"You are very welcome," he said simply.
"No," said Carl steadily, "I may not take your hand, sir, until you
know me for what I am. There are none worse. I have been through the
mire of hell itself. I have dishonorably betrayed a kinsman in the
hope of gold. I had thought to kill. Only a freak of fate has stayed
my hand. And there is more that I may not tell--"
[Illustration: "No, I may not take your hand."]
"So?" said Mic-co quietly.
Flushing, Carl took the outstretched hand.
"I--I thank you," he said, and looked away.
CHAPTER XLI
IN MIC-CO'S LODGE
The rooms of Mic-co's lodge opened, in the fashion of the old Pompeian
villas, upon a central court roofed only by the Southern sky. This
court, floored with split logs, covered with bearskin rugs and
furnished in handmade chairs of twisted palmetto and a rude table,
years back Mic-co and his Indian aides had built above a clear, lazy
stream. Now the stream crept beneath the logs to a quiet open pool in
the center where lilies and grasses grew, and thence by its own channel
under the logs again and out. Storm coverings of buckskin were rolled
above the outer windows and above the doorways which opened into the
court.
Here, when the moon rose over the lonely lodge and glinted peacefully
in the tilled pool, Mic-co listened to the tale of his young guest.
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