I had known her beauty; I had been astounded by it in the Havana cafe, in my dream, in the little kodak film of Monsieur's, and last, when she stood in her doorway less than forty-eight hours before. But here was something that transcended all that I had previously seen in her. Perhaps the young sun, golden in the morning atmosphere, cast the spell as it sought out spun-copper strands amongst her waves of hair; perhaps the days of anxiety, terminating in a night of unfearful sleep, had put the dew, the mystery, in her eyes; or it may have been the color, smouldering beneath the attractive tan on her cheeks and tinting her pure throat, that held me charmed; or the indefinable spirit of wildness that showed through a natural poise. I saw, too, in a hazy kind of way, a most bewitching costume--at least, admirably suited to her: a waist of olive-drab, not unlike our service shirts but of delicate material, open at the throat and fitting her snugly; quite a short skirt to match, and laced tan boots. "Please don't shoot," I said, trying to smile. "Where is Jackachobee?" she demanded. "I'm Jackachobee." "But you're not an Indian!" "No, but I really am the friend Tachachobee told you of." I could see that she was growing more alarmed, and now spoke frankly, saying: "I pretended to be a Seminole last night because explanations would have taken time; and I thought, too, that you'd feel safer with a good Indian because he's easier to boss than a white man." Her eyes narrowed, subtly suggesting that she might take this as a challenge. At last, having looked me over--but not once removing her hand from the revolver butt--she said, with a little pucker between her eyebrows: "I've seen you somewhere. Were you ever in our--in that place over there?" Now, of course, I could hardly expect her to see a resemblance between a chap wearing breeches and puttees in a Florida wilderness and the dinner-jacketed yachtsman who dined near her table off yonder in Havana. It would be asking a great deal--although I did feel disappointed. "No," I answered, "I haven't been in that settlement; but I watched it from a hiding place all of day before yesterday. You see, I've come two hundred miles to take you away from it." "You've come to--to take _me_?" she slowly asked, and I thought the color began to smoulder again; while from her eyes flashed a look that might have been a struggle between gratitude, resentment and fear. Wanting only the first to prevail I continued hastily: "Yes; I followed ever since you wrote that you were in danger, and I've sworn not to return to my yacht without you." "Oh!" she gasped, stepping back and staring at me through the swiftly changing lights of her awakening. "Surely," she caught her breath again, "surely you're not the--you _can't_ be!" "I am," I smiled, holding out my hand. "The man you gave the paper ball to."