And even as he spoke, in mocking confirmation of his words, there came
to them suddenly from across the water, the distant creaking of ropes,
the snapping of sails flung hastily to the wind. Before their
unbelieving eyes the vessel swung about and put slowly out to sea. Dumb
with amazement they watched until the last faint light flickered into
darkness. Not until the remotest chance of a mistake was past did the
old chief rise, trembling with rage, to his feet.

"See'st thou now what I meant, my daughter? The English pale-faces know
not the meaning of honor, - no, nor of gratitude either!"

He lifted his long spear from the ground and shook it fiercely.

"The words of the Mariposa are few," he cried, "but their revenge is
sure. Let but an Englishman set foot again on Punagwandah and, swifter
than the arrow leaves the bowstring, he dies!"

And at once, without answer, in the silence of suffering which only the
wild things of the earth understand, Wildenai crept from the lodge, her
heart heavy with its own bitter disappointment. Noiselessly she passed
among the tepees where her father's people slept. Not one of them should
ever know how far dwelt slumber from her own eyes that night. Up the
steep trail beyond the Bay of Moons she climbed and flung herself
weeping on the bed of skins within the cavern.

"Oh, thou false one," she moaned, "why did'st thou promise then, when
never did'st thou mean to keep it?"