Fording miry creeks, silver-streaked with
moon-light, trampling through dense, dark, tangled brakes and on, under
the wild March moon, followed Carl, a prey to the memory of the Indian
girl as he had seen her that night at Sherrill's.
Keela's face, vividly dark and lovely, had mocked his restless slumbers
this many a day. Keela's eyes, black like a starless night or the
cloud-black waters of Okeechobee had lured and lured to sensual
conquest.
But a great shame was adding its torment to the terrible pain in his
head and the fevered singing of his pulses. In the torture of his
self-abasement, the over-strung ligament in his head fell ominously to
droning again. Everything seemed remote and unreal. He hated the
awful silence about him--the crash of his horse's feet through the
matted brush and the twist of palmetto, resolved itself into dancing
ciphers.
Ahead Keela stopped. Motionless, like a beautiful sculptured thing,
she sat listening as Carl rode up beside her.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I fancied some one followed," said Keela soberly. "It may not be."
She rode forward, glancing keenly at the trail behind her.
Thus they rode onward until the east grew pale and gray. A bleak dawn
was breaking in melancholy mists over the Everglades.
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