Here, as the Indian camp settled into quiet and the fires died lower,
as the wild night sounds of the Glades awoke in the marsh outside,
Diane lay still and wakeful and a little frightened. Wilderness and
Seminole were still primeval. The world seemed very far away. The
thought of the music-machine brought with it somehow a feeling of
security.
With the broad white daylight, courage returned. From her wigwam Diane
watched the silent village, wrapped in fog, wake to the busy life of
the Glades. Somber-eyed little Indian lads carried water and gathered
wood, fires brightened, there was a pleasant smell of pine in the
morning air. Later, by Keela's fire, she furtively watched Philip ride
forth with a band of hunters.
So at last in the heart of the wildwood, among primitive folk whose
customs had not varied for a century, Diane drank deep of the wild,
free, open life her gypsy heart had craved. There were times when a
great peace dwarfed the memory of the moon above the marsh; there were
times when the thought of Ronador and Philip sent her riding wildly
across the plains with Keela; there were still other times when a
nameless disquiet welled up within her, some furtive distrust of the
gypsy wildness of her blood. But in the main the days were quiet and
peaceful.
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