That day, perhaps, from among them all, lived longest within the memory of young Harold, — the porpoises playing fearlessly around her canoe as the princess, with graceful, effortless strokes, paddled around one after another of the pointed tongues of rock; the flying fish, skimming the surface of the ocean until, by virtue of their speed alone, they rose like gleaming bows of silver from the foam.  Intent to show him all her treasures, Wildenai guided him to a quiet stretch of water lying close to shore within the shadow of tall cliffs which rose at that point with precipitous abruptness from the sea itself.

“Here are my gardens that grow under the water,” she explained, as they glided above the spot.  “Look well at them.  They are most beautiful.”

And gazing down at her command through the clear green into the luminous depths below, he caught glimpses of these gardens of the sea where goldfish darted like tropical birds among the branches of tall tree-like stalks of swaying seaweed, and strange shapes of jade and blue floated in the shadows.

“Is it not wonderful?” she asked.

“It is indeed, my Wildenai,” he answered earnestly.  “Never in all my travels, methinks, have I seen aught before like this your island here!  It seems to me indeed a charmed land, a kind of magic isle!”

One day it rained, the last belated rain of winter.  But even the storm brought pleasures of its own, for, seated on the pile of skins beside him, the little gray fox curled contentedly at her feet, Wildenai worked at her loom.  Within its dull-colored warp a blanket, woven in a strange design of mingled red, and black, and white, grew slowly beneath her busy fingers.

For hours the maiden drew the short woolen threads in and out while the young man, stretched lazily upon the ground, told her many a tale of the England he had left.  Then, quite without warning, she ceased her work and sat pensively watching through the opening in the rocks the long gray swell of the sea.

“And what is it now, my princess?” laughed young Harold.  “The pattern is not yet finished, nor is the rain abated.”

“Ah, senor Harold lord,” wistfully replied the girl, “I was but wishing I had been born one of those same fair English maids with the eyes of blue and golden hair you tell about.  Then would you love me even as you do them!” she added artlessly, and leaned her chin upon her hand, considering.  A secret trembled on her lips.

“And how if I were Spanish born?” she questioned, and lifted hesitating, frightened eyes to his, “dark to look at, that I know well, but even so, the white man’s kind of princess, who also has a throne?”

And all unwitting Lord Harold answered scornfully, “Spanish!  Say no such word to me!  The English hate the Spanish!” Fiercely he caught up a pebble and sent it whirling out across the water.  “Even now their robber king plans his huge armada to take our queen and rule our land, but that, by the holy virgin herself, shall never be!  Sooner will every drop of blood in bonny England be spilt.  Never could I make thee understand how much I hope to be at home before he comes!  Spanish indeed!  Nay, never let me hear the hateful word again!”