"Yes." He roused himself from his trance, and with a strangely leaping heart proceeded carefully to detach the big air plant from its resting-place. The wonderful flower, nodding to his touch, was no more perfect than this dryad whom he had surprised.
"Don't break it," she cautioned as he came gingerly down the tree. "It is what we call 'Espiritu Santa,' the 'Holy Spirit' flower. See, it is like a white bird."
"First one I've seen," he said, noting how the purity of the bloom enhanced the olive of her cheek. Then he began another fruitless search for a topic of conversation, fearing that if he allowed the slightest pause she would send him away. But all his thoughts were of her, it seemed. His tongue would frame nothing but eager questions—all about herself. At last in desperation he volunteered to get another orchid; but the suggestion met with no approval. There were no more, she told him, of that kind.
"Maybe we can find one," he said, hopefully.
"Thank you. I know them all." She was looking at him now as if wondering why he did not make a start, but wild horses could not have dragged him away. Instead of picking up his gun, he inquired:
"May I rest a moment? I'm awfully tired."
"Certainly. You may stay as long as you wish. When you are rested the little path will bring you out."
"But you mustn't go!" he exclaimed, in a panic, as she turned away.
"Oh, I say, please! You wouldn't do a thing like that?"
"I cannot speak to you this way, sir." The young lady blushed prettily.
"Why not, I'd like to know?"