Their Mariposa Legend | Page 7

effort, - "a
reason I have never told thee why it seems most fitting. Now I will tell

thee. That reason is because, because, my Wildenai, thou art Spanish
born thyself."
The princess drew a hasty breath. In the darkness he felt rather than
saw her startled eyes upon him.
"My father!" The exclamation, filled with pain as well as astonishment,
touched him to the quick. Tenderly he drew her to him. Then briefly, as
was the Indian way, yet with the pictured phrasing which caused each
scene to spring into vivid life before the young girl's eyes, he told her
of the day, already more than eighteen years gone by, when, in the
wake of a long midwinter storm, the first sailing vessel ever beheld by
his people had fled for refuge to their bay; and of the little girl carefully
brought to shore by her old nurse in the first boat to touch the beach. A
mere baby she was, too young to know aught of her misfortune, yet a
princess royal, rudely dispossessed of her right to the throne of Spain,
and smuggled aboard the adventurer Cabrillo's ship to be dropped in
some out-of-the-way corner of the western world. Even then, he made
it clear, she might have perished, - since little recked the Spanish
explorer what should happen, well knowing that upon his return no
questions would be asked, - had it not been for his Indian wife. She,
lacking children of her own, had taken an instant fancy to the dark-eyed
little girl, a fancy so strong that nothing would do but they must adopt
her as their own daughter into the tribe to belong forever, according to
their law, she and her children, to the Mariposa.
"Nor, because thy mother - for ever was she a true mother to thee -
thought that it might grieve thee, have any of my people ever given
thee cause to doubt that thou wert native born," he finished proudly.
"Loyal have they been, doing all they could to make thee happy. But
now that thy Indian mother is dead, and I myself grow old, I thought to
wed thee, knowing his desire, to the son of that same Cabrillo who
brought thee to us, for I long to be sure, when at length I go, that thou
art safe, - at home."
He waited then and in the silence only the low weeping of the girl was
heard. At length the old chief spoke again, and now in his voice love
conquered disappointment.

"Much do I desire it, but that matters not. I would not have thee
unhappy. I myself will tell the senor that what he hopes for cannot be."
Slowly Wildenai bent her head until it touched his feet. Then she
nestled close against him.
"I thank thee, oh my father!" she cried, and all her voice was music
because of her joy. "And thou art still my father," she added, earnestly.
"What care I to go to Spain? I will stay always with thee."
"For a time, it may be. Yet have a care, little wild rose," he cautioned,
smiling, "Let not the Englishman lure thee away! He, too, may not be
all that thou thinkest."
And even as he spoke, in mocking confirmation of his words, there
came to them suddenly from across the water, the distant creaking of
ropes, the snapping of sails flung hastily to the wind. Before their
unbelieving eyes the vessel swung about and put slowly out to sea.
Dumb with amazement they watched until the last faint light flickered
into darkness. Not until the remotest chance of a mistake was past did
the old chief rise, trembling with rage, to his feet.
"See'st thou now what I meant, my daughter? The English pale-faces
know not the meaning of honor, - no, nor of gratitude either!"
He lifted his long spear from the ground and shook it fiercely.
"The words of the Mariposa are few," he cried, "but their revenge is
sure. Let but an Englishman set foot again on Punagwandah and,
swifter than the arrow leaves the bowstring, he dies!"
And at once, without answer, in the silence of suffering which only the
wild things of the earth understand, Wildenai crept from the lodge, her
heart heavy with its own bitter disappointment. Noiselessly she passed
among the tepees where her father's people slept. Not one of them
should ever know how far dwelt slumber from her own eyes that night.
Up the steep trail beyond the Bay of Moons she climbed and flung
herself weeping on the bed of skins within the cavern.

"Oh, thou false one," she moaned, "why did'st thou promise then, when
never did'st thou mean to keep it?"

Yet nothing had been farther from the young