uiet so long," she said gravely, "that I grew afraid.
Drink." She held forth a cup of woven leaves, and the glance of her
great black eyes was very soft and gentle.

Carl flushed and taking the cup with shaking hand, drank. There was a
flash of gratitude in his eyes.

"Themar?" he whispered. "Where is he?" He looked toward the trees
beyond.

"In the swamp!" said Keela, her face stern and beautiful. "It is
better so."

"You--you dragged him there?"

"I am very strong," said Keela simply. "The vultures will get him. It
is the Indian way with one who murders."

Their eyes met, a great wave of crimson suddenly dyed Keela's throat
and face and swept in lovely tide to the brilliant turban. A
constrained silence fell between them, broken only by the whir of a
great heron flapping by on snowy wings. And there was something in
Keela's eyes that sent the blood coursing furiously through Carl's
fevered veins.

The Indian girl busied herself with the wild duck roasting in the hub
of coals. Carl ate a little and lay down again. He saw now that
Themar's horse was tethered beside Keela's--that the dead man's
saddlebags lay by the fire. Furtive recourse to the drug in his pocket
presently flushed his veins with artificial calm. He fell asleep to
find his dreams haunted again by the lovely face of Keela, kinder and
gentler now than that proud, imperious face above the line of flashing
topaz.

He awoke with a start.

The Indian girl lay asleep on a blanket by the fire. The world of
moon-haunted jungle and water was very quiet. Firelight faintly haloed
Keela's face and brought mad memories of the soft light of the Venetian
lamp at the Sherrill fete. He noted the pure, delicate regularity of
feature, the delicate, vivid skin--it was paler than Diane's--and
flaming through his brain went the dangerous reflection that conquest
lay now perhaps in the very hollow of his hand.

Desire had driven him on to things unspeakable. It had clouded his
brain, fired his blood to ugly resolve, blinded every finer instinct
with its turbulent call, until the siren who beckons men onward through
the marshland of passion had flung the gift at his feet in the haunted
wilds.

Staring at the tranquil, delicate face of the sleeper by the camp fire,
a great horror of the scarlet hours behind him awoke suddenly in Carl's
heart. There had been a girl who cried. And he had laughed and
shrugged and voiced an ironical philosophy of se