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It began to happen a long time ago, centuries ago, when, in a fragrant rush of rain, spring came one day to Punagwandah, fairest of the Channel Islands. Beneath the golden mists of sunrise danced a radiant sea. On steeply sloping hillsides where thickets of wild lilac bloomed, the lark shook from his tiny throat a tumult of glad music.
"Yes, mon senor," she answered simply. "I learned it when Don Cabrillo came to Punagwandah many moons ago." After that it was only that one thing led to another, as was sometimes true of men and maidens even in the days so long gone by.
Let but an Englishman set foot again on Punagwandah and, swifter than the arrow leaves the bowstring, he dies!" And at once, without answer, in the silence of suffering which only the wild things of the earth understand, Wildenai crept from the lodge, her heart heavy with its own bitter disappointment. Noiselessly she passed among the tepees where her father's people slept.
The last words were uttered with significance. The Indian slowly shook his head. "The noble white chief asks what is unknown to any man," he answered. "The young Cabrillo once landed, 'tis true, on Punagwandah. Many moons ago it was. Where he is now, how should Torquam know?" In his bitter disappointment the hand of the Englishman sought the hilt of his sword.
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