But when, at length, the quiet of sleep had descended upon the village, once again she sought her father. He, too, within the open doorway of his lodge, watched intently the distant ship. Without surprise he saw his daughter enter and, as she knelt upon the blanket beside him, he stretched a hand and drew her close.
“It grows cold. The wind is rising. 'Twere best to wait inside.” He spoke in the musical Indian tongue. For a moment he stroked her hair in silence, then—
“What think'st thou by now of the English, Wildenai, my little wild rose?” he asked.
But the princess seemed not to have heard his question.
“My father,” she began after another short silence, “I have a favor to ask of thee.”
“And what may that be, my daughter?” he returned gravely.
But again the young girl made no answer and for many minutes they watched the tremulous paths of light in the wake of the vessel.
After a time he felt her hand tighten upon his arm.
“It is but the old boon over again, my father.” Her voice was low as the sighing of the wind among the oak trees. “I would be freed from my promise to wed with Don Cabrillo.”
An Indian is not given to caresses. Much more used was Torquam's hand to wield the war-club or the hatchet. Yet it was with fingers gentle as any woman's that he stroked the smooth black head at his knee.