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