By the swamp the night darkened. Carl had thrown himself upon the
grass now, his white, haggard face buried upon his arm. Back there
scarcely a mile to the east lay the camp of the traders. In the
morning they would ride into the Indian camp saddled with bright beads
and colored calicoes. In the morning--Carl shuddered and lay very
quiet, fighting again the ghastly torment that had racked and driven
him into the melancholy solitude of the Everglades. Now the firelit
palmetto roof of the wigwam he knew to be Diane's seemed somehow, to
his distorted fancy, redder than the others--the color of blood.
There, too, was the wigwam of Keela, bringing taunting desire.
A crowd of Seminoles rode into camp and, dismounting, led their horses
away. Carl watched them gather about the steaming sof-ka kettles on
the fires, handing the spoon from mouth to mouth. One, a tall, broad
young warrior in tunic and trousers and a broad sombrero--disappeared
in a wigwam on the fringe of camp.
A great wave of dizziness and burning nausea swept over Carl. Again he
was conscious of the taut, over-strung ligament droning, droning in his
head. The camp ahead became a meaningless blur of sinister scarlet
fire, of bloodred wigwams and dusky figures that seemed to dance and
lure and mock.
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