afternoon she would finish her sketch of the cavern. Then tomorrow she
would go back to Pasadena and the long gray round of work. Desolately
she wandered up the secret trail to Wildenai's bower. Never had her
sympathy for the deserted princess been so keen. Perhaps, she mournfully
considered, if the spirit of the Indian maiden still lingered there it
might feel sympathy for her as well. Perhaps she, too, would find
comfort in the spot where that other woman had paid an equal price for
her impulsiveness.

The shadows in the little cavern were dark and cool and, laying aside
her box of colors, for a long time she sat quite motionless, staring out
to where the gulls drifted and glinted against the blue. She heard after
a while the whistle of the approaching steamer but gave no heed. Lying
back against the moss she had almost dropped asleep when something in
the corner opposite attracted her attention. She sat up nervously and
stared into the shadows. Was it only that the darkness was deeper over
there, or was that really something propped against the wall? And had it
moved?

In the years that followed she never knew how long she sat there after
the stones had been lifted away, holding in her lap those shreds of torn
white doeskin. Still caught together, though in tatters, by long strings
of shells and beads, they shone, a ghostly film of white from out the
dimness. A breath, and the whole would have crumbled into dust. Yet the
beads, she noticed, were still perfect as when strung by slim brown
fingers centuries before. Only half believing it was not all of it a
dream, she lifted them strand after strand. Then, suddenly, she gave a
little cry. Somewhere from out the torn folds a slender chain had
slipped. Trembling with a curiosity that bordered close on terror, she
carried it to the light, and there it glowed, a glancing stream of