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, fortunately, he continued without waiting for a reply.  He well knew that I had never heard of Yaada, so why not begin without preliminary to tell me of her?—­so—­

“Yaada was the loveliest daughter of the Haida tribe.  Young braves from all the islands, from the mainland, from the upper Skeena country, came, hoping to carry her to their far-off lodges, but they always returned alone.  She was the most desired of all the island maidens, beautiful, brave, modest, the daughter of her own mother.

“But there was a great man, a very great man—­a medicine-man, skilful, powerful, influential, old, deplorably old, and very, very rich; he said, ‘Yaada shall be my wife.’  And there was a young fisherman, handsome, loyal, boyish, poor, oh! very poor, and gloriously young, and he, too, said, ‘Yaada shall be my wife.’

“But Yaada’s mother sat apart and thought and dreamed, as mothers will.  She said to herself, ’The great medicine-man has power, has vast riches, and wonderful magic, why not give her to him?  But Ulka has the boy’s heart, the boy’s beauty; he is very brave, very strong; why not give her to him?’

“But the laws of the great Haida tribe prevailed.  Its wise men said, ’Give the girl to the greatest man, give her to the most powerful, the richest.  The man of magic must have his choice.’

“But at this the mother’s heart grew as wax in the summer sunshine—­it is a strange quality that mothers’ hearts are made of!  ‘Give her to the best man—­the man her heart holds highest,’ said this Haida mother.

“Then Yaada spoke:  ’I am the daughter of my tribe; I would judge of men by their excellence.  He who proves most worthy I shall marry; it is not riches that make a good husband; it is not beauty that makes a good father for one’s children.  Let me and my tribe see some proof of the excellence of these two men—­then, only, shall I choose who is to be the father of my children.  Let us have a trial of their skill; let them show me how evil or how beautiful is the inside of their hearts.  Let each of them throw a stone with some intent, some purpose in their hearts.  He who makes the noblest mark may call me wife.’