There was a vague trail to the spring which lay southwest of the Ferry.  It led through the familiar country of fissures and draws that made travel slow and heavy.  The trail rose, very gradually, wound around a number of multi-colored peaks and paused at last at the foot of a smooth-faced, purple butte.  Here grew a cottonwood, sheltering from sun and sand a lava bowl, eroded by time and by the tiny stream of water that dripped into it gently.  There was little or no view from the spring, for peaks and buttes closely hemmed it in.  The November shadows deepened early on the strange, winding, almost subterranean trail, and although when they reached the cottonwood, it was not sundown, they made camp at once.  Diana’s tent was set up in the sand to the right of the spring.  Enoch collected a meager supply of wood and before five o’clock supper had been prepared and eaten.

For a time, after this was done, Enoch and Diana sat before the tiny eye of fire, listening to the subdued chatter with which Jonas and Na-che cleared up the meal.

Suddenly, Enoch said, “Diana, how brilliant the stars are, to-night!  Why can’t we climb to the top of the butte for a little while?  I feel smothered here.  It’s far worse than the river bottom.”

“Aren’t you too tired?” asked Diana.

“Not too tired for as short a climb as that, unless you are feeling done up!”

“I!” laughed Diana.  “Why, Na-che will vouch for it that I’ve never had such a lazy trip before!  Na-che, the Judge and I are going up the butte.  Just keep a little glow of fire for us, will you, so that we can locate the camp easily.”

“Yes, Diana, and don’t be frightened if you hear noises.  I’m going to teach Jonas a Navajo song.”

“We’ll try not to be,” replied Diana, laughing as she rose.

It was an ascent of several hundred feet, but easily made and the view from the top more than repaid them for the effort.  In all his desert nights, Enoch never had seen the stars so vivid.  For miles about them the shadowy peaks and chasms were discernible.  And Diana’s face was delicately clear cut as she seated herself on a block of stone and looked up at him.

“Diana,” said Enoch, abruptly, “you make me wish that I were a poet, instead of a politician.”

“But you aren’t a politician!” protested Diana.  “You shall not malign yourself so.”

“A pleasant comment on our American politics!” exclaimed Enoch.  “Well, whatever I am, words fail me utterly when I try to describe the appeal of your beauty.”

“Enoch,” there was a note of protest in Diana’s voice, “you aren’t going to make love to me on this trip, are you?”

Enoch’s voice expressed entire astonishment.  “Why certainly I am, Diana!”

“You’ll make it very hard for me!” sighed Diana.

Enoch knelt in the sand before her and lifted her hands against his cheek.