The rooms of Mic-co's lodge opened, in the fashion of the old Pompeian villas, upon a central court roofed only by the Southern sky. This court, floored with split logs, covered with bearskin rugs and furnished in handmade chairs of twisted palmetto and a rude table, years back Mic-co and his Indian aides had built above a clear, lazy stream. Now the stream crept beneath the logs to a quiet open pool in the center where lilies and grasses grew, and thence by its own channel under the logs again and out. Storm coverings of buckskin were rolled above the outer windows and above the doorways which opened into the court. Here, when the moon rose over the lonely lodge and glinted peacefully in the tilled pool, Mic-co listened to the tale of his young guest. It was a record of bodily abuse, of passion and temptation, which few men may live to tell, but Mic-co neither condoned nor condemned. He smoked and listened. "Let us make a compact," he said with his quiet smile. "I may question without reserve. You may withhold what you will. That is fair?" "Yes." "Have you ever endured hardship of any kind?" "I have hunted in the Arctics," said Carl. "There was a time when food failed. We lived for weeks on reindeer moss and rock tripe. I have been in wild territory with naturalists and hunters. Probably I have known more adventurous hardship than most men." Mic-co nodded. "I fancied so," he said. "What is your favorite painting?" he asked unexpectedly. The answer came without an instant's hesitation. "Paul Potter's 'Bull.'" "A thing of inherent virility and vigor, intensely masculine!" said Mic-co with a smile, adding after an interval of thought, "but there is a danger in over-sexing--" "I have sometimes thought so. The over-masculine man is too brutal." "And the over-feminine woman?" "Kindly, sentimental, helpless and weak. I have lived with such an aunt since I was fifteen. No, I beg of you, do not misunderstand me! I blame nothing upon her. Like many good women whose minds are blocked off in conventional squares, she is very loyal and sympathetic--and very trying. The essence of her temperament is ineffectuality. My cousin and I were a wild, unmanageable pair who rode roughshod over protest. That Aunt Agatha was not in fault may be proved by my cousin. She is a fine, true, splendid woman." An ineffectual aunt in the critical years of adolescence! Mic-co did not suggest that his cousin's sex had been her salvation. So nights by the pool Mic-co plumbed the depths of his young guest with the fine, tired eyes. "Tell me," he said gently another night; "this inordinate sensitiveness of which you speak. To what do you attribute it?" Carl colored.