wild,
free, open life her gypsy heart had craved. There were times when a
great peace dwarfed the memory of the moon above the marsh; there were
times when the thought of Ronador and Philip sent her riding wildly
across the plains with Keela; there were still other times when a
nameless disquiet welled up within her, some furtive distrust of the
gypsy wildness of her blood. But in the main the days were quiet and
peaceful.

"It is a wild world of varied color and activity," she wrote to Ann.
"The trailing air plants in the trees beside my wigwam weave a dense,
tropical jungle of shadow shot with sunlight. Keela's wigwam lies but
a stone's throw beyond. It is lined with beaded trinkets, curious
carven things of cypress, pots of dye made of berries and barks, and
pottery which she has patterned after the relics in the sand mounds.
There is an old chief with all the terrible pathos of a vanishing race
in his eyes. I find in his wistful dignity an element of tragedy. He
is very kind to Keela and talks much of her in his quaint broken
English.

"Moons back, he declares, when E-shock-e-tom-isee, the great Creator,
made the world of men by scattering seeds in a river valley, of those
who grew from the sand, some went to the river and washed too pale and
weak--the white man; some, enough--the strong red man; some washed not
at all--the shiftless black man. But Keela came from none of these.

"Ann, the squaws are _hideous_! Their clothes, an indescribable
_potpourri_ of savage superstition and stray inklings (such as a
disfiguring bang of hair across the forehead, a Psyche knot and a full
skirt) from the white man's world of fashion--years back. The pounds
and pounds of bead necklaces they wear give the savage touch. I don't
wonder Keela's delicate soul rebelled and drove her to the barbaric
costume of a chief. It is infinitely more picturesque and beautiful.

"There are thrilling camp fire tales of Osceola, the brilliant,
handsome young Seminole chief who blazoned his name over the pages of
Florida history, but here among Osceola's kinsmen, pages are
unnecessary. The sagas of the tribe are handed down from mouth to
mouth to stir the youth to deeds of daring. Keela, like Osceola, had a
white father and a Seminole mother. Ann, I sometimes wonder what
opportunity might have done for Osceola. As great as Napoleon, some
one said. What might opportunity do for this strange, exotic flower of
Osceola's people? S