The Hillsboro trail ran south-west between the upper and lower chain of lakes, over Little Fish Crossing, along the old Government trail, and over the Loxahatchi.

Westward no trail lay save those blind signs of the Seminoles across the wastes of open timber and endless stretches of lagoon and saw-grass which is called the Everglades.
On the edge of the road where Hamil sat his horse was an old pump--the last indication of civilisation.

He dismounted and tried it, filling his cup with clear sparkling water, neither hot nor cold, and walking through the sand offered it to Shiela Cardross.
"Osceola's font," she nodded, returning from her abstraction; "thank you, I am thirsty." And she drained the cup at her leisure, pausing at moments to look into the west as though the wilderness had already laid its spell upon her.
Then she looked down at Hamil beside her, handing him the cup.
"_In-nah-cahpoor ?_" she asked softly; and as he looked up puzzled and smiling: "I asked you, in Seminole, what is the price I have to pay for your cup of water ?" "A little love," he said quietly--"a very little, Shiela." "I see!--like this water, neither warm nor cold: _nac-ey-tai ?_--what do you call it ?--oh, yes, sisterly affection." She looked down at him with a forced smile.

"_Uncah_" she said, "which in Seminole means 'yes' to your demand....

You don't mind if I relapse into the lake dialect occasionally--do you ?--especially when I'm afraid to say it in English." And, gaining confidence, she smiled at him, the faintest hint of tenderness in her eyes.