"Yes," I said. "Tell me, for I--savvy."

"Long time ago," he began, stumbling into a half-broken English
language, because, I think, of the atmosphere and environment, "long
before you were born, or your father, or grandfather, or even his
father, this strange thing happened. It is a story for women to
hear, to remember. Women are the future mothers of the tribe,
and we of the Pacific Coast hold such in high regard, in great
reverence. The women who are mothers--o-ho!--they are the important
ones, we say. Warriors, fighters, brave men, fearless daughters, owe
their qualities to these mothers--eh, is it not always so?"

I nodded silently. The island was swinging nearer to us, the
"Grey Archway" loomed almost above us, the mysticism crowded close,
it enveloped me, caressed me, appealed to me.

"And?" I hinted.

"And," he proceeded, "this 'Grey Archway' is a story of mothers,
of magic, of witchcraft, of warriors, of--love."

An Indian rarely uses the word "love," and when he does it expresses
every quality, every attribute, every intensity, emotion, and passion
embraced in those four little letters. Surely this was an
exceptional story I was to hear.

I did not answer, only looked across the pulsing waters toward
the "Grey Archway," which the sinking sun was touching with soft
pastels, tints one could give no name to, beauties impossible to