anchor was cast over, the creaking of the hawsers distinctly audible in the clear morning air, and a few moments later a small boat was lowered.  Into this boat immediately several sailors swung themselves and after a short delay, amidst the shouting of the Indians, now running in wild excitement up and down the beach, the men picked up their oars and started for the land.