Shefford became aware of the presence of Nas Ta Bega.  Dark, silent, statuesque, with inscrutable eyes uplifted, with all that was spiritual of the Indian suggested by a somber and tranquil knowledge of his place there, he represented the same to Shefford as a solitary figure of human life brought out the greatness of a great picture.  Nonnezoshe Boco needed life, wild life, life of its millions of years—­and here stood the dark and silent Indian.

There was a surge in Shefford’s heart and in his mind a perception of a moment of incalculable change to his soul.  And at that moment Fay Larkin stole like a phantom to his side and stood there with her uncovered head shining and her white face lovely in the moonlight.

“May I stay with you—­a little?” she asked, wistfully.  “I can’t sleep.”

“Surely you may,” he replied.  “Does your arm hurt too badly, or are you too tired to sleep?"”

“No—­it’s this place.  I—­I—­can’t tell you how I feel.”

But the feeling was there in her eyes for Shefford to read.  Had he too great an emotion—­did he read too much—­did he add from his soul?  For him the wild, starry, haunted eyes mirrored all that he had seen and felt under Nonnezoshe.  And for herself they shone eloquently of courage and love.

“I need to talk—­and I don’t know how,” she said.

He was silent, but he took her hands and drew her closer.

“Why are you so—­so different?” she asked, bravely.

“Different?” he echoed.

“Yes.  You are kind—­you speak the same to me as you used to.  But since we started you’ve been different, somehow.”

“Fay, think how hard and dangerous the trip’s been!  I’ve been worried —­and sick with dread—­with—­ Oh, you can’t imagine the strain I’m under!  How could I be my old self?”

“It isn’t worry I mean.”

He was too miserable to try to find out what she did mean; besides, he believed, if he let himself think about it, he would know what troubled her.

“I—­I am almost happy,” she said, softly.

“Fay! . . .  Aren’t you at all afraid?”

“No.  You’ll take care of me. . . .  Do—­do you love me—­like you did before?”

“Why, child!  Of course—­I love you,” he replied, brokenly, and he drew her closer.  He had never embraced her, never kissed her.  But there was a whiteness about her then—­a wraith—­a something from her soul, and he could only gaze at her.

“I love you,” she whispered.  “I thought I knew it that—­that night.  But I’m only finding it out now. . . .  And somehow I had to tell you here.”

“Fay, I haven’t said much to you,” he said, hurriedly, huskily.  “I haven’t had a chance.  I love you.  I—­I ask you—­will you be my wife?”

“Of course,” she said, simply, but the white, moon-blanched face colored with a dark and leaping blush.

“We’ll be married as soon as we get out of the desert,” he went on.  “And we’ll forget—­all—­all that’s happened.  You’re so young.  You’ll forget.”