It was thatched like the Seminole wigwams in palmetto and set in a
cluster of giant trees. Trailing moss and ferns and vines hung from
the boughs, weaving a dense, cool shade about the dwelling. The
exuberant air plants brought memories of Lanier's immortal poem:
"Glooms of the live oaks, beautiful-braided and woven
With intricate shades of the vines that myriad-cloven
Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs,--"
There were brilliant vistas of bloom beyond the shadow. The odor of
orange hung heavily in the still, warm air. A pair of snowy herons
flapped tamely about among the pines.
Utter peace and quiet, alive with the chirp of many birds, brilliant
sunshine and deep, dark shadow! But Carl stared most at the figure
that came to greet them, a tall, broad man of dark complexion and
wonderful, kindly eyes of piercing darkness. His hair and beard were
snow-white and reached nearly to his waist, his attire buckskin, laced
at the seams. But his slender, sensitive hands caught and held
attention.
"Mic-co," said Keela gravely, "he is very tired in his head. Philip
would have him rest."
Mic-co held out his hand with a quiet smile. Whatever his searching
eyes had found in the haggard face of his young guest was reflected in
his greeting.
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