royal, rudely dispossessed of her right to the throne of Spain, and smuggled aboard the adventurer Cabrillo’s ship to be dropped in some out-of-the-way corner of the western world.  Even then, he made it clear, she might have perished, — since little recked the Spanish explorer what should happen, well knowing that upon his return no questions would be asked, — had it not been for his Indian wife.  She, lacking children of her own, had taken an instant fancy to the dark-eyed little girl, a fancy so strong that nothing would do but they must adopt her as their own daughter into the tribe to belong forever, according to their law, she and her children, to the Mariposa.

“Nor, because thy mother — for ever was she a true mother to thee — thought that it might grieve thee, have any of my people ever given thee cause to doubt that thou wert native born,” he finished proudly.  “Loyal have they been, doing all they could to make thee happy.  But now that thy Indian mother is dead, and I myself grow old, I thought to wed thee, knowing his desire, to the son of that same Cabrillo who brought thee to us, for I long to be sure, when at length I go, that thou art safe, — at home.”

He waited then and in the silence only the low weeping of the girl was heard.  At length the old chief spoke again, and now in his voice love conquered disappointment.

“Much do I desire it, but that matters not.  I would not have thee unhappy.  I myself will tell the senor that what he hopes for cannot be.”

Slowly Wildenai bent her head until it touched his feet.  Then she nestled close against him.

“I thank thee, oh my father!” she cried, and all her voice was music because of her joy.  “And thou art still my father,” she added, earnestly.  “What care I to go to Spain?  I will stay always with thee.”

“For a time, it may be.  Yet have a care, little wild rose,” he cautioned, smiling, “Let not the Englishman lure thee away!  He, too, may not be all that thou thinkest.”

And even as he spoke, in mocking confirmation of his words, there came to them suddenly from across the water, the distant creaking of ropes, the snapping of sails flung hastily to the wind.  Before their unbelieving eyes the vessel swung about and put slowly out to sea.  Dumb with amazement they watched until the last faint light flickered into darkness.  Not until the remotest chance of a mistake was past did the old chief rise, trembling with rage, to his feet.

“See’st thou now what I meant, my daughter?  The English pale-faces know not the meaning of honor, — no, nor of gratitude either!”

He lifted his long spear from the ground and shook it fiercely.

“The words of the Mariposa are few,” he cried, “but their revenge is sure.  Let but an Englishman set foot again on Punagwandah and, swifter than the arrow leaves the bowstring, he dies!”