"I have been a fool," said Carl steadily, "a very great fool--and blind." Keela's lovely, sensitive mouth quivered. "Is it--" she raised glistening, glorified eyes to his troubled face, "is it," she whispered naively, "that you care like the lovers in Mic-co's books?" "Yes. And you, Keela?" "I--I have always cared," she said shyly, "since that night at Sherrill's. I--I feared you knew." Trembling violently the girl dropped to her knees with a soft crash of satin and buried her face in her hands. She was crying wildly. Carl gently raised her to her feet again and squarely met her eyes. "Red-winged Blackbird," he said quietly, "there is much that I must tell you before I may honorably face this love of yours and mine--" Keela's black eyes blazed in sudden loyalty. "There is nothing I do not know," she flung back proudly. "Philip told me. And for every wild error you made, he gave a reason. He loves and trusts you utterly. May I not do that too?" "He told you!" "Some that night in the storm when he and I were saddling the horses to ride to Mic-co's. Some later. He pledged me to kindness and understanding." For every break in the thread there had always been Philip's strong and kindly hand to mend it. A little shaken by the memory of the night in Philip's wigwam, Carl walked restlessly about the court. "But there is more," he said, coloring. "There was passion and dishonor in my heart, Keela, until, one night, I fought and won--" "Is it not enough for me that you won?" asked Keela gently and broke off, wild color staining her cheeks and forehead. Mic-co stood in the doorway. "Mic-co," she said bravely, "I--I would have you tell him that he is strong and brave and clean enough to love. He--he does not know it." She fled with a sob. "Have you forgotten?" asked Mic-co slowly. "I care nothing for race!" cried Carl with a flash of his fine eyes. "Must I pattern my life by the set tenets of race bigotry. I have known too many women with white faces and scarlet souls." "If I know you at all," said Mic-co with a quiet smile, "there will be no pattern, save of your own making." "I come of a family who rebel at patterns," said Carl. "My mother--my uncle--my cousin. Let me tell you all," and he told of the night in the Sherrill garden; of the brutal desire that had later come with the brooding and the wild disorders of his brain, to drive him deeper and deeper into the black abyss until he fought and won by the camp fire; of his consequent panic-stricken rebound of horror and remorse when he had put it all aside, fighting the call with reason, seeking desperately to crush it out of his life, until the sight of Keela in the satin gown had sent him back with a shock to that finer, cleaner, quieter call that had come in the Sherrill garden. Then the disordered interval between had fled to the limbo of forgotten things. Mic-co heard his story to the end without comment. He was silent so long that Carl grew uncomfortable.