It was an ideal scene of tropical luxuriance; cattle and sheep were feeding upon the abundant grasses; but they suddenly took to their heels, with uplifted tails and terrified eyes, at the sight of his white face, a spectacle never before seen on this oasis, peopled hitherto exclusively by “Copperheads.”  Swarms of children were shooting their arrows at deer-skin targets; groups of braves, fantastically attired, lounged under the shade of the wide-spreading umbrella trees, smoking fragrant tobacco in long-stemmed pipes, but they did not deign to give the visitor even an inquiring glance.

Henry interviewed a number of negroes hoeing corn and sweet potatoes, who informed him in broken English that they were the slaves of the Indians; that they had never heard of the civil war, nor of Abraham Lincoln.  They claimed to be well treated, and were contented, having plenty to eat and no very severe labor.  They cast anxious glances towards the village, and seemed glad when he walked away, saying they had never before seen a white man and thought he must be “big medicine.”

The birds were singing gaily, all nature smiled complacently, and he strolled over the flower-bedecked fields into the recesses of the forest, where he seated himself under a blossom-covered magnolia around which twined the fragrant jessamine.  He gave himself up to day-dreams.  All at once a light, moccasined footfall is heard, and there stepped from the woods an Indian girl, graceful as a fawn, with her head crowned with flowers, and softly singing a strange, sweet song in an unknown tongue.  When the stranger was seen she started to flee, but with a smile he beckoned her to stop, which she did, as though hypnotized.

“Oh,” she whispered, “you are the pale-face my father has captured; but if Tiger-tail should see me speaking to you, he would kill us both.  Such is the law of the Seminoles.  No Indian maiden must speak to a white man; but I never saw such as you before.”

“But, how happens it,” said he, in astonishment, “that you speak my language?”

“My father taught me,” was the reply, “he is a scholar; we all speak some American.”

“May I know your name?” asked our hero.

“I am Sunbeam, daughter of the Seminole chief.”

“And mine is Henry Lee,” he replied to her inquiring look.  “You are well named,” he continued.  “I have seen many daughters of the pale-faces; but none so fair and bright as you.  Sunbeam, at this my first glance, I love you; can you sometime love me?”

“I do love you now,” replied the artless girl; “the Great Spirit tells me to do so; but we must not be seen together; they will kill us, we must part at once.”

“Dearest,” cried Henry, “when can we meet again?”

“To-morrow at noon,” came the impulsive reply.  “In my cave there back of that cypress; no one is allowed to enter but me; there I say my prayers, and my father says it is sacred to me alone.  Good-bye, Henry,” and she sped like a deer into the shades of the forest.