her of us
spoke during that time; then, as the "grey gull" shaped itself into
rock and tree and crag, I noticed in the very centre a stupendous pile
of stone lifting itself skyward, without fissure or cleft; but a
peculiar haziness about the base made me peer narrowly to catch the
perfect outline.

"It is the 'Grey Archway,'" he explained, simply.

Only then did I grasp the singular formation before us; the rock was a
perfect archway, through which we could see the placid Pacific
shimmering in the growing colors of the coming sunset at the opposite
rim of the island.

"What a remarkable whim of Nature!" I exclaimed, but his brown hand was
laid in a contradictory grasp on my arm, and he snatched up my comment
almost with impatience.

"No, it was not Nature," he said. "That is the reason I say you will
understand--you are one of us--you will know what I tell you is true.
The Great Tyee did not make that archway, it was--"here his voice
lowered--"it was magic, red man's medicine and magic--you savvy?"

"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 describe.

"You have not heard of Yaada?" he questioned. Then fo