The old Indian came this morning to visit Aderhold and Joan. Others had been before him; they had held, perforce, a kind of levee. The children were not more curious, nor simpler in their expression of curiosity, than were the men and women. They had no language in common with the castaways but that of gesture, but they made this answer. The torn, sun-faded clothing of the two, the fineness and tint of their hair, the colour of their skin, Joan’s grey eyes, the absurd sound of their speech at which the Indians laughed heartily—every physical trait was of interest. But as with children attention went little further than that and was quick to flag. The levee dispersed. But the old man’s interest went beyond eyes and hair and a fair skin. He could speak in Spanish, too, and Aderhold could answer. He was as curious as the others, but his curiosity had a wider mental range. The strangers’ country and its nature—their rank there—why they left it—had their ship utterly perished in the hurricane—these and other questions he asked, with his fine, old, chieftain, shrewd, not unhumorous face. Aderhold answered with as much frankness as was possible. The old chief listened, nodded, said briefly that he had heard men in the great island speak of those other white men, the English, and how they fought like devils. “But devils’ devil not what I call devil,” said the chief. “Devils’ god what I call devil.” He wished to know if the English were not coming to fight the Spanish, and his eyes lit up, “Then come rest here. Englishmen wouldn’t stamp foot upon us—eh?” He observed that the hut was old and falling down. “Not good place. Too much tree—too much other houses all around. I like place see the water—night and morning. Sit and think, think where it ends.” He offered to have them a house built. “Do it in one day. When you like it you look, say where.” Presently he gazed at them thoughtfully, and held up two fingers. “Sister and brother?” “No, not sister and brother. We are lovers.” “Ah, ah!” said the old chief. “I thought that, yonder in the boat.—What is her name—and your name?” “Joan—and Gilbert.” The old man said them over, twice and thrice, pleased at mastering the strange sounds. “Joan—Gilbert. Joan—Gilbert.” At last he went away, but that was the beginning of a long and staunch friendship. The day passed, the night. Another day dawned and ran onward to an afternoon marvellously fair. The season of hurricanes and great heat was passing; the air was growing temperate, life-giving. This day had been jewel-clear, with a tonic, blowing wind, strong and warm. The narrow shore-line of wave-worn rock and coralline sand lay only a little way from the village. In the latter occurred a continual, sleepy oscillation of its particles, talk and encounter, and privacy had not been invented. Joan and Aderhold, fairly as strong now as on that night when with Gervaise and Lantern they broke prison, went this afternoon down to the sea.