To Carl they were pale
and unreal like the wraith of the days behind him. Like a reflected
censer in the heart of the bloom shone the evening star. The peace of
it all lay in Mic-co's fine, dark, tranquil face as he talked, subtly
moulding another's mind in the pattern of his own. He did not preach.
Mic-co smoked and talked philosophy.
Carl had known but little respect for the opinions of others. He was
to learn it now. He was to find his headstrong will matched by one
stronger for all it was gentler; his impudent philosophy punctured by a
wisdom as great as it was compassionate; his own magnetic power to
influence as he willed, a negligible factor in the presence of a man
whose magnetism was greater.
Mic-co had said quietly by the pool one night that he had been a
doctor--that he loved the peace and quiet of his island home--that
years back the Seminoles had saved his life. He had since devoted his
own life to their service. They were a pitiful, hunted remnant of a
great race who were kindred to the Aztec.
He seemed to think his explanation quite enough. Wherefore Carl as
quietly accepted what he offered. There was much that he himself was
pledged to withhold. Thus their friendship grew into something fine
and deep that was stronger medicine for Carl than any preaching.
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