CHAPTER I

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SESTRINA

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A. SAFRONI-MIDDLETON

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SESTRINA

A ROMANCE OF THE SOUTH SEAS

BY

A. SAFRONI-MIDDLETON

AUTHOR OF “SOUTH SEA FOAM.”

_Life is our death: We dream reality.

Imagination is Omnipotence,

Some image of a bright eternity

Flashed on Time’s mirror from the Mind Immense:

’Twill be reshaped from all that madness seems

Into immortal beauty of new dreams!_

[Illustration]

NEW YORK

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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SESTRINA

CHAPTER I

_A dusky maid stood ’neath a lone palm tree

Down Makewayo beach, on Savaii Isles;

A perfect shape and curved lips had she

As stared her bright eyes o’er the lone sea miles;

Maids have grown old, brave men seen their best day,

But she was made of terra-cotta clay—

In beauty by the sea still stands and smiles!_

“O SWEET is woman clad in modest smiles and grass!”

The speaker, Royal Clensy, was an ardent dreamer, romanticist and

mystic. He did not wear a flowing robe or seer’s beard, he was simply a

handsome young Englishman attired in a serge suit, wearing a topee as he

leaned against the stem of a palm tree. And had our hero have been able

to express his opinions in distinguished poetic style, instead of in the

crude phrase which opens this chapter, it is an extremely dubious point

as to whether he would ever have been awarded the Nobel Prize for _Vers

Libre_. However, though Clensy was ambitious, he was quite devoid of

pretence, which was as well since competition seems keen wherever one

goes.

“Cah! Cah! Cah! Too whoo Ha He!” said a second voice. It was the voice

of wisdom, the philosophy of the ages was expressed on the wrinkled

brow, in the solemn bright eyes and on the shining grey and crimson

striped homespun suit, as away, in its own private aeroplane, it sailed

over the palms—out of this story! It was a full-blooded native of the

Marquesas Isles—a cockatoo!

The first speaker, who still stood under a palm by the lagoons, swished

his hand and scattered the swarm of sandflies that buzzed before his

eyes obstructing his curious gaze at the pretty, symmetrical brown maid

who glided under the palms and then vanished! It was a common enough

sight to see a modest maid or youth clad only in smallest green attire

stitched on by invisible stiff grass thread, run from the village

doorways into another hut opposite. It was a sight to sweep a dreamer’s

reflective mind into the golden age of Eden’s fountains before the Tree

of Knowledge upset the innocence and beauty of the first sylvan shades.

And oh, the prevailing terrific heat, and the coolness suggested by such

artless attire. True enough the glowing tropic heat had its drawbacks on

those Isles. But Old Dame Nature toiled on, patiently and artlessly for

art’s sake, devising suitable clothes, mysteriously sewing and stitching

wonderfully hued patterns and greenest, cheapest materials for her

artless children. And what a fascinating code of morals was hers! An

ill-timed sneeze before the altar, and the dusky bride’s

wedding-robe—her mass of shining hair—lo, became disarranged, and made

the amorous chiefs sigh. How awful!

No wonder the young Englishman meditated profoundly and continued his

preposterous reflections: “Who knows, I may have been happier had I have

been born here, in Temeroka village, within sounds of the tribal drums

instead of the chimes of Bow Bells.” He gazed down on his much worn

boots and wondered what would happen when they fell off! “How on earth

can I ever get them re-soled and heeled here, on Isles where men and

women wipe their noses on sweet-scented leaves, where the highest social

society discuss morals and politics as they somersault in these shore

lagoons. Truly, a sylvan utopia of fierce happiness and clotheless

modesty. God’s finest sculptural art done in smooth terra-cotta clays,

sun-varnished, finished off with muscular curves, and, to say the least,

picturesque feminine outlines as folk roam under these coco-palms.” Our

hero’s reflections did him credit, nothing was truer. Even the first

wonder over creation seemed to gleam in the eyes of those wild peoples.

Only one odious odour disturbed the rich scents of tropic flowers. It

came from the copra sheds round the bend of the bay, by the primitive

wharf where a fore-and-aft schooner lay. It was at that spot where

beggared tattooed chiefs and melancholy kings and queens of fallen

dynasties cracked nuts ready for the extraction of suspicious looking

fats to smear on the artificial breadfruit and well-combed smooth hair

of civilised Man! O world of inscrutable mystery!

“‘Ow gloryhus is rum, woman and coco-nuts!” grunted a third voice. Our

hero was not startled. It was the voice of one of a noble lineage, that

presumably dated back to Bacchus down in Thebes. It was none other than

Beer de Beer Adams who spoke thus. It’s a crying shame to have to

introduce such a character to polite society. He would never have

entered these pages, but for the fact that he stood by Royal Clensy that

day. Adams was a derelict sailorman. Even as he spoke he conclusively

proved how unfit he was to enter the society of the humblest pages of

polite literature, except, perhaps, as a character of the most menial

position—lo, he pursed his vulgar lips and sent a stream of filthy

tobacco-juice across the line of Clensy’s vision. But what cared our

hero? He was young! twenty years of age!

As this script will probably be the only serious, authentic record of

Clensy’s life from that time when he left Hiva-oa on a schooner for the

South American coast, to arrive eventually at Port-au-Prince, Hayti, it

will be as well to let the uninformed know something about his mode of

life at the date when he met Adams. It will be sufficient to say that

Clensy had been roaming about the various isles of the Marquesan group

for three months before he decided to go farther afield. Adams was a

destitute drunken reprobate—and he looked it. To be seen in his company

was sufficient to exclude one from any decent society that might exist

between Terra del Fuego and the Coral Sea. Probably that is why Clensy

cottoned to Adams like a shot when he first ran across him in Taiohae.

Clensy was out to see the world and enjoy the vigorous novelty of

roughing it; and Adams was out to cadge from unsophisticated young men.

(Adams is not to be taken as a specimen of an honest South Sea

shellback.) As for Royal Clensy, he was physically perfect. He had a

fine brow, and eyes that shone with the light of a gay personality. His

mind was in the spongy state that readily absorbs good and bad

influences; but his belief in the goodness of human nature sent the mud

to the bottom of the living-waters to nourish and help the roots of the

lilies grow in the summer of his days. His temperament was, under sunny

conditions, sanguine and decidedly amorous. Anyone who knew him well was

not likely to die of shock were they suddenly informed that he had

eloped with a princess or a pretty serving maid. However, he did neither

of these things, and they are only suggested to help explain that which

is so difficult to explain—temperament. Like all men who have good in

them, he was his own godly priest, and instinctively knelt at the altar

of his own secret faith to confess his sins to a remorseful conscience.

Consequently his religion was sincere and quite devoid of hypocrisy. He

was bound to improve with time, as the mud settled down, and the lilies

took firm root. So much for Clensy’s embryo sins and virtues. This gay

young Englishman was of good birth; that was certain. Earlier incidents

connected with his life cannot be given. Whether on first entering into

the light of mundane things he was bottle or breast-fed, or was reared

in suitable surroundings for so erratic a temperament, is immaterial. It

can, however, be relied upon that he was born as he _was_, inheriting

all those peculiarities which made him solely responsible for the drama

of passion that put his life out of joint before he was twenty-one years

of age. All wise men agree that temperament is the ruling passion that

controls man’s actions, all impulses good or bad, be they successfully

curbed or blazed before an admiring or shocked world, as the case may

be. Adams swallowing rum or gassing Royal Clensy with smoke from his

filthy clay pipe, was Adams proper; and Clensy standing beneath the coco

palms staring with serious eyes, wondering what would become of him

should his people not soon send his remittance, was, and, without a

libellous statement on the reputation of his great natural mother, Dame

Nature, none other than the legitimate, handsome, sun-tanned

inconsequential Royal Clensy.

Instead of Clensy being shocked over Adams’s wicked yarns and disgusted

to see a man squirt tobacco-juice with such marvellous precision over

his shoulder, he stared his admiration of such vulgarity, and then

roared with laughter.

“So yer wants ter git to ther coast of Sarth America, do yer?” said

Adams. Then he added. “Look ye here, Myster Clensy, you’re a young gent,

anyone can spot that by the cut of yer jib. And anyones who knows me,

knows I’m ther man ter be an honest fren’ and guide ter yer.”

“You really do seem a good sort,” responded Clensy as he tugged the

little tip of his virgin moustache and looked critically at Adams’s

wrinkled, semi-humorous, rum-stricken countenance. Then Clensy, summing

up his inward thoughts, murmured to himself: “You look like a hardened

old sinner to me, blessed if you don’t.”

Adams who only saw the distinct surface of things, thought he had made a

fine impression. He rolled his solitary eye (he had lost his right eye

during a brawl in a heathen seraglio, New Guinea) and said: “So you’re a

remittance man, and want ter git ter a plyce wheres yer can ’ave the

spondulicks sent?”

Clensy nodded, and said, “I want to get to Acapulco, on the South

American coast, my uncle’s British Consul there.”

“‘Is E _indyed_!” gasped Adams as he at once obsequiously began to brush

an imaginary speck of dust from Clensy’s shoulder. Visions of coming

affluence loomed before his solitary eye.

“How can it be managed? I must leave this place soon or I’ll be dead

broke,” said Clensy. Thereupon Adams immediately informed the young

Englishman that the French tramp steamer, _La Belle France_, was leaving

Hiva-oa for the South American coast with a cargo of copra in a few

days. “She puts into Acapulco, so the thing’s done—if yer’ve got the

cash for passages?”

“I have,” said Clensy, then he handed the sailorman a sovereign on

account.

“Leave it all to me, I’ll get passages for about ten quid each,” said

the old reprobate as he spat on the golden coin for luck. So was the

matter settled between them. Two days after that, Adams informed Clensy

that he had managed to secure berths as deck passengers at twelve pounds

apiece. He watched Clensy’s face, and then smiled his inward delight,

for he had made five pounds over the deal with the skipper of the _La

Belle France_. Clensy, who guessed that he had secured berths for less

money than he said, made no remark.

“She’s sailing day after termorrer, so we’d better go and say good-bye

to our fren’s on the islets tother side; agreed?”

And so Clensy agreed to go to the neighbouring isle to say good-bye to

Adams’s old friend, the widowed queen, Mara Le Vakamoa. “You must see

heathen royalty afore you leaves these islands,” said Adams.

That same night Adams paddled Clensy in a canoe across the narrow strip

of ocean that divided them from the isle where dwelt several pagan kings

and much-married queens. When Clensy arrived at the unpalatial-looking

wooden building which was the residence of Queen Mara Le Vakamoa, much

of the glamour which Adams’s description of native royalty had conjured

up in his mind faded. They only stopped one night and day in the royal

village. True enough the queen and high chiefs were extremely courteous

and paid great homage to the noble papalagai’s (white men). But though

Adams was in his element when in the company of full-blooded South Sea

royalty, Clensy soon sickened of the ceaseless chattering and royal

display of limbs. The fact is, that the queens and princesses belonged

to an ancient dynasty, and had long since passed the zenith of their

beauty. Even Adams screwed up his lean, humorous-looking mouth and took

in a deep breath when the Queen Vakamoa opened her enormous thick-lipped

mouth and gave him a smacking farewell kiss. Then Clensy, too, bowed

before the inevitable, took a large nip of Hollands gin from Adams’s

flask, and saluted the queen likewise. It was only when the pretty

native girls took flowers from their hair, and handed them to Clensy as

they murmured, “Aloah, papalagi”; that he really took an interest in the

farewell ceremonies. Then they trekked down to the beach and paddled

away in their canoe. It all seemed like some weird dream to Clensy as

Adams chewed tobacco plug and diligently paddled back for the shore

lagoons of the mainland. Night had swept the lovely tropic stars over

the dusky skies, and they could faintly hear the musical cries of

“Aloah, e mako, papalagi,” as they faded away into the ocean’s silence.

Next day Adams and Clensy went aboard the _La Belle France_ which sailed

in the afternoon. They both felt quite depressed as they watched the

Marquesan Isles fade like blue blotches far away on the western horizon.

Clensy was every bit as depressed as his comrade. He had thoroughly

enjoyed his three months’ sojourn in the beautiful archipelago of

golden-skinned men, palms and sylvan valleys shaded by breadfruits and

coco-palms. He had also been well liked by the rough traders and

shellbacks whom he had come in contact with, for he had often gained the

respect and affection of sunburnt men from the seas who hated snobs.

The voyage to the South American coast was extremely monotonous to

Clensy. Adams’s constant companionship and swashbuckling deportment on

the dreary passage across tropic seas gave Clensy bad intellectual

spasms. But still, he patiently tolerated his presence. He probably well

knew that Adams too had his place in this scheme of intelligent things,

and that one change of a footstep at the beginning of Adams’s career

might have made him a splendid Government official or Controller, and

well respected by all who didn’t know him! The fact is, that Clensy was

by nature a genuine democrat. He was well bred, and so, carelessly

unconscious of his worldly advantages over the uneducated men with whom

he so readily consorted. He had proper pride, but it was humble enough.

His head did not swell overmuch. He could not realise that when he was

wealthy, and still dined side by side with penniless shellbacks, he was

doing something that should be vigorously blown from the highest peak on

democracy’s brass bugle so that it might reverberate and echo down the

halls of boasted brotherhood. His nature had no kinship with the great

boast of a democracy that shouts: “See how our millionaires sit by the

side of the wage-earning cowboy and dine on beans and corn-cobs.” Thus

pointing out to all who can see and hear, how wide a gulf really divides

the poor man from the eternal boast of the democratic brotherhood. In

short, Clensy was a splendid specimen of the democratic-aristocrat

Englishman dwelling under the great socialistic government of the human

heart. His intellect was fair: he knew that kings could feel humble, and

a pope be really religious. He was a gentleman.

Clensy breathed a sigh of relief when he sighted the coast of South

America, and the _La Belle France_ eventually entered the ancient bay of

Acapulco. But he was greatly disappointed when he discovered that his

uncle had left the consulate and had returned to England two months

before his arrival. “We’re done!” said Clensy as he realised that he

would have to wait quite three months before his remittance money

arrived from England. For a long while he and Adams were on their

“beam-ends.” Clensy had a few pounds which was augmented by Adams’s

musical accomplishments. For the derelict reprobate would go off on his

own and perform on his wretched accordion, playing to the Mexican

storekeepers. Sometimes he wrapped an old silk robe about him, and

putting on a Spanish hidalgo mein, would go busking outside the

old-fashioned homesteads of Vera Domingo. So did he help Clensy out of

his predicament.

In due course Royal Clensy’s remittance arrived. Acapulco was a quiet,

lazy town in those days. The inhabitants were mostly Spaniards, Mexicans

and niggers. Consequently Clensy made up his mind to clear out of the

place and make for the larger states. What really happened after Clensy

received his remittance whilst in Acapulco can only be guessed at.

Clensy was as improvident and reckless with money as Adams, so it is

possible that they had a pretty good time while the bulk of the money

lasted. The only thing that can be recorded with certainty is, that they

left Acapulco and made their way to Vera Cruz, and eventually arrived by

steamer at Port-au-Prince, Hayti.

“It’s no use you grousing, Myster Clensy,” said Adams.

“I suppose not,” replied the young Englishman as he gazed mournfully on

the dark faced population of the semi-barbarian city of the Black

Republic, Port-au-Prince. “Reminds me of what I’ve read about ancient

Babylon and the Assyrian cities,” said Clensy as he watched the swarthy

Haytian chiefs and handsome mulatto women, clad in yellow and blue

silken robes, as they shuffled along the stone pavements in their loose

sandals. Many of the quaintly robed folk stood by the doorways of their

verandahed weatherboard homes conversing, making a hushed kind of hubbub

as they muttered and stared with large dark eyes at Clensy and Adams.

“What’s Babylony and Asyery ter do with it? It b— well reminds me of

hell, and of being damned ’ard up, it do!” responded the unpoetical

ex-sailor.

“What on earth shall we do? We’re dead broke till my remittance arrives

again,” reiterated Clensy as he wiped his perspiring brow and smiled

wearily as the pretty Haytian girl passed by and gave him a languishing

glance.

“Don’t you worry, myster, the only thing ter do, is ter take up ter the

buskin’ again, but I _can’t_ play alone in this ’ell of a ’ole, I’ll

p’raps get shot by one of these smut-faced devils.”

“Can’t play alone! What do you mean?” said Clensy.

“I simply means thet you must stand by me, and see that I’m unmolysted

by these ere b— ’eathens.”

“Good heavens, have I come to this!” moaned our hero as he once again

wiped his brow and made a thousand good resolutions as to how careful he

would be when the next remittance came! But withal Royal Clensy was

game. He brushed his misgivings away and smiled, and thought, “Well, I

suppose I must adapt myself to circumstances in this world of woe and

tears.” Then he came to the sensible conclusion that it was best to cast

one’s pride aside when the digestive apparatus made pathetic appeals to

the higher senses.

That same afternoon, to Clensy’s extreme mortification, he found himself

standing just outside the presidential palace at Port-au-Prince. “It’s

best ter ply before people who ’as got money,” Adams had said, and so

there they stood as Adams opened his villainous mouth and wailed out

“Little Annie Rooney’s My Sweetheart” to his vile accordion

accompaniment. Clensy gnashed his teeth and hid his perspiring face in

his silk handkerchief of other days when the chorus came. It was then

that Adams shuffled his feet and, doubling the tempo of the song, danced

a hideous jig. “God our help in ages past,” murmured Clensy in an insane

way, as the ebony-hued population swarmed around them, and gazed in

astonishment at the one-eyed sailorman as he played on, quite

unconcerned and careless of Clensy’s anguished feelings. “What! you have

the infernal cheek to think I’ll go round with your coco-nut shell and

collect!” said Clensy, when Adams calmly stood on one leg, stopped

dancing, and intimated that Clensy might make a “whip round.” “Not I.

I’d sooner get a ship! Why, it’s bad enough to hear you make that damned

row,” said Clensy angrily. Consequently Adams went round himself with

the shell. To Clensy’s surprise, when Adams had passed among the crowd

of onlookers, and had come back, the coco-nut shell was nearly full of

peculiar-looking coins that neither knew the exact value of.

The Haytians and mulattoes are a naturally unostentatious folk in their

likes and dislikes, a peculiar kind of calmness pervading their most

deliberate acts. One cynical-looking Haytian chief gazed critically into

Adams’s collecting calabash as he once more went round, and dropped a

dead putrid rat inside! The Haytian chief was evidently not feeling

exactly partial towards white men, and chose that way of showing his

resentment.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t get ratty!” whispered Clensy as he pulled his

comrade’s coat-tail and gave a warning glance. Fortunately for them

both, Adams swiftly realised that Clensy was generally right, and so he

cooled down and soothed his outraged feelings by swearing at the Haytian

chief in the choicest Billingsgate English. With that marvellous

precision which brings envy to the hearts of foreign sailormen

throughout the world, Adams squirted a stream of tobacco-juice—splash!

it had sent a dark stain down the length of the chief’s yellow robe as

he stalked majestically away. Then once more the Cockney sailorman began

to play and sing.

“Wish I’d never written home from Acapulco and given an address at this

hole for my remittance to be sent to,” thought Clensy. His heart quaked

in the thought that he had to exist by aid of Adams’s musical

accomplishments for nearly two months. It was dreadful! But it was only

a momentary spasm of deepest gloom that afflicted our hero. Fate is

kind, in a way, to mortals. The silver lining generally appears on the

cloud when the day seems darkest; and though the cloud may be charged

with the thunders and lightnings of undreamed-of future storms to break

over the sanguine wayfarer’s head, it _does_ look silvery for a time,

and so cheers the despondent soul. In fact, Royal Clensy’s thoughts had

already suddenly leapt into another channel, had become charged with

warm, sensuous feelings that had blazed into existence by the magic

gleam of beautiful eyes! Adams had just finished his last song, and was

hand-pedalling his accordion into a thrilling wail, when a beautiful

Haytian girl ran out of the open gate of the presidential palace and

stared with evident admiration straight in Royal Clensy’s sun-tanned

handsome face. Then she stared in astonishment at Adams’s accordion.

(Accordions were great novelties in Hayti in those days.) Clensy blushed

to the ears. Her eyes shone like baby stars; her hair tumbled in a

glittering mass around her neck, rippling below her waist, floating in

artless confusion over her _neglige_ attire—a pale blue _sarong_. Her

complexion was of an olive hue, delicately tinted with the rosy blush of

health, like the complexion of a fair Italian girl.

“What cursed luck! Travelled the world over only to meet her at this

dire moment, outside a palace busking with a reprobate like Adams

playing a wretched accordion.” In that swift realisation of his

degradation, Clensy felt atheistical. He could have turned round and

screwed Adams’s neck till the scoundrel’s spine snapped! For the first

time in his career he became a child of modern democracy. A great wave

of snobbishness overwhelmed his senses. He longed to turn round and

shout into the Haytian girl’s ear: “Behold Me! the son of wealthy

parents, the blood of great ancestors flowing in my veins, yet here I

stand, happy in the society of this drunken old reprobate and his

damnable accordion.” Swiftly recovering from his embarrassment, he made

a courtly bow. The girl’s lips parted in a delicious smile as she

daintily imitated Clensy’s salutation. It was most fascinating. The

palace and the surrounding weatherboard houses seemed to fall on top of

Clensy’s head as the girl placed a coin in the collection-box. Then,

looking into Adams’s rum-stricken face, as he still sang, she said, “Oh,

monsieur, you _have_ gotter voice!”

Clensy whipped his handkerchief out and wiped his sweating brow, then

stared again and gave the maid the benefit of the doubt. “That can be

taken as the reverse of a compliment; the girl must have a sense of

humour,” he thought. As for Adams, he bit the coin with his blackened

teeth to assure himself that it was gold, then he made himself look as

awkward as a frog. He wasn’t going to be outdone by a whippersnapper

like Clensy. Arching his back as though the world of chivalry weighted

it he bowed too! The next moment an elderly negress poked her frizzy

head round the rim of the palace gateway and said in a squeaky voice,

“Oh, Madamselle Sestrina, ze president, your father, wish to zee you.”

At hearing this, the girl who had so impressed Royal Clensy gave a

silvery peal of laughter and ran back within the palace gates. Clensy

was not so much to blame for his sudden infatuation for the girl who had

appeared before him and had then vanished like a dream! She _did_ have

red lips that looked like smashed pomegranates formed to charm men to

taste. The beautiful morn of maidenhood shone on her brow; the first

golden streak of creation’s first sunrise seemed to twinkle in the

ocean-like depths of her eyes. Yes, Clensy saw her as woman standing on

the threshold of the temple of Beauty, her loveliness unconsciously

inviting some one to come and worship at her altar as she stared over

those visionary seas, seas where the shadows of the unborn children sit

on the shore reefs, singing their luring, plaintive, sunrise songs till

sad, wandering men pass along! Sounds sentimental and poetic? Well,

Clensy had suddenly become strangely endowed with the poetic instinct.

And so, the girl’s maiden beauty had presented itself to his mind in a

highly imaginative form. Beautiful Sestrina, President Gravelot’s

daughter, for such she was, had fired Clensy’s brain with an undying

passion, had unknowingly made the first fateful footstep down the path

of destiny that was to lead to the sad drama, the terrible catastrophe

that is alone responsible for this story.

CHAPTER II

_O mystery that made the frenzied thug,

And winds to beat the frozen sheep:

O fates that did conspire to make a bug

To haunt sad mortals in their sleep!_

“NICE gal, that!” mumbled Adams, as he and Clensy hurried away from the

crowd that still loitered before the presidential palace. They quickly

made their way towards the palm-sheltered portion of the dusty,

heat-stricken city.

“Yes, very nice,” responded Clensy, as he gazed vacantly ahead, hurrying

Adams along as though he sought to escape from his own embarrassment.

“I’d loike ter marry a bootiful crawture like ’er. Only one fault ter

find about ’er—she ain’t fat!” said the sailorman, as he glanced up at

Clensy, squinting his solitary eye sideways, like a curious cockatoo.

“Hem!” was Clensy’s rejoinder, as he threw his shoulders back and looked

the other way to hide his cynical disgust from Adams’s eye, as that

materialistic worthy still expressed several opinions about Sestrina’s

face and figure. Anything of a subtle nature in Clensy’s manner or talk

was naturally lost to such an intellect as Adams possessed, and so the

sailorman at once changed the conversation. “’E’s gone off agin, in one

of ’is balmy moods!” the reprobate murmured to himself, then he added

aloud, “Hawful ’ot,” and pulled his whiskers.

“Thank God it’s shady here,” said Clensy, as they arrived in the shades

of the beautiful mahogany trees. “Let’s see the sights of the town,”

said Adams, as they stood under the trees and gazed on the little

streets and the long, irregular rows of quaint wooden houses.

“I’m done up, nearly dead for want of sleep,” replied Clensy.

“Why, I feel as fresh as a two-year-old!” growled Adams. The true facts

are, that Adams was case-hardened and hadn’t spent a wretched night in

attempting to distract the attention of enormous fleas from his person

as poor Clensy had done in the low lodging-house bed the night before.

The Haytians love company in bed, and, from what Clensy could see, the

price of a bed in Hayti was increased if the fleas were lively and

plentiful. In fact, the inhabitants were kind-hearted, bohemian folk and

believed in the merciful creed of live and let live! A fact that was

well illustrated by the state of the streets in Port-au-Prince. Adams

said the streets were worse than the streets in Shanghai and Hum-kow,

Tokio. The Haytians do their washing in a tub before their front door,

and hang their clothes on lines that are spread from one side of the

street to the other, tied on to the stems of the palm-trees that usually

grow on the pavement side. It was a quaint, semi-poetic sight to Clensy

as he gazed at the yellow, crimson and white lingerie and garments of

both sexes fluttering to the caresses of the hot winds: wonderful

drapery placed side by side without any nice discrimination as to the

modest feelings and sensibilities of those who passed by! Adams looked

quite jovial as he gazed at the clothes-lines and made critical remarks.

The undemocratic Clensy simply looked at the filthy streets and held a

large lump of camphor to his nostrils, and often rubbed some on his

moustache. Royal Clensy always carried “Keating’s,” a small tooth-comb,

and lump of camphor during his travels. He was a wise fellow. Along the

kerb-sides were innumerable dustbins, for the Haytians throw all their

house refuse into the highway, right opposite their front door. And

there it stood, incubating in the hot sunlight, heaving and buzzing,

thousands of tiny worlds populated with happy life, green and

sapphire-winged insects, worlds upon worlds inhabited by bright-plumaged

beings that feed on the offal of their sphere as they sang and danced in

their youth and grew old in their universe of inscrutable mystery. Even

as Clensy and Adams watched, they saw clouds of bright, gauzy wings

arise, millions of God’s humblest beings emigrating as they swarmed

away, hissing and singing till they found another constellation of

shining hot worlds in front of the stores farther down the great highway

of their heavens! As for the black-faced population, they might have

been the dead Pharaohs shuffling along in some mysterious holiday,

rewakened from the tomb. On they shuffled, apparently oblivious to

everything; dusky faces, yellowish faces, greenish faces and

copper-coloured faces. A picturesque sight they made. The warm-coloured

women and girls were clad in _sarongs_ and scanty semi-European attire

as they slouched or shuffled under the palms of the street’s side,

laughing and babbling together, girls and youths of all types laughing

or yawning as they swallowed the astonished insects as they migrated

from one heap of refuse to another, and sometimes fell into the abyss of

those open thick-lipped negro and negress mouths!

“Don’t fink much of this ’ere plyce!” mumbled Adams.

“All right in its way; good for insect collectors,” replied Clensy.

“Mulatters and niggers ain’t civilised like _we_ are,” was Adams’s

sententious remark, as he removed a cork and sniffed the shellback’s

_sal volatile_—his rum-flask!

“Not they!” said Clensy, shaking his head with superb acquiescence. With

all the drawbacks of Haytian ways, Clensy admitted that the city had its

picturesque, poetic side. The half-caste girls and negresses with heads

adorned with wonderful chignons, the dusky, bright-eyed youths and the

musical _patois_ they babbled, greeted Clensy’s ears and eyes in a

pleasing way. Far away he saw the palm-clad mountain slopes disappearing

into rugged, dreamy blue distances, and on the other side of the city

stretched the dim wide plains of Gonaives. “What mahogany trees!”

exclaimed Clensy, as they stood before several giant, sombre trees, the

last members of the great forests that had once surrounded

Port-au-Prince.

“Damn yer trees!” said Adams, who was more interested in watching

several Haytian maids and negresses perform a peculiar dance, the

_bamboula_, the steps of which gave a bold exhibition of the dancer’s

physical charms. Adams, being very religious and modest by nature, said,

“‘Ow can they do sich fings before civilised men like hus! It’s

terryble!”

“Don’t break down; all our health is wanted to meet the trials of

adversity before us,” said Clensy in a soothing voice, as Adams hung his

blushing face and the maids still danced on. Then the sailorman lifted

his shocked countenance and, as his solitary eye gave a merry blue

twinkle, he murmured, “Let’s git out of it and go back to our lodgings.”

The fact is that it was getting late, and the stars were already shining

over the plains of Gonaives. In half an hour Clensy and Adams had

arrived back at their cheap lodging-house that was situated by the

Sing-Song Café, in La Selle Street.

“By God’s grace I’ll sleep to-night,” said Clensy, as he took his tin of

Keating’s flea powder forth and began to well pepper his bunk bed. Then

he opened his baize bag (he had pawned his portmanteau), and, taking out

his special bit of ship’s sheeting, he pitched the lodging-house sheet

out of the window and remade the bed. “You’re too aristocratic, too

’tickler ter travel. You orter stopped ’ome with yer pa and ma,” said

Adams, as he picked up a wriggling fat green lizard from his bed and

tossed it out of the window.

“Maybe I am too particular,” replied Clensy, as he glanced through the

window at the stars, and wondered how long the mingy oil-lamp, that

swung from the ceiling, would last before the oil was exhausted. Then

his heart gave a thump and nearly stopped! Adams dropped his pipe in his

astonishment. They both thought the roof had fallen on top of them.

But it wasn’t as bad as that. A huge settee-pillow had been thrown, had

struck Clensy on top of the head, and smashed into Adams’s back. A

tremendous peal of laughter shook the room. “Flea powder! By the gods of

my fathers, flea powder!” yelled a voice. They turned their heads, and

there, in a bunk right opposite their own, they saw two large blue eyes

staring at them from beneath a giant of a brow. They saw a great body

slowly uplift from the bunk. Then the figure’s wide-open mouth gave vent

to a vibrant peal of renewed laughter. The man who had so boisterously

introduced himself to Clensy and Adams was a new arrival in Hayti, had

only the day before left a steamer in the bay at Port-au-Prince.

Clensy and Adams still stared on the man with their mouths wide open.

“Give us some flea powder, youngster!”

Just for a moment Clensy continued to stare at those sombre yet

humorous-looking eyes, then he picked up the tin of powder and

courteously handed it to the big man.

“Got any baccy? Don’t stand there with yer goddamned mouths open; hand

the weed up!”

At this new demand, Adams and Clensy, like two obedient children, felt

quickly in their pockets and handed their giant-like bedroom companion

their pouches. They couldn’t help it! The strange eyes were magnetic,

the light in them not only compelled Clensy and Adams to accede to their

owner’s request, but also gave them pleasure at being able to supply his

wants!

“And who may you be?” asked Clensy quietly as he recovered his

composure.

“I’m Samuel Bartholomew Biglow! that’s my handle!” roared the boisterous

stranger. Then he half emptied their pouches, threw them on the floor,

and carefully pressed his thumb into his corn-cob pipe.

“So that’s your name, and it’s a suitable one,” Clensy ventured to say;

then he smiled, for he vaguely realised that a man had a right to call

himself by any name he wished, especially one with such a commanding

personality and giant-like proportions.

“I like the look of ye both, damned if I don’t,” said the stranger; then

he well sprinkled his bunk with the flea powder and tossed Clensy back

the tin.

“And what might your name be?” he said, as he gave Adams a mighty

languishing glance.

“My nyme’s Adams,” mumbled that worthy in humble tones.

“And my name is Jonathan Canton Solomon Clensy,” said the young

Englishman, in a voice which intimated that he too could call himself

names.

For a moment the big man surveyed Clensy with a glance of admiration,

then he yelled out, “Solomon Clensy and Isaac Adams, I’ve cottoned to ye

both, so I’ll see more of ye both in the morning.” The next moment he

had tucked his immense silken scarf about his throat, and placing two

huge, wonderfully white feet over the bunk’s side, settled himself for

sleep.

When Clensy and Adams awoke in the morning the new-comer was already up

and dressed.

“God damn it, rise and shine, lying in bed, ye lazy loafers,” he yelled.

They lifted their tired heads and gazed vacantly on the boisterous

disturber of their late slumber. For a moment a look of resentment over

the man’s impertinent manner leapt into Adams’s eye. Clensy also gave

Biglow a look which plainly said, “Who the devil are you that you have

the cheek to order us to rise?” But when Bartholomew Biglow laid his

massive hand on his velvet waistcoat and burst into a song that told of

the horn of the hunters on the English hills, of grey dawns and the

skylark’s melodious trills to the sunrise, Clensy and Adams rose, and,

looking rather sheepish, commenced to dress. Then Biglow took them both

into the big dining-room where lodgers assembled for their meals, and

treated them both to a glorious breakfast.

“Get it down ye!” he yelled, as Adams and Clensy munched their toast and

poached eggs and bacon. Adams nudged Clensy in the ribs, and chuckled

over their sudden luck. After breakfast, the three man went outside

their lodging shanty and stood under the shading mahogany trees near

Selle Place. Then Samuel Biglow, for such we will call him, told Clensy

and his comrade, that though he had been the paramour of queens and the

confidant of kings, he reckoned he was well off to have met such a one

as Adams. Adams took the big man’s hand and said in almost respectful

tones, “Same ter you, Myster Samuel Bartholomew Biglow.” Then Samuel

tendered them his credentials in the shape of voluminous verbal

reminiscences, telling them of mighty deeds he had performed. If the

man’s own accounts could be relied upon, he had been a wonder in his

time.

Then Samuel listened to Adams, for that worthy also started to blow his

own trumpet. Samuel Biglow bent his giant form and roared with laughter

as he listened. Then Adams said he was “a man of honour,” that he would

“sooner die than do unto another that which he would not like to be done

to him.”

“So, so!” murmured Samuel Biglow soothingly, as he gave Adams a kindly,

mother-like look, which plainly told Clensy, who thoroughly enjoyed the

play, that he, Samuel, didn’t believe one word that the sailorman said,

and that he was doubtlessly as big a rogue as himself. “Ye’ve got

honesty written on yer mug!” he said, and Adams felt pleased.

The fact is, that circumstances were running as near dire disaster as

could possibly be when two men like Samuel Biglow and Adams met in

Hayti, where catastrophes were of hourly occurrence. And it can only be

put down to extraordinary good luck that Royal Clensy never got his head

into at least a noose of difficulties through associating with such

characters. However, let it be said, that all that happened afterwards

was not the fault of either Samuel Biglow or Adams; if anything, Samuel

Biglow was Royal Clensy’s saviour when the hour arrived, and they had to

flee, the three of them, from Hayti.

CHAPTER III

SAMUEL BIGLOW was a blessing to Clensy and Adams.

As well as possessing enormous cheek, he possessed plenty of money. That

which surprised Clensy most about Biglow was his refined demeanour when

he entered Haytian society. It seemed to come natural to the man. He had

certainly never been well educated or reared amongst courtly people, yet

his self-possession and gallant manners outrivalled the polite

deportment of men and women who moved in the best social circle of

Port-au-Prince. It must be admitted that the highest Haytian social

circle, in those days, was not easily shocked over moral lapses or by

those acts which would be considered breaches of etiquette in European

society; but still, the Mexican and Spanish-French element of gallant

manners and pretty politenesses among the wealthy classes existed in a

large degree. These classes were made up of Haytian chiefs, mulattoes

and Mexicans, and lusty-looking men who appeared to have a large strain

of negro blood in their veins. The government of Hayti was in form

republican, the democratic element being especially noticeable when the

court officials and lustrous-eyed Haytian maids of the lower classes

came together. When Congress met at the chambers, the swarthy ministers

discussed public matters with great deliberation, each member holding a

drawn sword in his hand and a revolver lying fully loaded on the bench

in front of him. In fact, the Haytian Government constitution was up to

date, nothing to excel its laws—on paper! And the honest aspect of the

officials _par excellence_. All that was really required was an honest

Napoleonic Controller of Controllers to help responsible members of the

Republic from falling before the lure of bribery and lustrous-eyed

beauties of the Court.

Such was the state of Haytian affairs in Clensy’s youth, in the grand

days when Samuel Bartholomew Biglow smacked the President of the

Republic in genial comradeship on the back and patronised the cynical

Haytian chiefs by his august presence. Samuel Biglow was not an enigma,

he was simply royalty in the raw state. He had the personality and the

cool cheek that raises men to eminence amongst primitive or even

civilised peoples when they mourn a lost leader. Had Biglow lived in old

Britain in the days of Boadicea, he would have been heard of.

School-children would to-day have been compelled to memorise the date of

his birth and when and how he died. Antiquated, worn monuments to his

ancient fame would adorn the old bridges of our cities. But he was born

too late. When he arrived on earth, the moral codes of the heroic ages

had become reversed; consequently, it required all his astuteness to

save himself from being elected for the gallows or life-long meditation

in Wormwood Scrubbs or Sing-Sing. Such is the irony of fame and

changeful circumstance. However, Samuel was happy enough. His handsome

face would flush with the light of his amorous imagination when the

dusky ladies who attended the presidential balls gave him languishing

glances; and gallantly did he return them! He had not been in Hayti more

than a week before he managed to enter the palace and make the

acquaintance of President Gravelot. Adams and Clensy were astonished

when one night he came back to his lodgings and informed them that he

had had a busy day, being honoured as the special guest of the president

of the Black Republic.

“Borrow anyfing from ’im?” said Adams, staring at the big man in hopeful

surprise.

“No need to borrow. I’ve found out that the President is me long-lost

father. He’s recognised the strawberry mark on me back, and I’m to

receive an allowance from the Government exchequer,” replied Bartholomew

Biglow with his usual jovial mendacity. The truth of the whole business

was, that Samuel was doing a bit of gun-running for the U.S. firearm and

munition factories. And President Gravelot was anxious to purchase as

many Snider rifles and as much ammunition as he could possibly get hold

of. A revolution occurred in Hayti every year or so, when a rival for

the presidency appeared and was backed up by rebels and sometimes

Government soldiers. And so the Government officials and the rebel

officials, who dwelt by thousands in the mountains about Hayti, were for

ever competing with each other in buying arms and ammunition, and the

United States firms were ever ready to supply the aforesaid arms for

cash down. In fact, while Biglow was getting the best terms from

President Gravelot, an American steamer was lying in the bay off

Port-au-Prince with a cargo of antiquated old stock guns and explosives

on board. This steamer had carried a most enterprising super cargo and

shore agent, and this super-cargo was eminently suitable for the

position—his _nom de plume_ was Samuel Bartholomew Biglow! So it will be

easy to see why Biglow was welcomed by President Gravelot.

Biglow’s cheek and convivial ways pleased the President and all the

officials whom he came in contact with. Though the national emblem of

Hayti was the feathery cabbage palm, and suggested “Peace on Earth,

Truth and Beauty,” the true emblem should have been daggers and knives

and a human skull, with the motto, “Live and be Merry, for To-morrow we

lose power or die!” For, as has been said, revolutions came like the

punctuality of the seasons, and generally ended in the reigning

president being shot and the officials having to flee for their lives.

No doubt, Gravelot was immensely pleased to meet such a one as Biglow

when he was already feeling uneasy about his waning power. For the

Cacaos insurgents had already taken to warfare in the Black Mountains,

and day by day rumours were reaching Gravelot which hinted that his

presidency was nearing its close. Indeed, during his office Hayti had

been in arms, in one long civil war. Gravelot held the highest prestige

in the eyes of the British and French Consuls, and so Biglow knew what

he was about when he got in friendly touch with Gravelot. It was hard,

in the interminable squabbles between the negro, mulatto and Mexican

portion of the population, to know which was really the greatest power.

All that can be positively asserted is that no chance was lost by the

Haytians and mulattoes to thoroughly enjoy their lives according to

their tastes. So Biglow was received with open arms at the presidential

balls, where he astonished the lustrous-eyed maids of the passionate

south by his magnificent effrontery, in days of old when passions ran

riot in Hayti. When Clensy got wind of the truth, heard that Biglow was

in with the President, his heart beat with a great hope. Not for one

moment had he forgotten the beautiful girl who had spoken to them when

he and Adams had stood, two humble troubadours, outside the palace

gates. He saw his chance. He had already made inquiries, and discovered

that the girl who had so impressed him was the beautiful Sestrina,

President Gravelot’s daughter. At the earliest possible moment Clensy

had informed Bartholomew Biglow that he would feel more than kindly

towards that worthy if he would use his influence to get him introduced

into the palace.

“You can accomplish anything you wish to accomplish,” said Clensy.

“Possibly so,” was Biglow’s brief reply; then he added, “You see, lad,

my business at the palace is peculiarly secret, and I don’t stand on

safe ground when I commence to introduce white men into the Court of the

Black Republic.”

Clensy looked glum at hearing this, but he looked more cheerful when

Biglow ended up by saying, “I’ll think the matter over; p’raps I can see

a way of doing the thing.”

That same night Biglow happened to hear Adams performing on a banjo at

the Sing-Song Café, hard by their lodgings (Adams was a decent banjo

player), and Clensy strumming out melodies and dance-tunes on a derelict

piano. So when Biglow met Clensy next day he gave the young Englishman a

most contemptuous look, and said, “You! You play the piano like that and

yet ask _me_ to get you introduced into the palace society!”

“What on earth has the piano to do with it? How? Why?” said Clensy,

mystified.

“Lad, you’re a mug, and though you can’t see farther than the tip of yer

nose, you may consider yourself engaged on the spot as Pianist to the

President of the Black Republic.”

Clensy, with his usual lack of confidence, began to expostulate and

bring forward a hundred reasons to show why such a procedure would be a

failure. But Biglow simply gave him another contemptuous glance, and

then, pushing his mass of curls from his massive brow, turned on his

heel and walked away. Next day, when Clensy returned from a stroll in

the town back to his lodgings, Biglow smacked him on the back and

informed him that he was engaged as piano-player for the coming

presidential ball. The next moment Biglow had handed Clensy twenty

Mexican dollars.

“What’s this for?” gasped the astonished Clensy.

“Why, you looney, it’s your advance, a bit on account of your wages!”

Then Biglow explained that he had told the President that he, Clensy,

was a great musician, the chief Musical Director of the Conservatoire in

New York, and that it was a relentless rule of Yankee virtuosos to

demand an advance note.

“But I’m not a professional player at all. I can’t play well enough,”

said Clensy, as he recovered from his surprise, and looked at the money.

“I’m only a strummer on the piano, and they’ll expect to hear some of

the classics performed, won’t they?” said Clensy.

“Can’t play well enough! Classics, by God!” yelled Biglow, giving the

young Englishman a withering, pitying glance, then he added, “By

heavens, if you refuse the job, I’ll take it on! Do you think these

half-caste niggers know what music is? It’s Bartholomew Biglow who knows

what melody is; he’ll show ’em!” So saying, Biglow immediately opened

his mouth and began to sing some weird heathen melody which made the

Haytian maids rush from their doorways to see who sang so well and with

such vibrant feeling. Clensy at once bowed to the inevitable, and agreed

to accept the engagement, and play at the palace ball on the following

night.

Royal Clensy discovered that Biglow’s assurance that no one in Hayti

knew what real music was, was admirably exemplified by himself when he

sat the next night in the sumptuously furnished ball-room of the palace

and banged away on the imported Erard pianoforte. True enough he had

been well primed up for the occasion by Biglow, who had enticed him to

swallow much cognac. And so the young Englishman felt that he was seeing

tropical life in its most vigorous, romantic stage, as the

richly-attired Haytian chiefs and voluptuous-eyed mulatto women, clad in

picturesque _sarongs_, did wonderful dances that had been introduced

into Hayti by the old-time West African negro emigrants. As the happy

guests drank their host’s rich, heady wines, the strain of negro blood,

which is in the veins of almost all the Haytians, asserted itself. The

romantically clad half-caste girls undid their chignons and allowed

their shining, dusky tresses to fall in wanton abandonment about their

bare shoulders. And, as their softly-sandalled feet tripped and glided

across the wide polished floor of the dancing-room, their dark eyes

sparkled in the light of the innumerable hanging lamps. Clensy almost

forgot to play the tricky syncopated time of the dances, for just by the

side of the piano was a large mirror wherein the shadowy forms of the

wine-warmed dusky beauties gave misty yet vivid demonstrative

exhibitions of their delicate charms, as they did the heart-rending

steps of the _bamboula_ and the old barbarian _chica_ dances! Even

Biglow gave a ponderous wink and modestly arched his hand over his eyes

as his big dancing feet swerved by the piano, and Clensy looked sideways

at him. That ball-room was a seraglio of smouldering frenzied passion.

The semi-diaphanous robes of the women seemed to have been cut out of

material that was specially suitable for revealing the shapely limbs of

the wearers. The lustrous eyes of those dusky beauties of southern

climes gave deliberate, long languishing glances, and so fired the blood

of dark, fierce men who had their origin away back in the ancient

primitive life of Africa and Arabia.

When the interval arrived, Clensy rose from the piano and strolled

about, as he sought to find some trace of pretty Sestrina, she whom he

had dreamed so much about. He was almost pleased to find that she was

not to be found in that passionate, riotous, high Haytian society. The

reason Sestrina was absent was because the president would not allow his

daughter to enter the festival rooms when the fetish dances were on.

Instead of Clensy being disappointed at not seeing the girl at all, he

blessed his luck, for everything turned out beautifully unexpected. The

heat was terrific, and so Clensy, after having a cooling drink, pulled

the wide heavily-draped curtains of the ball-room aside and passed into

the outer corridors. Then he stood by the tropical flowers which grew in

pots in the large palace rooms, and breathed in the scented zephyrs

which floated through the open windows. The sight of the picturesque

grounds that surrounded the presidential residence tempted him to pass

out into the open air. As he approached the mahogany groves and lit a

cigarette, he was startled at hearing a voice say, “_Suva_, monsieur,

’tis you again! Why this pleasure?”

Clensy turned round and found himself face to face with President

Gravelot’s daughter, Sestrina! Her rich tresses were ornamented with

hibiscus blossoms. And as she stood smiling before Clensy, she did look

as perfect as a young man’s dream of woman.

“So you are here in the palace, _Suvam kari_, Engleesman?” the girl

said, speaking in a land of Haytian _patois_ in an undecided way, as

though she was uncertain as to which language Clensy would understand

the best.

“Yes, I am here,” replied Clensy, hardly knowing what else to say, as he

gazed into the girl’s dark, beautiful eyes as she laughed like a happy

child. And as he gazed, he heard the buzz and weird hum of the native

orchestra’s stringed instruments playing in the ball-room. Those sounds

meant that his absence from the piano would not be missed, for the

dancing had commenced to the strains of the four Haytian musicians, who

had sat silent in the ball-room when Clensy had presided at the piano.

Though it was night, the trees, the fountains, and even the colour of

the flowers, were distinctly visible. Every hanging bough sparkled with

the steady lights of the hundreds of hanging garden lamps. The mystery

of night and the stars and the dark orange groves was in perfect harmony

with Sestrina’s type of beauty. Perhaps Sestrina knew this, for she

stood perfectly still under the mahogany tree’s branches, staring

earnestly at Clensy as the warm scented winds drifted her tresses in

confusion over her shoulder. The young Englishman could hardly believe

his luck as the girl took his arm and walked away with him into the

shadows as though he was a very, very old acquaintance! Though she had

made a great impression on his mind when he had first seen her, he had

endeavoured to thrust her from his memory as something quite

unattainable, beyond his hopes and the ordinary possibilities of his

humble position in Hayti. But there he stood, Sestrina holding his arm,

gazing into his face with a childlike expression in her eyes. Yes, it

was all true enough. Fate had thrown them together, some immutable law

had decreed that it should be, that all that was to happen in their

lives afterwards, had been carefully planned out and sighed over by

destiny. Clensy’s heart thumped with happiness, no premonition of coming

sorrow in far-off days came to dispel his unbounded joy as they both, in

mutual secrecy, stole away by the tropical fuchsia trees so that they

could get away from the prying eyes of the stragglers near the palace.

“Have you come to stay in Hayti, Engleesman?” whispered Sestrina, as she

gave Clensy a swift bright glance.

“I don’t know yet,” responded Clensy. And as he gazed down the moonlit

orange groves he fancied he could see the happy phantoms of his

imagination dancing in impish delight on the footpath. The rich odours

from decaying pineapples and the hanging overripe lemons and limes made

a perfect atmosphere for Clensy’s romantic meditations. And

Sestrina?—her heart fluttered, it was almost like a dream to her, too!

“Oh, how different are the sun-tanned flushed faces of the handsome

Englishmen to the yellow-skinned Haytian men,” she thought as she sighed

and looked at Clensy again. Everything in nature seemed to feel kindly

disposed towards them both. The moon intensified the dark loveliness of

Sestrina’s eyes as the scented warm zephyrs lifted her tresses and

tumbled them in artless confusion about her neck and shoulders.

“I am only in Hayti for a holiday, I’m travelling. I’m a tourist, you

know,” said Clensy. Then he remembered under what circumstances Sestrina

had first seen him, and added with excusable mendacity. “I’ve been most

unfortunate, I lost all my money in a shipwreck just before I arrived in

Hayti.”

“Oh, how sad!” exclaimed Sestrina, then she gave a low, merry peal of

hushed laughter. Clensy wondered why the girl should laugh so, and

cursed the very memory of Adams. For, if ever he had wanted to appear

refined and gentle, and one who loved delicate associations, it was at

that moment in his life. However, Clensy was wrong in his suspicions,

the girl had believed every word he uttered. Sestrina was unworldly. She

was Gravelot’s only daughter. Her mother was an inmate of an asylum at

Rio Grande, a fact of which Sestrina was not aware, she having been

brought up to think that her mother was dead. She had led a secluded

life in the palace since her father had been made President of the Black

Republic. Her father had had her reared with jealous care. The girl’s

constant companion had been and was still, an aged negress nurse named

Claircine. Claircine had ever watched over the girl with that affection

which is characteristic in the coloured people when they become attached

to those who are placed in their care. This negress had cultivated

Sestrina’s imagination by telling her pretty legends and, as Gravelot

had wished, had kept her mind childlike, quite ignorant of the world and

ways of men and women. The only knowledge of the world that she had

acquired had come to her through the medium of the sensational French

novels which she obtained and read in secret. Indeed it is no

exaggeration to say, that Sestrina, like many Haytian maids, had

educated herself and obtained her knowledge of the great world around

her, from French novels. Of course, the girl did not realise the meaning

of a deal that she read. And so, to her mind, the words—“Passion, and

passionate,” only conveyed some idea that the hero or heroine possessed

bad tempers, or were endowed with a poetic passion which resembled the

wild moanings of the mahogany trees when the fierce tornadoes broke over

Hayti. And whenever she asked the negress uncomfortable questions,

Claircine adroitly changed the conversation or misinformed the girl. And

so Sestrina went every day with great punctiliousness to confess to the

aged Catholic priest, Père Chaco, also knelt every night by her bedside

to pray with absolute faith over the goodness of men and the boundless

mercy of God.

Such was the simple wisdom of Sestrina’s mind. And Royal Clensy, as he

stood in the palace gardens with Sestrina that night, did not

misunderstand her when she boldly intimated that she was supremely happy

in his company. A girl’s character is generally clearly imaged in the

mirrors of her soul—her eyes. And Clensy’s mind was not the kind that

gives a distorted view of the truth. When she took a flower from her

hair, touched it with her lips, and then placed it in the lapel of his

coat, he realised that it was all innocent enough. And he was happy as

they both walked up and down in the moonlit shades of the orange groves.

“Adams’s wretched accordion-music has its compensations,” he thought as

he realised that had he not gone off busking with Adams he might never

have met Sestrina. “It’s fate, Sestrina was destined to come into my

life like this,” he mused as Sestrina stumbled, and nearly fell over the

cactus hedge. Sestrina gave a little cry of distress.

“Destiny!” was his mental ejaculation as he leaned forward, and with an

apologetic look in his eyes, said “Allow me!”

Ah, the girl’s innocent manner made a fascinating picture as she lifted

her pretty ankle a few inches from the ground. How tenderly Clensy

examined it so that he might staunch the tiny flow of blood—a thorn had

torn the soft flesh! His solicitude eased the pain! Only a born artist

could have pulled the brown stocking down as he did! It was perfect art,

a subtle poem in curves, maiden artlessness, and the impertinence of

passionate youth. But all was well. Royal Clensy was in Hayti! Hayti,

the land of flowers and song. Hayti where the passions ran riot, where

pretty maids had a strange golden gleam in their large dark eyes, and

all their actions were inspired by the romance and glamour of flamboyant

French novels!

“And how, and when shall I see you again, Mademoiselle Sestrina?” said

Clensy as he gazed in an insane way into her face. Poor Clensy, it was a

case. However, his malady had its compensations, for Sestrina also

seemed beautifully insane as they both held each other’s hands, loth to

part! Only the cry of the blue-winged Haytian owl disturbed the silence

of the giant mahogany trees that stood like mighty sentinels around the

palace walls. The sounds of revelry by night had ceased, for quite an

hour had passed since they had heard the last wails coming from the

violins and weird Haytian musical instruments played in the Presidential

ball-room. Clensy had forgotten the flight of time. Sestrina was the

more practical of the two in the matter of time, since she dwelt within

walking distance of the paternal halls. She knew that her father would

raise the roof, so to speak, if he discovered that she was absent from

her chamber at such an hour. “Monsieur Royal, I will see you again, fear

not,” said Sestrina.

“But—how? And when?” said Clensy as he glanced about him in desperation.

Had not Sestrina told him a few moments before that she was not allowed

away from the palace precincts without old Claircine?

“Ah, foolish Engleesman,” said Sestrina as she fell back on her

fascinating _patois_, and placing her finger to her lips as though in

deep meditation, gave Clensy a roguish glance. Ah, how swift-witted is

woman in comparison with dull-witted man? Sestrina had solved the

problem as to the means of their meeting again. She well remembered how

Dumas’ heroes and heroines managed such delicate matters as lovers’

meetings when a parent stood in the pathway of happiness.

“I will tell _mon père_ that I wish to learn to play the pianoforte, and

you whom I wish to see again may easily be the favoured one to give me

those lessons, and the harmony be the sweeter for the strange though

happy coincidence that you of all men should be the chosen teacher!”

Before the young Englishman had realised the full import of Sestrina’s

remarks and her pretty wit, he was alone. Sestrina had passed away like

some shadowy form of a dream. He was still standing under the orange

trees that fronted Sestrina’s palatial residence. Then he moved away and

hurried home, his footsteps walking on air as he recalled the lovely

light of Sestrina’s eyes.

That same night Clensy’s life seemed to have become extra valuable to

him. For the first time he began to realise what a waste of his days he

was making by associating with men like Adams.

“By Jove! she’s a beautiful girl, well educated and poetic too,” he

muttered, as he pulled off his boots and recalled Sestrina’s pretty

phrases and those poetic sayings which she had memorised from the pages

of her beloved French novels. Then, and for the first time for many a

long day, Clensy said his prayers, and asked God to give him Sestrina

and make him really happy. He lay for quite an hour in his humble bed in

the lodging-house at Port-au-Prince, thinking and thinking. His mind

roamed far away into the realms of romance as he stared through the

window at the stars, a bright constellation that shone just over the

mountains, inland from Gonaives. And as he reflected on Sestrina’s

beauty and the deep impression she had made on his mind, he began to

realise what it all meant to him. His thoughts eventually became

entangled in dire confusion as the possibilities of the future presented

themselves to his mind. Would she really accept his hand in marriage?

Was she earnest, and did she really understand what a man’s love for a

woman meant? Why did her eyes look so childlike when he had whispered

those words of love in her pretty ears? What would the President think

when he became aware that a humble pianist had the infernal cheek to

aspire for his daughter’s hand? And what would his people in England

think if they heard that he had married an olive-hued Haytian girl? And

could he take her back to England with him—if she was willing to go? And

as he continued to reflect and conventional obstacles presented

themselves to his mind, all to be brushed ruthlessly aside as they came

to him, he realised that his personality had come under the complete

domination of a passion. He tried to sleep, but only closed his eyes to

find his imagination became more lively than ever. Then, opening his

eyes again, he drifted into a philosophical vein of thought.

“I am what I am! I cannot change myself. To attempt to control one’s

nature is as ridiculous and as hopeless as to attempt to revise and

reform the work of God Himself, and all that is written on that strange

manuscript—the human heart!”

Clensy fell into a fatalistic mood. He lit his pipe, and pitching his

tobacco pouch across the room, murmured, “I’m done for! Royal Clensy of

yesterday, Mr. _No. 1_ of myself died of a passionate spasm before the

palace gates at Port-au-Prince on October 14th, 18—, was ruthlessly

slain by the magic of a Haytian maid’s eyes. Alas! what is man but a

wandering bundle of dreams and vague desires? A scarecrow of himself

wrapt in old rags, standing in the lonely field of his imagination, his

thoughts fluttering like starving crows about his fleshly skeleton.

Where’s the corn and the oil that maketh glad the heart of man?—It

exists only in the golden sheaves of dreams, and the sickle that ever

reaps is the wide sweep of our hopes being borne back into the dust,

scattered by each inevitable disillusionment.”

Ah, Clensy, you had indeed got into a sadly morbid state.

As the young Englishman continued to reflect over the careless,

inconsequential splendour of his life up to the time when he met

Sestrina, he realised that his passion for the girl was as deep as his

own interest in himself, and, knowing this, he saw the brighter side of

his strange reflections and was cheered up. “I shall be happy even

though I fail, so long as Sestrina loves me,” he thought. Then he turned

over on his rickety bed and joined Bartholomew Biglow and Adams in the

calm, deep bass measure of their respective snores.

CHAPTER IV

AFTER Sestrina had taken her sudden departure from the infatuated

Clensy, she ran down the pathway by the fuchsia trees so that she might

enter her home unobserved. She did not fear meeting a stray servant who

might be abroad in the cool of the night, but she knew that her father

had been absent from the Presidential ball since six o’clock. His

absence was an ominous sign for Sestrina—when her parent returned from

his mysterious nocturnal visits into the mountains he usually behaved

like a frenzied maniac.

“I do hope I shall not see father to-night,” she thought, as she entered

the little doorway by the wine vaults, and then peered in fright down

the corridor. She was no longer the gay, inconsequential Sestrina whom

Clensy had parted from a few moments before. The Englishman had

dispelled all the heart-aching fear that had worried Sestrina’s mind for

the last few weeks. Clensy little dreamed of the skeleton in the

cupboard of the Haytian girl’s home, how it haunted her soul with a

fearful wonder and terror when it roamed about before her eyes! Even as

she peered along the silent corridor she gave a startled jump that made

her shadow leap down the whole length of the white wall. A sigh of

relief escaped her lips—it was only the shuffling footsteps of the old

negro, Charoco; he was putting out the lights in the large rooms from

which the festival guests had lately departed. The next moment Sestrina

had slipped down the corridor, and had run across the large drawing-room

where she had to pass through ere she could reach her chamber.

“_Garou!_ _nate!_ What’s that!” said a hushed, hoarse voice, speaking

first in Creole and then in English.

Sestrina gave an instinctive crouch in her fright, and then swiftly

turned round—a dark cloaked figure was standing behind her—it was her

father, President Gravelot.

“I’ve been out on the verandas, it was so hot inside the palace,” said

the girl quickly, for her parent’s face looked like the face of a fiend.

It was not the calm, handsome President that the Haytians knew by

daylight, but a demented, bloodthirsty fanatic who stared at Sestrina

with burning eyes. Sestrina gazed on the man in horror. She had seen her

father in a state of frenzy before, but that night he hardly resembled a

human being at all. The bigotry and heathenish lust of his Southern

blood shone in the brilliant cruel gaze of his eyes. It was not the

juice of the grape that had fired the man’s brain, transmuting him from

a human being into a devil of cruelty and lust, it was the living hot

blood mixed with white rum he had swallowed that made him look like

that. It was the blood of _The Goat without Horns!_—the symbolical term

for the blood of little children and men and women who had been

sacrificed at the terrible altars of the _vaudoux_!

Yes, and not far off either, for the altars were in the secret fetish

temples near the mountains of Port-au-Prince. President Gravelot was a

devotee to the _vaudoux_ worship! It was a terrible creed, and though

the French and Haytian authorities had taken drastic measures to put

down the horrors indulged in by its worshippers (the negro adherents

often indulged in cannibalistic orgies after they had slain the

sacrificial victims), children were missing from their homes every week,

were kidnapped and taken away to the temples of the terrible _papaloi_.

It seemed incredible that such a creed should be, but Sestrina’s

trembling form, and the blood-frenzied man who stood before her in the

dark corridor of her home, was sufficient evidence of the terrible

truth. It was a cruel creed, and had been introduced into Hayti by the

first negro emigrants from the West Coast of Africa. Hundreds of “high

class” Haytians were staunch adherents to the _vaudoux_ sacrificial

altars and the monstrous demands of its deity—_The Goat without Horns_.

These altars were situated as near as La Coupé, not more than five miles

from Port-au-Prince. And the fury of the strange paroxysms that

transformed the _vaudoux_ devotees into fiends of blood and

indescribable lust was exemplified by the distorted face and the burning

eyes of the soul-powerless man who stood before Sestrina. The reeking

atmosphere of the worship clung about its devotees like an evil spirit,

the warm blood of the victims they had sacrificed gleaming in their

eyes. The frenzied bigotry and uncontrollable lust of the _vaudoux

papaloi_ (head priests) stopped at nothing to satisfy their terrible

desires. No man, woman or child was sacred enough to stay the knife and

the bloody libations when once in the _papalois’_ merciless grip. Even

graves were desecrated in the secrecy of the night.[1]

Footnote 1:

Several Haytian men and women were arrested for the murder of children

whom they had kidnapped and then offered up to the _Vaudoux_ on the

fetish altars somewhere in the mountains near Port-au-Prince. One of

the prisoners, a negress, turned informer and told how the _papaloi_

bribed men to dig up the newly buried dead from the cemeteries, where

many graves had been found disturbed.—See “Memoirs of Moreau de St.

Mery.”

“Father!” whispered Sestrina in her terror. She saw a wild look in his

eyes that horrified her. She lifted her hands as though she would ward

off a terrible blow. The gleam of the fevered eyes sent a death-like

chill to the girl’s heart. She instinctively realised that the

personality of the man before her was lost in some deadly sleep, though

she did not dream that the fumes that had done this thing to her father

were the fumes of human blood and white rum. Though Sestrina had heard

the word “_vaudoux_” whispered in awestruck tones by the negresses and

negroes of the palace, she had no idea as to what it really meant. All

she knew was, that it caused madness among many people, for the blood

and rum drinking, and the strain on the _vaudoux_ worshippers’ frenzied

imagination, generally ended in paralysis and idiocy, and often in

violent madness.

“_Vaudoux, loup garou!_” whispered the man as he stared at the girl.

Then he seemed slightly to recover himself.

“It’s you! you! Sestrina!” he murmured as the girl took his hand very

gently, and in pathetic, mute appeal looked up into her father’s face.

Her heart thumped violently as she watched the expression of his eyes.

Then she gave a sigh of relief. And still she fawned before him,

caressed his bloodstained hands, delight on her troubled face as she saw

the gleam of reason stealing back into his bloodshot eyes.

“It’s me! me!” she whispered, as she once more caressed that hand in her

terrifying eagerness to press her advantage. She saw the look of

recognition leap into his eyes.

“Sestrina, what did I do? What have I said? help me!” he moaned, as he

leaned forward and gazed into the terrified eyes of his daughter. What

had he said? What had the devil that possessed him muttered for the

girl’s hearing?

Gravelot’s stupefied brain had begun to realise the relationship and the

wickedness of his own terrible nature as he threw off the vile spell

that _vaudoux_ worship had cast over him. The change in his manner was

swift; already the fever of his eyes had changed to a look of

tenderness. “Go to bed at once, Sestrina,” he muttered in a hoarse voice

that Sestrina hardly recognised. He reeled about like a drunken man as

he began to take off his flowing cloak, which he wore as a disguise

whenever he stole away to the fetish temples in the mountains.

Sestrina fled. In a moment she had run along the corridor. Entering her

room she had begun to cry. For a long time she could think of nothing

else but the terrible expression which she had seen on her father’s

face. After a while her heart ceased to thump, and her thoughts strayed

into more pleasant channels. She began to think of the young Englishman.

“Oh, if only I could fly from here with him, elope just as I have read

folks do,” she murmured to herself as she rose and stared at her image

in the large mirror. Then she turned away and pushed the settee against

the door. Of late she had been very nervous at night, and this

nervousness was due to her father’s strange madness, which was becoming

worse of late. “What does it all mean? Why does he want me to go to the

mountains with him? Is not Père Chaco, the Catholic priest, a good man?

Did he not bless me with holy water and say beautiful things about the

world? And yet he flung me from him, yes, only a week before, and raved

like a madman when I refused to leave holy Père Chaco, and go away into

the mountains to pray before strange priests.”

As Sestrina mused on, she began to remove her picturesque attire; first

she cast aside the loose _sarong_; then she loosened her under-bodice.

Her hair fell in confusion down to her shoulders, tumbling in shining

ripples about her bosom, that was the whiter for being untouched by the

hot rays of the tropical sunlight. She was fast leaving her girlhood

behind; her footsteps, so to speak, were already on the threshold of

womanhood, the rose of beauty and innocence on her lips and shining in

her eyes. She half forgot the horror of her father’s distorted face as

she gazed at her image in the mirror. Though her mind was naturally

refined, the romantic passion of her Southern ancestry began to sigh in

its sleep; and Sestrina’s lips echoed the sigh, though she knew not why

they did so. She thought of the handsome Englishman, and of the sweet

things he had whispered into her ears. She thought of the rapture of

love, of the meeting of lips, and the romantic sorrows of parted lovers,

and all those things which had influenced her mind as she poured over

her French novels. “Ah me!” she sighed, then a startled look leapt into

her eyes. She looked towards the window in fright. It was only the

“Too-whoo-hee!” of the blue-winged Haytian owl that watched her from its

perch in the mahogany tree just outside. She opened the vine-clad,

latticed casement wide, and then stared out on the loveliness of the

tropic night. She could just see the dark, palm-clad slopes of the

mountains, faintly outlined by the moon’s pale light. “Ah, if he were

only here, how happy I should be!” she murmured as she watched the

swarms of fireflies dancing in the glooms of the bamboos, and then

looked across the plains where she could see the twinkling lights of the

homesteads near Gonaives. After that, she opened a little door that

divided her chamber from another small room. It was where Claircine, the

negress, slept.

“Oui, Madamselle Sessy!” said the ebony-hued negress servant as she sat

up in bed and rubbed her large, sleepy eyes, wondering why her mistress

should disturb her at so late an hour.

“Claircine, I feel so unhappy.”

“Why so, mamselles, there am nothings to be misleraable ‘bout, is

there?”

Sestrina responded by giving a deep sigh. Then the old negress started

to gabble away, as Sestrina sat on her bed for companionship. The

woman’s inconsequential chatter cheered Sestrina.

“You look so beautiful nows you be coming womans,” said Claircine as she

touched her mistress’s mass of glittering hair and ran the shining

tresses through her dark fingers, and sighed in the thought that her own

locks were so short and woolly. “Ah, Sessy, you ams like your mother,”

said Claircine, who had been her mother’s maid from the time of

Sestrina’s birth. Then the old negress continued: “She too had nicer

hair and white flesh, for she had a father who was a real handsome white

mans!”

After a while the conversation changed. Sestrina and the negress began

whispering. Several times they glanced as though in some fright towards

the bedroom door as a moan came to their ears. It was only the noise of

the wind sighing down the orange groves that murmured like sad phantoms

just outside the open casement as the girl and negress talked on. There

was something eerie and dreadful sounding in the slightest noise that

night! Claircine had also seen President Gravelot come home under the

terrible influence of the _vaudoux_ fetish. The old negress had seen the

President behave like a maniac, and had then seen the after effects as

he came round, laid his head on the table, and moaned in remorseful

despair.

“’Tis the terrible, but wonderful _papaloi_ who he see at the secret

mountain temples where they do drink ze blood and rum; yes, dey make

your father look like dat!” said Claircine. Then the negress added: “I

no tell you such tings, Madamselle Sessy, but I now tink it be best dat

you know such tings since dat you be getting older.”

“Do you really believe in such things, that the _papaloi_ are the chosen

priests of the heavens?” whispered Sestrina, as she heard such things as

she had never heard before or dreamed of. Claircine had spoken to the

girl in an awestruck, reverent way, about the terrible _vaudoux_

priests.

“No, madamselle, it am no good me believing, I am only low-caste, and so

am not allowed to attend great _vaudoux_ worships.” Then the old negress

sighed, and added: “If I’d been good enough, I would have marry handsome

Chaicko, for you know that women who am _vaudoux_ worshippers are

watched over by ze god of the _Goat without Horns_, and am always happy

in dere love affairs.”

“Surely you don’t mean that, or believe that my father would drink human

blood?” whispered Sestrina, as she looked despairingly into the

negress’s eyes. Her face looked pallid, almost death-like, dark rings

about her eyes.

“Ah, Madamselle Sessy, this chile _does_ believe in the greatness of ze

_papaloi_. I do often see ze _zombis_ (ghosts) creep ’bout under de

mahogany trees when the great _papaloi_ chant in ze forest.”

“But what about my father? Do you think that he really does visit these

awful places which you have just described to me?”

“P’raps not; I may be wrongs, madamselle,” said the old negress, who

felt upset to think she had told her innocent charge so much about the

_vaudoux_. And though Claircine rambled on, telling Sestrina many things

about the cruelty of the fetish worshippers and the attendant

superstitions of the bigoted adherents, she adroitly made it appear to

Sestrina that she spoke of a far-off time.

“’Tis not like that now. Oh, no! ze officials did shoot mens and womens

for drinking ze sacred wines from the _Goat without Horns_, and so ’tis

long past!”

So did Claircine attempt to undo the harm she had done by making

Sestrina feel so miserable and ashamed. But though the negress had

chatted on till the night grew old, the girl was still full of trouble

and fear over her own thoughts.

Bewildered over all she had heard, Sestrina crept back to her chamber to

dream of the dark _papaloi_ who chanted somewhere up in the black

mountains. For a long time she could not sleep. She thought of the

terrible look she had seen in her parent’s eyes, and, wondering what was

really the matter with him, forgot all else. For Sestrina, deep down in

her heart, had a great love and reverence for her father. “He looks so

different, so good and kind when the evil spirit does not possess him,”

she thought, as she wiped the tears from her eyes. Then she thought of

the young Englishman, of his blue eyes, his manly ways, and wondered

what he would have thought had he seen her father that night! Then her

reflections ran into a calmer channel, and with the pretty words that

Clensy had whispered that night still lingering in her ears, she at last

fell asleep.

CHAPTER V

A WEEK after the events of the preceding chapter, Royal Clensy found

himself standing by the Erard pianoforte in President Gravelot’s home.

Sestrina had suddenly developed a passionate desire to play and sing.

And President Gravelot, who was always eager to please the girl when he

was in his sane moods, had agreed to hire a teacher. Sestrina’s face had

looked very troubled when she had approached her father on the matter,

for she did not like the idea of deceiving him. But she easily overcame

her delicate scruples, and so, looking her parent straight in the face,

she had said, “I much prefer a white man as a teacher; the white men are

better educated, more simple and refined in their manners.” And so the

great coincidence which usually comes when the opposite sexes seek a

chance to meet each other, came about. Clensy, of all men in the world,

received a note from President Gravelot in which he was asked if he

would accept a position as Sestrina’s teacher for singing and pianoforte

playing! The terms offered were good too! When Bartholomew Biglow heard

that Clensy was teaching Sestrina to sing and play, he smacked our hero

on the back and gazed on him with splendid admiration. “Couldn’t have

done it better myself!” he had roared, and that was the greatest

compliment the big man could pay anyone. And so, there sat pretty

Sestrina, her heart bubbling with delight as her hands ran along the

ivory keys, diligently going through the five-finger exercises! She had

also arranged that Clensy should teach her to sing from the tonic sol-fa

system.

“No, no! like this,” said Clensy, as he forced a serious look into his

eyes and struck the pianoforte keys.

“Ah, monsieur, I see!” murmured the beautiful, guileless Sestrina, as

Clensy wondered what she would think of the contents of the note which

she had slipped into the folds of her pretty blue _sarong_ a second

before! They both had to be very careful! Old Gravelot kept walking into

the room and went shuffling about as though he was suspicious. His

brilliant eyes certainly _did_ stare in a critical manner at the

handsome music teacher, as that sanguine worthy leaned over his daughter

and guided her fingers along the keyboard, rippling out the scales!

Clensy knew that the president was all-powerful in Hayti, and that, were

his suspicions aroused, he would be shot. True enough, the worst

construction possible would be put on Clensy’s reason for seeking

Sestrina’s society. Sestrina trembled inwardly, but, like most women,

she was a born actress—she struck the pianoforte keys, _just so_! and

looked as solemn as a nun. Then her father walked out of the room. Oh,

the change in Sestrina’s face and manner when the heavily-draped

curtains divided, and the president disappeared, leaving them alone

again. It was magnificent! The discordant strumming of the scales

resolved into the perfect harmony of living music that shone from

Sestrina’s eyes and thrilled Clensy’s soul with unbounded happiness.

Then our hero took an unwarrantable liberty; he leaned forward, struck a

delicious chord on the piano, and kissed Sestrina’s pretty ear! Ah,

parents of all countries, beware of music teachers! Yes, Royal Clensy

was making good headway. He knew that there was much wisdom in the old

saying, “Faint heart never won fair lady.” It was a pretty picture as he

stood there by the side of the seated Sestrina; her hands still rested

on the keys as she looked up into his face. Her beauty was the beauty of

the tropic starry night, and Clensy was as fair as sunrise on the

morning mountains. His fine blue eyes charmed Sestrina the same as he

was charmed by the starry darkness of her own.

“I dreamed of you last night, sweet Sestrina.” Saying this, Clensy

rippled out a tender cadenza.

“And I of you, monsieur!” sighed the lovely pupil, as she dropped her

gaze and gently twiddled her fingers over the scales.

“Really? and what did you dream? pleasant, I would—!”

They heard the tasselled curtains, ornamented with brass, tinkle as they

were hastily divided—the president had entered the room again!

“No! No! Mademoiselle, _twice_ have I told you—like this!” Once again

Sestrina’s shining tresses tossed as she warbled the notes of the tonic

sol-fa system, and ran her fingers down the pianoforte keys! The

president lit a cigar, then shuffled about. Clensy smelt the

richly-scented odour of the smoke drifting about the room, for old

Gravelot had opened the window wide to let the cool airs drift in from

the orange groves. And though the president watched with wary eyes, the

calm expression of his handsome wrinkled face did not change. He was

outwitted. Sestrina’s voice sounded sincere, and the expression on

Clensy’s serious face told of the phlegmatic, unromantic Englishman! So

did Clensy find means of furthering his happy courtship with the

beautiful Sestrina, though it must be admitted that the happy result was

brought about more through Sestrina’s brilliant wit than Clensy’s superb

nerve.

As the days went by, Royal Clensy became deeper in love, and so did

Sestrina. And it must be admitted that greater progress was made in

their secret courtship at the piano than in Sestrina’s music-lessons.

Adams and Biglow saw very little of Clensy at that period, for he would

go strolling about Hayti seeing the sights and, presumably, dreaming of

Sestrina. Indeed, Adams got a bit jealous when Clensy hired separate

lodgings just down the town, and gave his reason for doing so by saying

that he was suffering from insomnia.

“He’s getting ’igh-toned, I fink, since he got in wif the presydent’s

darter. Damned if she won’t git all ‘is money when ’is remittance

arrives.” So spake the derelict sailorman to Bartholomew Biglow. But

Biglow knew human nature better than Adams did.

“The young whippersnapper’s true enough. You haven’t been in love like

him, or like I have. It’s a terrible complaint, something stronger than

rum fumes!” said Biglow, as he gave his fascinating smile and patted

Adams on the shoulder. And Biglow was right, for when the mail came in,

a few days after, bringing Clensy’s remittance, Adams got a fair share

and had a regular “bust up.” The reprobate sailorman felt remorseful

when Clensy behaved so generously, and while he was drunk, kept patting

Clensy on the back, and saying, “You’re an honest youth, and, by God,

you’ve been a father and a son. It’s fact that Gawd sent yer to comfort

me in me ole age.” Adams wasn’t all bad, for he did _mean_ what he said.

He couldn’t help being a cadger. He reminded Clensy of the Australian

gentry who are sometimes called larrikins, individuals who make cadging

a fine art and always carry lumps of blue-metal in their pocket to throw

if the stranger will not part with his loose cash or resents their

appearance in any way whatsoever.

Though Clensy was a bit rash with his remittance money, he took good

care to keep a needful supply of cash in hand. His affection for

Sestrina had made him less improvident. Biglow refused to take one penny

of Clensy’s money. The fact was that he had plenty of cash in hand

himself. Indeed, he was busy, and would go off on private business for a

whole week sometimes. Clensy and Adams couldn’t make out where he went

to. All they knew was, that he seemed very flush of cash and mightily

pleased with himself when he returned. The fact was, that Biglow was in

league with the Black Mountain insurgents, as well as being in league

with the Haytian government officials, for he was supplying the

insurgents with Snider rifles and ammunition, which had arrived at

Port-au-Prince on suspicious-looking schooners. However, Biglow’s

commercial enterprises have little to do with all that happened when the

revolution broke out in Hayti some time afterwards, and which was a

serious matter for all concerned. For, as has already been hinted, the

insurgents always razed the towns by fire and murdered half the

population, sparing neither women nor children.

One night Clensy and Biglow were sitting playing cards with a half-caste

Frenchman, a Monsieur de Cripsny, a government official, when Adams

suddenly walked in the room and said, “Heard the noos?”

“What news?” exclaimed Biglow and Clensy, as they looked up from their

cards. Then Adams, with an awestruck look in his eye, proceeded, “Why,

these ’ere damned Hoytians are blasted cannibals; got a kinder relygion

that they call Voody-worship on ther brain.”

“What’s that to do with us?” said Clensy quietly, as he puffed his

cigarette and reshuffled the cards. Bartholomew Biglow’s ears were alert

at once; he lifted his hand and, smashing at a fly that had settled on

Adams’s sweating bald head, said, “What have ye heard to make ye so

excited, man?”

Thereupon, Adams loosened his red neckcloth, and swallowed the proffered

glass of cognac, began to gesticulate and tell his comrades all which he

had heard. It appeared that Adams had that same day heard how thousands

of the Haytians were adherents to the _vaudoux_-worship. Some one had

told him how the _vaudoux_ folk went in for bloodthirsty orgies, drank

human blood and sacrificed children on the fetish altars, doing such

revolting, blood-curdling things as would have made a pre-Christian

South-Sea islander shiver with disgust.

De Cripsny, who sat curling the tips of his moustachios while Adams

narrated all that he had heard when visiting some grog-shanty in the

lower quarter of the town, astounded Clensy and Biglow by calmly

corroborating all that Adams had told them. “’Tis nothing new to me,

monsieurs,” said the half-caste Frenchman. Then he calmly sat there and

told the wondering Englishmen how many of the Haytians were staunch

devotees to _vaudoux_ worship, secretly attending the orgy temples,

which were situated somewhere by the mountains, a few miles away. De

Cripsny, who was a friend of Biglow’s and had some connection with that

worthy’s successful exploits in the gun-running line, pulled his

moustache and told Adams to shut the door. Then the Frenchman calmly

informed the three men that they were liable to be strangled and offered

up as sacrifices to the deities of the _vaudoux_ if they went into the

forest near Port-au-Prince after dark!

Adams opened his one eye and his mouth wide. Then he hitched his

trousers up and said he had been seriously thinking of taking to the sea

again; “nothing like the open seas!” he said, as he looked with fright

at the door.

“Don’t you worry, monsieurs; I tink you are quite safe; you are

Angleseman, and p’r’aps it would not be good for you to die on the

_vaudoux_ sacrificial altars.”

“Thank Gawd for that much,” exclaimed Adams, as he took another drink.

Then de Cripsny told them that the authorities had lately discovered

that many children were missing each week from the villages round

Port-au-Prince.

“What do you think has become of them?” exclaimed Clensy and Biglow.

“Why, monsieurs, they have surely been caught while strolling or playing

in the jungle and taken away to the mountain temples to the _papaloi_,

who do strangle them and drink blood—like so.”

Saying this, de Cripsny put his hands out, and, to the Englishmen’s

horror, squeezed an imaginary throat, made a pass with his knife, and,

lifting an empty goblet, illustrated to the astonished listeners how the

_papaloi_ slit the victim’s throat and drank their blood!

“’Tis mixed with rum and called the wine from _the Goat without Horns_.”

“Surely it’s not possible in these enlightened times?” said Clensy.

De Cripsny gave a grim smile, and, taking the _Haytian Press_ from his

pocket, translated the following:

“Anyone giving information which would lead to the discovery of

the hiding-place or temples of the _Vaudoux_ worshippers will

receive a reward of £500.”

On hearing this, Biglow brought his big fist down on the table, crash!

and yelled, “By the gods of heathen lands, we’re saved! _Vaudoux_

worship; splendid thing; we’re saved!”

“Saved? what jer mean?” said Adams, as Clensy looked up and wondered why

the horror that they had just heard about should appeal to that

capacious intellect as a blessing instead of a curse.

“Five hundred pounds reward! It’s mine!” reiterated Biglow.

“Yours! Ours!” gasped Adams and Clensy, as they both realised that their

sanguine, uproarious comrade had got an idea in his head that he could

discover the _vaudoux_ miscreants and receive the reward.

“Yes, mine!” replied Biglow, as he swallowed his grog. Then he burst

into song. His hilarity was contagious. Adams lost his woebegone

expression. In less than ten minutes they all felt assured that they

were not only safe from the terrors of the _vaudoux_, but were likely to

receive a portion of the reward that Biglow seemed so certain of

obtaining.

It was at this moment that de Cripsny looked up and said, “It is mostly

the high-class Haytians and negroes who are adherents to the _vaudoux_.”

“Not surprising,” replied Biglow, as he rubbed his hands, his face

flushed through the intense enthusiasm of his thoughts.

Then de Cripsny stared hard at his three companions, and continued,

“Would you be surprised to hear that President Gravelot is King of the

_vaudoux_ worshippers?”

Clensy visibly paled. In a flash he realised that he was in Hayti, and

nothing in the way of surprises was impossible. Bartholomew Biglow, on

hearing the last bit of information, behaved in his usual boisterous

manner; de Cripsny dodged his head, and Adams and Clensy fell under the

table, but by a miracle none of them were hurt. Biglow, who had suddenly

knocked the table over to emphasise his surprise, immediately grabbed it

and stood it up on its legs again. De Cripsny looked quite spiteful as

he rose to his feet and stared about him with his brilliant small eyes.

“I speak truth only, and then you go and knock table over and nearly

kills me. Why so? You Englishman are too rude and noisy to speak to.”

“Beg pardon, Crippy, old pal,” said Biglow, as he patted the incensed

Frenchman on the back and soon soothed his ruffled feelings. Once more

the four seated themselves. Then de Cripsny began to tell them a lot

about the _vaudoux_ horrors, and hinted that many of the high officials

of the government were adherents to the fetish creed and cannibals. He

even hinted that many of the Haytian ladies were in with the _papaloi_

and attended the fetish dances, giving themselves up to all the

abandonment that the rites of the fetish demanded. When the Frenchman

leaned across the table and hinted that President Gravelot’s daughter,

Sestrina, was possibly a _vaudoux_ worshipper, Clensy had great

difficulty in controlling himself.

“Have you proof of such things?” he demanded, his voice quite

hoarse-sounding.

“No, monsieur, but I say ’tis possible, dat is all.”

This admission eased Clensy’s mind considerably. Then de Cripsny, who

seemed to love to illustrate the horrors of all that he was telling the

Englishmen, said, “If I do not speak truth, then I cut mines throat like

dis”—thereupon he drew an imaginary knife across his skinny throat.

As the conversation proceeded, Biglow tried to get information from de

Cripsny as to where he thought the _vaudoux_ temples were. The Frenchman

only shook his head and seemed to be unable to give Biglow any useful

information. It is quite possible that de Cripsny was ignorant as to

where such temples existed. Though de Cripsny had been a government

official for many years, he knew very little about the doings of the

people or of Haytian politics proper. He had been superintendent of the

burial of the dead in the great malaria plague of nineteen years before,

when an official had to be appointed to see that the death-carts called

at the homes of the victims and gave the dead immediate burial in the

cemeteries. And though the plague had long since passed away—indeed, had

become a dim, grim memory to the Haytians—de Cripsny had still remained

in office till about three weeks before Clensy met him. De Cripsny might

have been a splendid example of the latest thing in government officials

of civilised lands had he not have been dismissed, only three weeks

before, because he had omitted to attend to his duties. For years and

years he had drawn up his weekly report on the blue government forms,

filling them in so—“Deaths from malaria, none. All buried according to

Act 9, Statute 14. Disinfected death-carts and burnt victims’ clothing.”

But through illness he had not filled in the usual form, and this,

having been noticed by some alert official, had been the means of his

dismissal from office. Even Bartholomew gave a loud guffaw when de

Cripsny, after giving him the aforesaid information about his own

private affairs, suddenly said, “But, monsieurs, I care not that I am

dismissed from office.”

“How’s that, Crippy, old chum?” exclaimed Biglow.

Then the Frenchman informed them that his grandfather had been sanitary

inspector of the high-roads in Hayti for thirty years, and though he had

been dead twenty-one years, he, de Cripsny, his grandson, still received

the old man’s salary, no one having missed his grandfather, or noticed

any neglect of his duties as inspector of roads in Port-au-Prince. Ask

Haytians why they do not clean or mend their streets, they answer, “_Bon

Dieu, gâté li; bon Dieu paré li_” (“God spoilt them, and God will mend

them”). So de Cripsny was not a man of deep integrity, neither did he

trouble himself to delve deeply into the mysteries of the _vaudoux_. His

information was something that could have been given to Biglow and

Clensy by any negro in Hayti. Only a few days before, a nurse had been

out walking on the Champs de Mars when a huge negro, who had presumably

been prowling about on watch, suddenly snatched a white child from her

arms and ran off with it into the forest. The child was never seen

again. And more: It was known that human flesh, dried and salted in

tubs, was for sale in the markets of Port-au-Prince! When Clensy and

Biglow were given these unappetising bits of information about the

revolting practices of the lower orders of the _vaudoux_, they thought

more than their tongues could adequately express on the matter.

When Clensy arrived back at his lodgings that night, he turned about and

tossed on his bed, and could not sleep. De Cripsny’s hint that many of

the Haytian ladies went in for fetish dancing and the terrible

debauchery of the _vaudoux_, had upset his mind. He thought of President

Gravelot’s jealous care over his daughter’s life, and how Sestrina was

seldom allowed out without being accompanied by the negress servant.

“A man who is particular like that is not likely to persuade his

daughter to attend cannibal fetishes!—impossible!” Then he thought of

Sestrina’s eyes, her innocent ways, her girlish laughter and tears, for

sometimes she had wept while in his company. “Never! the last girl in

the world to succumb to the temptations of her father, however much she

respected his wishes.” So thought Royal Clensy in the final summing up

of his haunting thoughts about Sestrina and the possibility of her being

an adherent to the _vaudoux_. “She’s too wide-minded, too pure in heart

and soul to kneel before the altars of cruelty and lust!” Then the young

Englishman pulled the mosquito curtain together and settled himself for

sleep, happy in the thought that Sestrina was innocent. And he was

right.

CHAPTER VI

TWO nights after de Cripsny had given the three Englishmen the

information about _vaudoux_ worship, Clensy, who had been haunting the

vicinity of the presidential palace grounds, met Sestrina. She had

managed to slip out of the palace unobserved. She was trembling in her

delight.

“Away, Monsieur Royal, away from here, or we be seen!” she whispered as

she gazed appealingly up into Clensy’s face.

“Where shall we go, Sestrina?” said the young Englishman, as he tenderly

gripped the Haytian girl’s arm and stared about him.

“Away to the forest, the orange groves at H—; anywhere away from here!”

said Sestrina, as she looked around with frightened eyes, waved her

arms, and then pointed towards the big mahogany trees in the direction

of Gonaives. The aftermath of the sunset had left a blue twilight in the

skies, which were faintly dazzled with the gleams of a thousand stars.

In a moment they had passed away into the shadows.

“Oh, glad am I to be away from the palace walls. You be killed,

monsieur, if they see you there!” said Sestrina, as she fondly pressed

Clensy’s arm over the thought that harm should come to him through her.

In less than half an hour Clensy and Sestrina sat in the seclusion of

the mahogany trees. He felt happy. He had long since banished all ideas

of the _vaudoux_ from his head. If the remotest suspicion over the

possibilities of Sestrina being interested in the fetish creeds remained

in his head, one glance from her eyes dispelled it. He was in an

emotional, poetic mood, and so he made passionate love to the girl

beside him. Love is a contagious complaint when the first afflicted is

handsome and tenderly persuasive. Could anyone have seen Sestrina and

Clensy, as they sat on the dead palm stem that night, it would have been

hard to tell which one was in the most advanced stage of the romantic

malady. Sestrina’s eyes sparkled like diamonds, and Clensy’s surely

rivalled those lovely gems of warm, living light, when he gazed into her

face and sighed.

“Ah, you do not mean these nice things you say,” murmured Sestrina.

“’Tis true! I should never be happy again if we were parted,” replied

the enraptured Clensy. And then he softly slipped one arm about her

waist, and drew her face near to his own, and in the rapture of a strong

man’s—But why pry into the secret, insane, but innocent actions of these

lovers? No vulgar inquisitiveness stained the purity of their wonderful

belief in each other.

“Ah, Sestrina, you are more beautiful than I dreamed, even when I first

saw you,” he said in a reflective way, as he thought how the girl’s

merry manner at the pianoforte had slightly led his thoughts astray. It

was not boldness at all, it was only the boisterous innocence of the

girl’s warm heart that made her respond so readily to his impassioned

advances. As she sat there, under the mahogany tree, chatting about her

pet parrots, the characters in her novels, and confiding little domestic

matters to him, he discovered how really innocent and romantic her mind

was.

“This beautiful creature a _vaudoux_ worshipper! Oh, traitor to her

memory! to have had such dreadful suspicions,” muttered his mental

remorse. “You are the loveliest woman on earth!” he exclaimed.

Poor Clensy, there’s no doubt he was feeling badly in love to say such

things. But he meant what he said, the same as thousands of men have

meant the same strange things. The girl’s personality enchanted him, had

appealed to the best that was in him, and so had made him a child again.

“Have you never seen nice girls, like me, Monsieur Royal?” murmured

Sestrina, as she gazed in wonder on his face.

“No, I never have, never!” was Clensy’s emphatic reply, as he pressed

his advantage. Sestrina had taken a flower from her hair and was

fastening it on to the lapel of his coat, and, as she leaned forward, he

kissed her brow and touched her shining tresses with his lips.

“But surely there are beautiful girls in Angleterre! I’ve read about

them in books,” murmured the pretty Haytian maid as she looked up into

Clensy’s face in a wistful way.

“Ah, Sestrina, but the authors of those books, which you say you have

read, have never been to Hayti and sat beneath the starlit mahogany

trees with you!”

Sestrina seemed to like that explanation immensely. Her eyes shone with

delight, as the pale gleams from the rising moon dripped like silver

through the overhanging boughs and tropical loveliness of the mahogany

trees. It was easy enough to see that the girl was deeply in love with

the young Englishman. She opened her eyes and stared like a pleased,

wondering child, and then she did exactly that which Clensy asked her to

do—lifted one pretty sandalled foot up so that he might kiss her ankle.

It was a pretty ankle, no mistake about that. But, oh, propriety! Oh,

self-respecting maidenhood, alas! where wert thou at that moment?

“It’s not wrong, Monsieur Royal, to do that, is it?” she whispered as

she quickly dropped her foot and arranged the delicate fringe of her

_sarong_. She looked Clensy straight in the eyes. He made no reply. The

first rapture that followed his impulsive act and the sudden serious

stare of Sestrina’s eyes as she asked that question, rendered him

speechless. In a flash he had realised that his mind, compared with the

girl’s beside him, was full of sin.

“I always go and confess everything to kind Père Chaco, the priest, so I

must be careful, you know,” murmured Sestrina in a meditative way, as

though addressing her own reflections.

“Do you really?” said Clensy, as he turned his eyes away and stared

thoughtfully into the shadows of the forest. Then as he sighed and gazed

at the girl again, she placed her finger to her lips and gave Clensy a

coquettish glance.

“Why do you dream?” said Sestrina softly, as she noticed how quiet he

had suddenly become.

“I cannot help dreaming while in your presence, Sestrina.”

“My father will be very angry if he discovers that I have been out so

late,” said the girl.

“Is your father religious and good like you, Sestrina?” said Clensy

swiftly, taking advantage of the opportunity to get Sestrina’s private

opinion of her parent.

“Yes, he is very religious, but he does not go to kind Père Chaco as he

once did,” replied the girl, as she swung her foot and sighed.

Clensy did not press his advantage. He saw by the girl’s manner that,

whatever her father’s sins were, she was not a party to them. As they

sat there conversing, Clensy tried to probe the Haytian girl’s mind. He

asked her many questions, and found that she was a child so far as her

knowledge of the world was concerned. Her manner and her girlish views

charmed him. She had not gripped him by the arm and, in fierce accents,

tense with emotion, started to declaim materialistic mad views on social

questions. She did not jump to her feet and, with flashing eyes and chin

thrust towards his face in magnificent female aggressiveness, reveal

some bitterness which rankled in her irate soul over some peculiar

notion that resembled a kink in the brain. She had simply let Clensy

touch her brow with his lips, and had said, “I know so little about the

world and these things which you ask me; all I really know is, that you

have made me feel happy.” Then she had looked quietly into his face for

a moment and added: “It’s so good of God to let me meet you like this,

and I’m sure Père Chaco won’t mind.” And so the fragile girl had

conquered. With the almighty power of her own innocence she had

accomplished that which a thousand designing, worldly women could never

have accomplished. She held Clensy’s life in the rapture of a merciless

grip. The young Englishman was doomed! He at once robed the girl in all

the religious glamour that his mind was capable of conjuring up. She sat

there beneath the mahogany trees, clothed in those lovely symbols of

wistful beauty that come to the minds of men who aspire to find the

world’s best in woman; his mind exalted her from the ruck of mere woman

into some goddess-creature, possessing attributes divine. Sestrina did

not realise her great victory over Clensy.

“Wonderful! beautiful! clever too.” Though Royal Clensy had never heard

Sestrina make one remark that could be construed as “clever” by a

worldly or deadly sane man, she had set her magic seal on his soul. From

that moment it was Sestrina’s advice and views that would impress him

more than the advice of great philosophers. Had he been writing a book

or building a new kind of house, he would have yearned to plan the

book’s plot or build the house according to Sestrina’s views on the

matter. Old men who took snuff and weighed their words well and wisely

before they spoke, would tug their beards of wisdom—in vain! Clensy

would have none of them! And, in the inscrutable wonder of simple

things, it is quite possible that Sestrina’s advice would have been the

wisest of all! And so, when Sestrina once more reminded Clensy of the

swift flight of time, he at once realised that she was the wiser of the

two. The next moment he was gallantly fastening the pin of the pretty

ornament that kept the folds of her _sarong_ in place. Then, without any

undue argument, he obediently began to brush the green fern spores and

leaves from her tresses.

“Ah, ’twould be most awful should they see me return home so late with

moss in my hair and grass and leaves on my _sarong_,” murmured Sestrina.

“It would indeed,” said dull-witted Clensy, as he brushed the girl down,

his hands gliding over her as though she were some misty wraith standing

in the pale moonlight of the forest gloom. Then they hastened away under

the tall trees, and stole down the orange groves by Selle gully. When

they arrived near the palace, they stood under the palms and whispered

insane farewells. Again Clensy bowed before the wisdom of Sestrina’s

advice.

“Ah, monsieur, we may not stand here for ever saying good night.”

And so they parted. In a few moments Sestrina had slipped unobserved

into the silent palace, and Royal Clensy walked away under the mahogany

trees, and seemed to tread on air.

* * * * *

“Ah, Claircine, he is indeed beautiful, and there is no need for such

alarm.”

So spake Sestrina, for when she had run along the corridor and entered

her chamber, she found the old negress Claircine anxiously awaiting her.

Sestrina, who had just told the negress that she had been in the palace

grounds singing to herself and gazing at the moon, hung her head in

shame.

“Alas, madamselle, here ams another—and yet another! ’Tis as plain as ze

plainest ting can be!” said the shocked Claircine as she held another

small fern leaf and bits of dead grass up to the light of the hanging

oil-lamp and examined it critically with her large dark eyes. Oh,

infatuated, dull-witted Clensy! careless betrayer of innocent woman,

such was thy handiwork! And what did poor betrayed Sestrina do at this

incriminating evidence of her guilt? She threw her arms about the

negress and wailed:

“Sweet, dear Claircine, you will never, never tell on poor Sestrina?”

Claircine rolled her eyes for very joy, and then shook her head in a

kind, chiding way. Though Claircine was an inveterate scandal-monger,

she loved Sestrina and secretly yearned to hear that which she expected

to hear at that moment. Claircine lifted her hands to the ceiling and

looked terribly shocked when Sestrina had finished telling her the

truth. Then Sestrina, finding that Claircine was sympathetic with her,

went into ecstasies over Clensy’s perfections.

“But all ze maids do tink that each man who dey know, and who say nicer

tings ’bout them, is de one best mans, and full of nobblyness,”

reiterated Claircine as she rolled her eyes till the whites expressed

her scepticism over the virtues of mankind.

“Ah, you will see him some day, and _then_ you will surely believe me

when you see for yourself,” said Sestrina, as she stood before her

mirror and swerved slightly so as to convince herself that Clensy had

really meant all he had said about her hair and her beauty. Sestrina was

really modest, and, being really pretty, was dubious about her good

looks.

“Ah, madamselle, you am bootiful’s enough,” said the negress, then she

put her dark skinny hand against her chin in a meditative way, and said:

“This young Englishmans may be one really nice mans; de good God must

surely ’ave made _one_ good white mans to walk ze earth,” said

Claircine, then she solemnly added: “Yet it would be most strange if he

should come here, to Hayti.”

The expression on the cynical old negress’s face was utterly lost on

Sestrina, who, suddenly remembering, burst out: “Oh, how foolish of me

to forget; why, Claircine, he has seen you and you have seen him!”

“And de debil wheres?” exclaimed Claircine.

“Why, it is Monsieur Clensy!”

“Ze gods in heaven! You do not mean the music-teacher?” gasped the

astounded Claircine.

“Him and no other!” exclaimed Sestrina. Then the girl swiftly added, for

she was anxious that Claircine should feel friendly towards Clensy,

“Why, he said to me, only this night, ‘Ah, I remember her whom you call

Claircine; she has kind, beautiful eyes and a face that tells me she

might be a good friend to you and me.’”

Claircine, at hearing this, opened her mouth and revealed all her white

teeth in one broad grin.

“P’r’aps he _is_ one good mans. I somehow tink that he is good mans,”

she said, and then she too turned and gazed into the mirror.

After that Sestrina and Claircine talked over the matter till far into

the night. Then the negress kissed her mistress’s hand and, opening the

small door that led from the chamber, crept into her own room to sleep.

Sestrina retired to bed, feeling very happy in the thought that

Claircine had promised to be a friend to her and Clensy.

And Clensy? Immediately he arrived back in his lodgings after leaving

Sestrina, he stole away into a vast, solitary dream-world of his own, a

world whereon only one other than himself breathed—and that was

Sestrina. And as he dreamed by the musical fountains, Sestrina came back

to him in shadowy form. She tempted his soul with the magical fruit from

the Tree of Knowledge—not the forbidden fruit, but the rosy,

wine-scented apples that hung from the phantom branches of beauty and

romance. Clensy seemed to come under some mystical spell as he dreamed

on. He fancied he could hear and see Sestrina as she stole down some

memory on sandalled feet, singing by a murmuring sea-shore, the light of

the stars in her eyes, the rose of beauty on her lips. It was not so

strange that he should have such wild fancies, for Clensy was a believer

in the reincarnation theory and in anything that seemed more hopeful

than the dubious possibility of the resurrection of dead bones. He had

also come across a book in Acapulco which had greatly impressed him,

since it told him that five hundred millions of mortals who dwelt in the

wise East, believed in the reincarnation and transmigration of souls.

Adams had wondered what on earth our hero was reading about when he had

sat up all night dipping into the pages of magic that told the mysteries

of old Japan and the ancient Eastern creeds. It was no trouble for

Clensy to reverse the mythical significance of Greek sculptural art,

such as the god Hypnus with his two children, sleep and death, holding

inverted torches in their hands. Clensy felt assured that he had known

the oblivion of Lethe’s dark stream, and yet could remember a life

across the ages where he had eaten the golden apples of the Hesperides.

“It’s better to think the Fates have honoured me with the immortality of

mortality, so that I can at least feel assured of the mortality that

_dreams_ immortality, far better than believing in the dubious things

people seem to believe in,” he mused.

And as he sat there, indulging in strange metaphysics, hobnobbing with

Semiramis and a few Assyrian kings and queens he had known somewhere

away in the background of his creed, he dropped his pipe from his

listless fingers—crash! on the floor, and the sound rumbled like an

avalanche down the corridors of his dreaming mind. The visions vanished.

Adams’s solitary eye loomed before him; back came the fetid smells and

wretchedness of a present existence, making Clensy shiver as though with

cold.

“God forbid that this is the great reality of life, and not the illusive

dream!” he muttered, as he silently cursed the dab of that great sponge

of reality which had swept across the mirror and had shown him such

beautiful dreams.

It was only natural that Clensy’s metaphysical speculations should give

him kaleidoscopic glimpses of physical beauty and not glimpses of

visionary beauty, which men associate with the heavens. For to believe

in the incarnation of the soul is to believe in the immortality of the

flesh. Clensy realised this, and often tried to explore the depths of

his own mind, but invariably returned to the upper regions with a sigh,

convinced that he was his own heaven and hell. “It’s no good, I’m a

sinner; the beauty of that which I can see and feel is greater than that

which I must imagine.” So he mused in his foolishness, unable to read

his own soul. But do not condemn Clensy. He was young; the fires of

youth ran molten in his veins. The great alchemist, Sorrow, had not yet

knocked at his door, bringing those phials and magic potions that

transmute men and women into their older, other selves—sometimes

changing them into Angels and sometimes Devils.

CHAPTER VII

“HULLO, boy! how’s the wind blowing?” said the boisterous Bartholomew

Biglow when he met Clensy a week after the young Englishman had betrayed

Sestrina, through so carelessly brushing the fern and dead leaf from her

_sarong_.

“I wish the wind would blow a bit cooler,” replied Clensy as he fanned

his perspiring face with his silk handkerchief.

“Thank God you’re alive and up where the wind blows!” said Biglow as, to

Clensy’s great relief, he released his vigorous grip from his hand.

“You might lift your hat or blow me a friendly kiss when we meet,” said

Clensy, as he spread his tingling fingers out and made a wry face.

“Would you like to come with me on a splendid adventure, something that

will interest you, a sight to please the gods while the Haytian ladies

exhibit their dusky charms as they do the _chica_ dance before dear,

nice, religious old men.”

“What do you mean? It sounds interesting, I admit,” said Clensy, as he

looked calmly into the handsome flushed face of his strange comrade.

“I mean that I’ve got a pretty good idea where at least one of the

_vaudoux_ temples is situated.”

Then Biglow told Clensy that he had received certain information, and

meant to go off into the mountains without delay to try and get a

glimpse of the terrible papaloi and see what really happened when they

attended the rites of their creed.

“We’ll see a sight, as well as receiving the reward that’s offered!”

said Biglow, giving one of his magnificent winks.

“Isn’t it a bit risky?” said Clensy, as he thought of all he had heard

about the _vaudoux_ horrors, and imagined what desperate characters men

must be who attended such revolting orgies.

Biglow pooh-poohed Clensy’s misgivings.

“You can either come or stop away. I’m going to-morrow, and Adams is

coming with me.”

Saying this, Biglow shrugged his shoulders and again waited Clensy’s

reply.

Clensy was not a coward, neither was he a fool; he knew that a reward of

five hundred pounds would not be offered for information of the

_vaudoux_ worshippers if getting such information was as easy as

Biglow’s manner seemed to suggest. Besides, had not de Cripsny hinted

that President Gravelot was a _vaudoux_ worshipper? And what would

Sestrina think if she ever heard that Clensy had been one of the party

who had caused her father to be shot! For that’s what would happen if

the French government officials got hold of the miscreants.

As Clensy stood reflecting, Biglow, who had been watching his face,

said, “Don’t you worry about Sestrina’s pa. I won’t hurt him if we _do_

find out that he is anything to do with these damnable cannibals.” Then

the gun-runner added, “Besides, I know what I’m about; even if we were

caught, I’ve got the trick card up my sleeve.” Saying this, Biglow

explained to Clensy how he was in league with the Cacao insurgents, who

were deadly enemies of the British and French authorities, and were

staunch friends to the _papaloi_ and all who were connected with the

_vaudoux_ fetish.

“You don’t understand. I can easily turn the tables if things turned up

rough.” And as Biglow chatted on and made things look quite rosy,

Clensy, though he really did not understand half the gun-runner said,

made up his mind to accompany Biglow in his search in the mountains hard

by for the secret _vaudoux_ temples.

The risk of the adventure and all that he might see of the inner working

of the strange fetish, warmed Clensy’s ardour up immensely as he

reflected over it all.

“Perhaps Biglow will be so successful that he will get such information

as will enable the authorities to smash the whole infernal fetish creed

up!” And as he continued to reflect and thought of all the

possibilities, his zeal increased till he was as eager to go in search

of the secret fetish places as was Biglow. His imagination worked and

worked till he pictured Sestrina standing before her father with bowed

head, as he tried to lure her to become a convert to the revolting creed

which he himself indulged in.

“Who knows! I may be the means of saving Sestrina from falling before a

father’s vile temptation and becoming steeped in the blood, superstition

and debauchery of an old West African cannibalistic fetish creed!” So

ran Clensy’s thoughts; and when Biglow, Adams and he set out the next

day for their journey to the mountains, a few miles from Port-au-Prince,

Clensy was the most enthusiastic over the great possibilities of the

venture.

The weather was very hot, consequently they had given themselves plenty

of time for the venture. Biglow, who had once been employed by the

American Government to help put down slave traffic in the South Sea

Islands, was in his element. He had made all plans for the venture

without a hitch. Both Clensy and Adams were equipped with revolvers and

murderous-looking clasp-knives. When Biglow had handed Adams the

clasp-knife and revolver, the derelict sailorman had turned quite pale.

It wanted those deadly-looking weapons and Biglow’s serious-looking face

to make his dull brain realise that they were not going off to gather

strawberries. Even Clensy looked thoughtfully at the open clasp-knife’s

bright blade and at the revolver, and then, taking his silk handkerchief

from his pocket, blew his nose vigorously, just to relieve his feelings.

As soon as they had got away from the town they entered the thick jungle

country that lies inland from Port-au-Prince. After tramping three miles

they camped by the palm-clad elevations of the lower mountain slopes,

near Chocalo gullies. As they sat smoking their pipes, Biglow tugged at

the tips of his big moustachios and gave repeated chuckles, presumably

over all that his sanguine mind expected to happen when he had

discovered the hiding-place of the fetish devotees.

“Don’t yer fink it’s dyngerous a-coming up ’ere alone to catch myderers

and cannibals?” said Adams as he took another deep swill from his

rum-flask and glanced nervously across the gullies and on the sombre

forests of mahogany trees. Then he proceeded to remind Biglow that de

Cripsny had intimated that the agents of the dreadful papaloi roamed the

forests, looking out for likely folk whom they could strangle and sell

to the fetish priests.

“Almighty Gawd, don’t!” suddenly moaned Adams.

Biglow had replied to Adams’s fears by bringing his huge hand down with

a tremendous whack on the sailorman’s back, and at the same time had

given vent to a peal of laughter that echoed across the silent hills.

Adams rolled his eye. It was easy enough to see that he was losing his

temper. There’s a limit to all things. Even Clensy realised that it was

more than unwise to give such a shout when they might be within a mile

of the _vaudoux_ stronghold. Observing Adams’s consternation,

Bartholomew Biglow only laughed the louder. When the swarms of

bright-plumaged lories and frightened cockatoos, that had ascended in

screeching clouds from their perches, had settled down again on the

topmost branches of the mahogany and palm-trees, Biglow cheered Clensy

and Adams up by saying, “Look ye here, I can lick a hundred niggers

myself, and I happen to know for a fact that there are only about

twenty-five Haytian niggers in the fetish hole which we are bound for.”

“Um!” mumbled Adams, as he began to look more healthy and pleasant.

Clensy also looked more amiably settled in his mind. The fact is that

their giant comrade’s fearless eyes, as he sat before them pushing huge

morsels of toasted damper into his mouth, inspired them with fullest

confidence over the possibilities of the enterprise.

“‘Ow on earth yer know all about these ’ere myderers and the exact plyce

where they worshyps their gawds and women up ’ere, licks me!” said

Adams, as he poured another dose of rum into his mug of hot tea.

“I take good care to know everything that’s worth knowing when I come

out on a game like this. Do you think I’m leaving all the knowing to the

likes of you?” said Biglow, as he put forth his big boot and scattered

the fire’s glowing ash till it seemed that the awakening constellations

of the darkening skies were sparkling in miniature in the gloom of

fast-coming night which had suddenly fallen over the silent gullies.

“Smoke tells tales; can be seen miles away,” said Biglow, as he glanced

towards the mountains, far away to the south-west.

“Wish you’d thought of thet afore yer ’ollared so loud just now,” said

Adams in a complaining voice.

They had been resting about forty minutes when Biglow suddenly leapt to

his feet and said, “Now’s the time, come on, lads.”

In a moment they were off again. The moon had risen and was sending a

pale glimmer over the palm-clad slopes and distant mountains. Biglow

carefully examined his revolver. Adams and Clensy did likewise.

“Wish ter Gawd it wasn’t so dark,” growled Adams.

“Wish the moon wasn’t so high!” replied Biglow with his usual

cussedness, as the three men started to creep down the slope, Adams

following very carefully in the rear.

“He’ll git us mydered out ’ere in this damned ’ole, and I ain’t been the

best o’ men,” whispered Adams in a hollow voice as he leaned towards

Clensy’s right ear. Then he added: “Wish we was a-buskin’, earning money

honest, as of old, pal.”

“So do I,” whispered Clensy, as he broke the pledge—took the proffered

rum-flask from Adams’s hand and took a rather big nip.

After crossing the gradual curves of the slope, they passed through a

wide stretch of jungle and found themselves in a beautiful valley that

seemed to wind away between the mountains. To the right of them the

rugged hills slowly increased in height till they were lost below the

peak of a mountain that strangely resembled a vast cross, quite distinct

in the moonlight.

It was Biglow who called his comrade’s attention to that strange

resemblance, for he suddenly said: “Old de Cripsny was right! It _does_

look like a cross in the moonlight, though I’m damned if I could see any

resemblance when I first sighted it whilst we were tramping across the

plains, way back.”

“So that peak was your guide,” thought Clensy, as he stared up at the

distant peak, and no longer wondered how it was that Biglow tramped

along in one direction without the slightest hesitation, as though he

was going over some well-known track.

“This way, lads, don’t keep on that path,” suddenly said Biglow in a low

voice. Then he pointed to the ground and showed them a pathway that had

most certainly been made through the tramp of human footsteps. Biglow’s

voice had become subdued. His erstwhile jovial countenance had become

serious-looking.

“If _he_ looks serious, there’s something to be serious about,” was

Clensy’s uncomfortable reflection as he looked at his revolver and began

to wonder if he would ever see the sunrise again.

“Keep to the sand; for heaven’s sake keep to the sand!” said Biglow in a

premonitory voice, as they sank up to their ankles into the silvery dust

as they got off the beaten track.

“There’s no telling who might come along that pathway,” said Biglow, as

they found themselves once again in the shadows.

“Look out! a light on the starboard bow!” whispered Biglow, just as

Clensy and Adams were hoping that they had been brought on a wild-goose

chase. Sure enough, right below the cross-shaped peak, far away at the

end of the valley, gleamed a tiny light.

Clensy and Adams stared in each other’s eyes. What was going to be

Biglow’s next move, they both wondered? The big man’s ears had gone

stiff, alert, like a mastiff’s, as he stood there, his hand arched over

his brow, his eyes staring as though with delight at the tell-tale gleam

that flickered somewhere between the palm trunks ahead of them.

“Blest if the moon isn’t over the peak, in the exact position that I

want it!” said Biglow.

“Wa jer mean?” said Adams, as he lifted his solitary eye and gazed

nervously towards the mountain peak.

“Why, the moon’s the clock of the _papoloi_ cannibal priests, and when

it hangs over that peak it is a sign that the priests must offer

sacrifices on the fetish altars of the _vaudoux_. Old Crippy said so,

and he evidently knows, or else why is that light down the valley and

the moon hanging like a Chinese lantern exactly over that big cross up

there with a cabbage on top of it?”

Adams and Clensy looked towards the mountain. “It do look loike a

cabbage that ’ere nob on top of it,” growled Adams as his eye shifted

about, so nervous did he feel.

“Come on,” said Biglow, “don’t stand there gaping.”

The next moment Adams and Clensy obeyed Biglow’s orders. Without

hesitating both went down on their bellies and crawled along the silver

sand, Biglow leading the way. Adams began to make a bit of a fuss as he

went wriggling along on all fours, dragging his stout corporation as

high as possible over the stones and scrub. Presently the three of them

had crossed through the thick scrub and bamboo growth that divided them

from the treeless slope that led nearly to the end of the valley.

Peeping through the edge of the jungle growth, they peered across the

sands that ran towards the place where the tell-tale light gleamed, and

stared like men in a dream. There before them, not more than five

hundred yards away, stood about a dozen dark men robed in white

surplices, the goats’ horns, the _vaudoux_ symbol, stuck on their heads.

The horns gave a weird, devilish appearance to the huddled, slowly

moving figures.

“Keep yer peckers up, don’t get nervous,” said Biglow, as Adams and

Clensy suddenly bobbed their heads back into the jungle leaves, dreading

that they might be observed. Adams looked like having a fit when Biglow

nudged him violently in the ribs, and said in a stage whisper; “Five

hundred pounds, old boy! Five hundred!”

“You’ve gone mad ter talk loud like that in a hawful time like this

’ere,” Adams almost hissed. Biglow seemed delighted to see Adams’s

extreme funk, and the vicious light of his solitary eye.

“We’re not at a picnic, Biglow,” said Clensy as he too stared at his

giant comrade, feeling a trifle irritated.

“We’re at something a damned sight better!” replied Biglow as he pointed

in the direction of the white-robed priests moving about in the gloom.

Most certainly, the scene before their eyes was more like the

description of some brigand’s cave in a dime novel, than anything that

Clensy could liken it to. Even Biglow rubbed his eyes as he stared

again, and the light from the head priest’s torch fell in such a way

that they distinctly saw two coffins lying at the feet of those swarthy,

surpliced, fetish worshippers. And as the three men watched, they saw

those dark forms stoop and slowly lift the two coffins, and then begin

to move towards the wide, but low entrance of a cavern that ran deep

into the mountain’s side. So brilliant was the moonlight that they

distinctly saw the figures bend their horned heads as they carried their

gruesome load through the low-roofed cavern doorway.

“You’ll see the sight of your lives when you get in there,” said Biglow.

For a while Adams refused to budge, and said he wasn’t going to be

murdered by cannibals for twenty thousand pounds. But Biglow’s fearless

eyes and sanguine manner revived the ex-sailorman’s courage. “Awl

roight, Gawd forgive yer if I’m mydered!” said Adams, and then the three

men started to crawl slowly along the edge of the jungle, making their

way towards the cavern’s entrance.

“Don’t get flustered,” said Biglow as he turned his head while still on

his stomach, then added: “All you’ve got to do, is to hold your

revolvers ready, and shout your loudest if I give the signal, and all

will be well. I’ve fought three hundred niggers down at Sumatra, and

routed an army of nine hundred niggers armed with drums and spears on

the West Coast of Africa.”

“‘Ope it ain’t all talk,” wailed Adams as they crept under the fern

trees that grew thickly within a few feet of the cavern’s entrance. They

suddenly stopped. They could hear sounds of music.

“They’re dancing to the _chica_ jigs! Now for a ju-ju show!” chuckled

Biglow. The gun-runner’s careless levity braced Clensy’s and Adam’s

nerves wonderfully. “Come on, lads!” The next moment Biglow had boldly

stood erect, and had run across the soft sands that separated the three

of them from the cavern’s entrance. In another moment he had glanced

hastily round, and seeing no sign of the _vaudoux_ devotees, had slipped

into the opening, the rocky cleft which led into the subterranean

chambers of the secret _vaudoux_ temples. Clensy and Adams immediately

revealed their implicit faith in all that their courageous comrade

did—they at once followed him.

“Keep close to me, lads,” said Biglow as he stole slowly along the side

of the rocky wall of a passage that widened as it deepened.

“Well, now!” muttered Clensy. They could hear a voice singing a weird,

sweet strain to words in a strange tongue. It was a woman’s voice, and

the subterranean hollows produced a magical effect as the echoes of the

song floating about and re-echoed, sounding like exiled strains of music

in despair, calling for the brightness and beauty of the world outside.

“Gawd save me bacon!” said, or rather moaned Adams as the three of them

dodged back into the deeper shadows, and hid behind the boulders that

stood like massive pillars holding up the glittering crystalline

subterranean roof. So silent were they as they stood there that they

could hear each other’s breathing.

“All’s well, so far,” whispered Biglow. They were in a risky position

though, for the slightest sound would betray their presence. The passage

where they stood was about eighteen feet wide, so they were fortunately

out of the way of anyone who might pass in or out of the fetish

chambers. They stood still, breathless, like wonderfully chiselled

statues, the highest thing in sculptural art, when a big mulatto fellow,

clad in a surplice, walked down the passage from the chambers. They saw

him go to the cavern’s entrance and peer cautiously out into the night.

He was doing sentry duty, was on watch to give warning should anyone be

seen approaching the _vaudoux_ caves. The three hidden men saw his huge

form glide by them as he passed along the passage on his way back to the

hollow chambers. So close was he to Clensy that he felt a cool whiff of

air touch his sweating face as the mulatto’s surpliced robe swished by.

“Come on,” whispered Biglow. The next moment they had arrived before the

opening of some large inner chamber. By the dazzling glimmer of hanging

lamps they knew they were close to the sacrificial altars of the

terrible _vaudoux_, the altars that inspired strong Haytian men with

fear, making them tremble when they passed through lonely forests by

night, altars that inspired women and children with a vague terror of

the devil as they whispered and stared with awestruck eyes by the

firesides of the lonely homesteads round Port-au-Prince.

Biglow had already fixed his eye to a chink in the rocky wall. He could

see all that was passing in the lofty chamber beyond. Adams, who had

crouched behind Biglow, was vigorously chewing tobacco plug in an

attempt to calm his excited nerves.

“Come you here, lad,” whispered Biglow; and Clensy, taking a place

beside the intrepid gun-runner, at once fixed his eye to the chink. The

sight Clensy saw made his brain swim in bewilderment. The scenic effect,

while peeping through that tiny hole in the rocky wall, was as though he

had fixed his eye to the tube of some marvellous telescope that revealed

a scene of revelry on another world beyond the stars, some dim landscape

faintly lit by a little sky, shining with the glittering light of starry

constellations of stalactites. Had Clensy suddenly taken a peep at the

heavens through a telescope and discovered God enthroned,

hail-fellow-well-met with the devil on some infinite night-out, in a

seraglio down a back alley of the constellation of Hercules, roaring

forth the infinite laughter of the spheres, watching His own voluptuous

houris and puppets dancing in the drama of some sensuous lapse, his face

could not have expressed greater surprise. But the scene which Clensy

saw had no kindredship with human conceptions of the mysteries of the

unknowable overwatching the knowable. Relentless reality, unshadowy,

full of mortal frailness and sensuous passion, and lacking that æsthetic

sanctitude of beauty and coldness which mortals imagine when dreaming

over immortal things, was vividly expressed on the faces of that secret

assemblage. The weird atmosphere of indescribable remoteness which the

scene conjured up in Clensy’s brain was intensified by the swinging glow

of innumerable lamps which hung from the cavern’s wide roof, giving the

scene of impassioned abandonment an unreal, misty effect, as the

handsome mulatto girls and women and men whirled about, waving their

arms, chanting melodies in Haytian patois. The creole women, clad in

blue and yellowish diaphanous robes, specially fashioned for the

vigorous performance of the _chic_ and _bambalou_ dances in their

primitive form, moved their shadowy-like limbs rhythmically to the

chanting accompaniment of stern-looking papaloi and negroes. Haytian

chiefs, who stood by, staring with burning eyes, repeatedly raised their

sacred goblets full of white rum, and murmured “_Wanga Louye garou_,”

which was the cry of the terrible papaloi priests who were known as “Les

Mystéres.”

Notwithstanding the terror, the lust and cruelty associated with the

rites of the fetish, Clensy and Biglow came under the magic spell of the

music, and the alluring movements of the dancing houris, for such they

looked. Three of the Haytian girls appeared strikingly beautiful as they

performed the mystical passes of the forbidden ritual. Suddenly they

stopped whirling, and, forming rows, swayed in front of the dreaded

papaloi making graceful obeisance to those fetish priests, holding their

robes high, bowing with delicate grace before the burning eyes of the

swarthy white-surpliced voluptuaries. Under the influence of the fetish

drinks and frenzied fanaticism the girls’ and women’s eyes shone like

living jewels.

“Holy Mary!” exclaimed Biglow. The misty forms of the dancers stood

perfectly still, and the two coffins which Biglow and Clensy had seen at

the cavern’s entrance, were suddenly dragged into view by two huge

negroes.

“Lou potoa,” moaned one of the papaloi, a venerable looking aged

debauchee who wore a poetic-looking white beard. Then a pretty creole

maid ran forward, and, severing the ropes which were round the two

coffins, removed the lids. Nothing seemed too strange to occur that

night as Clensy and Biglow stared in astonishment—the inmates of the two

coffins sat up, were gazing on the assemblage with glazed, vacant

looking eyes, their jaw-bindings still on! Clensy noticed that their

hands were tied behind them.

“God!” was all that the young Englishman could mutter, but it

sufficiently expressed his feelings at that moment when God seemed so

far away.

“They’re sick men or women who have been buried alive, drugged, and

hurriedly buried.”

“Good heavens! what do you mean?” gasped Clensy.

“I simply mean that those two men (one was a man and the other a woman)

have been sold to the papaloi while they were sick, and after being

drugged and buried have been dug up by the _vaudoux_ thugs, stolen from

the cemeteries by night, coffins and all!”

“Are they going to kill them, do—” Clensy said no more. A tall negro had

stepped forward, and had dragged the coffins with their inmates back

into the shadows. It was the sight of the terrible papaloi priest who

had suddenly stepped forward, and had placed a large basket down on the

stage that had startled Clensy. This individual was the sacred

executioner, and he wore the horns of a goat on his bald, polished

skull, which gave him a demoniacal appearance. The rows of creole and

mulatto girls prostrated themselves before the executioner.

The whole assemblage of that cavern chamber stood in perfect silence

when the negro priest stooped and raised the lid of the basket,

revealing the enclosed victim, trussed, ready for the sacrificial

altar—a terror-stricken mulatto girl! The girl’s eyes gazed in vacant

terror at the stern chiselled-like faces of the papaloi who at once

surrounded her. No mercy shone in the eyes of those hungry looking

fanatics of the most bloodthirsty creed that has ever sent cries of

anguish to God. The girl’s mute appeal, for her mouth was gagged, made

no impression on the hearts of the hot-blooded African and Haytian men

and women who witnessed that sight. The greater her grief, the more

terrifying her convulsive throes, the more glory to the fetish deities

whom they worshipped. The wretched victim was the _Goat Without Horns_;

her living blood the anticipated libation that must be drunk with white

rum when those terrible fetish men and women knelt before the _vaudoux_

altars. No Marquesan, no Fijian cannibalistic orgy of the old

pre-Christian times ever approached in cruelty and lingering terror the

torture that those semi-civilised Haytians meted out to their victims.

The _Goat Without Horns_ was the chosen of the dark powers, the honoured

of their people, and so why should their hearts be touched by the

victim’s anguish?

Undoing the sennet thongs that bound the girl’s legs together, they made

her stand on the _vaudoux_ altar. Her terror was so great that her limbs

trembled like blown leaves, her fingers moving convulsively.

“_Savoot, garou!_” wailed a hoarse voice. That voice and those dreadful

words sent a death-like silence and chill into Clensy’s soul. Even

Biglow’s bosom gave a half-stifled sigh as he quietly drew his revolver

from his pocket. A tall, handsome man had suddenly stepped forward; he

removed his cloak.

“Good heavens! impossible!” murmured Clensy. But it wasn’t impossible at

all, for there, as real as Clensy’s surprise, stood President Gravelot,

Sestrina’s father. The fear of Clensy’s heart over the risk he was

running through being in that place, was extinguished as his whole soul

became centred with an intense curiosity on the scene before him. His

eyes began to scan eagerly the rows of robed women and girls, many in

their teens, who made up the strangely assorted audience of that

terrible seraglio of bloodthirsty superstition and indiscribable lust

that was sanctified by the presence of the _vaudoux_ priests. A great

fear had begun to haunt Clensy’s brain—was Sestrina among that crew? Why

were some of the female adherents as well as the men, wearing masks that

only revealed their burning eyes? Already the frenzy of drink and

superstition had seized those fetish devotees. The hot-blooded negro and

Haytian priests were already lifting their hands as they chanted the

weird _vaudoux_ melodies. They were wonderful strains that they chanted,

inasmuch as they suggested the indescribable debauchery of the men and

women who sang. Some of the young mulatto and creole girls were already

lying in postures of stupefied abandonment on the couches and settees of

that sumptiously furnished subterreanean temple chamber, some weeping

and laughing in the hysteria and religious fervour which had seized

them. Others stood as though transfixed by a terrible curiosity, yes, as

they watched in fiendish anticipation to see the coming torture of the

sacrificial victim.

By the wall, just behind the altars, stood a large stone figure of the

Virgin Mary, one chiselled arm outstretched, holding the figure of a

little child—it was a diabolical, blasphemous perversion of the

beautiful symbol of the Christian creed. Even Clensy and Biglow became

imbued with a sudden tinge of heathenish superstition at that moment,

for a strange-looking black figure, that had been standing by the altar,

had commenced to dance in a silent, unsubstantial manner. It was waving

its shadowy hands, mimicking every movement of the priests who were

going through the mystical passes of the _vaudoux_ rites. And as that

shadowy figure danced and the whole audience stared, spellbound, the

gleams of the lamps on the figure of the Virgin just behind it, were

distinctly visible through its form! Clensy, his eye still fixed to the

chink, slowly recovered his mental equilibrium, and was convinced that

Sestrina was not present with her parent.

“Thank God, _she’s_ not here,” he muttered to himself as he too gripped

his revolver. He knew that Bartholomew Biglow was not going to stand

there and see the young mulatto girl sacrificed before their eyes.

Biglow turned towards Adams, “Clear out of it, run your damndest.”

Adams needed no second request to take to his heels; he, surely, had

never run so fast in his whole career as he ran when he bolted down the

passage, and vanished from sight. Clensy and Biglow were good runners,

and they well knew that Adams, through being stout, would be a terrible

encumbrance were he with them when the time came for flight.

“Keep still, lad, leave it all to me,” whispered Biglow. Then he added;

“Wish we had my best pal, Samuel Bilbao here, he’d glory in a fix like

this, he would!”

And as the big man muttered the foregoing, alluding to a celebrated

South Sea character who was noted for his pluck and adventurous career,

he gave a quiet chuckle and clicked the trigger of his revolver. “Keep

quiet, lad!”

“All right!” whispered Clensy, for he knew that Biglow was a splendid

shot, whereas he might fire and miss. The head papaloi priest had

stepped forward. The whole audience stood breathless, spellbound, as

they watched to witness the fatal thrust that would make the victim’s

blood gush into the sacramental goblet. Clensy felt sick. The victim

already stood on the terrible slab, her anguished paralysed form held up

by two white-surpliced negroes who stood on either side, gripping her

arms. Then the aged, almost venerable looking papaloi priest, stepped

forward and began to mumble something. His head was thrown back, his

beard raised towards the roof as he continued mumbling the sacrificial

thanksgiving prayer! It all happened in a few seconds; the aged papaloi

stood with hand raised. Clensy and Biglow saw the shining steel of the

long blade hover before the victim’s terror-stricken eyes—the slayer

must aim true!

“Crack!” the papaloi-slayer’s arm was shattered near the wrist! Four

more shots followed in swift succession. Gravelot was winged in the

shoulder, another fell with the top of his head blown off! Then Biglow

snatched Clensy’s revolver from his hand, and, rushing into that chamber

of horrors, snatched the sacrificial victim up in his broad arms!

And what did the bloodthirsty _vaudoux_ worshippers who drank human

blood and sacrificed helpless children, do? They bolted like a drove of

frightened shadows, went flying in all directions. Maybe they imagined

that a hundred government gendarmes had charged them. Sure enough,

Biglow yelled loud enough for such an idea to seize their cowardly

imaginations as the echoes of his mighty voice and Clensy’s shouts

rumbled through the chambers of that subterranean place.

Clensy never could give a coherent account as to how he got safely out

of that terrible _vaudoux_ temple in the mountains. He had long legs,

and probably that fact, more than his heartfelt prayers, saved his life.

CHAPTER VIII

THE next day Clensy, Biglow, and Adams sat whispering together over a

table in the small café chantant near Toujeaur. They all appeared calm

enough after their adventure. Adams was the only one who had escaped

from the _vaudoux_ temple unscathed. Clensy had a swollen lip and Biglow

had got out of the mêlée with nothing more than a large contusion over

his left eyebrow. Biglow seemed in high spirits. He was delighted to

think that he had been able to save the wretched mulatto girl from being

slain on the _vaudoux_ altars.

“What a fine missionary I am!” he said, as, smacking his leg with his

hand, he gave a huge smile of approbation over his pleasure in the

thought of all he had accomplished. “Nice little kid she was too!” he

said as he referred to the maid he had rescued. “She’s as safe as houses

now; I’ve placed her in the hands of an aged Haytian woman, a special

friend of mine, one whom I can trust.”

“Wasn’t she thankful! and the way she clung to you and kissed you when

she came to!” said Clensy, referring to the rescued girl’s hysterical

delight when she found herself safe in the jungle, her brow being fanned

by Biglow and Clensy when she regained consciousness.

For the moment the three men sat silent. Even Adams’s solitary eye

looked dim as they sat there and thought of the mulatto girl’s delight

when she, realising the whole position, had clung like a child at

Biglow’s breast.

“Do you mean to inform the authorities about it all?” said Clensy.

“No lad, I’ve thought it over, it wouldn’t be much use. You see,

Gravelot is in with the fanatics, and he would be sure to deny

everything, and possibly turn the tables on us. By now they’ve wrapped

their wounds up and buried the dead too.”

“But Gravelot got a shot in the shoulder, I saw him stumble and clap his

hand to it; how would he explain that?” said Clensy.

“Oh, he’d say that we waylaid him, shot and robbed him while he was on

his way to church, evening Mass, or something, and we’d get shot for

that,” replied Biglow as he swallowed a tumbler full of whisky and

water.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Clensy feeling much relieved. The fact is,

that Clensy was trying to find out what Biglow’s intentions in the

matter really were. The young Englishman didn’t want Sestrina’s father

arrested by the British officials and shot. He knew that he would be

called upon to give evidence in the courts, and that Sestrina would

naturally look upon him as one who had helped put her father to death.

Biglow’s capacious mind had swiftly come to the conclusion that it would

pay him better to have the president under his thumb than to attempt to

claim the reward from the authorities.

“Stroikes me we’d better clear out of this blasted ’ole; it’s getting

’ot for us, there’s a revolution a-coming too!” said Adams as he turned

and shot a stream of tobacco juice through the open window.

“I don’t believe all I hear about the coming revolution,” exclaimed

Clensy.

“You don’t, don’t you?” said Biglow. Then he continued: “Would you be

surprised to know that the Cacaos insurgents have already had the first

skirmish in the mountains with the government soldiers? Bless you, they

came down only the other night and robbed the Haytian banks and shot

several of the nigger police. No one’s safe here. Men are arrested every

day and shot for openly showing their dislike to Gravelot. Duels are

being fought in the streets every day in Port-au-Prince. The French

chargé de affaires seems to have no power over the mad population, or is

indifferent to all that’s going on. Its quite a common thing to hear

shots in the night coming from the direction of the hills when the

government scouts met the insurgents.”

“Surely things are not as bad as you paint them,” said Clensy. Then he

suddenly remembered how he had heard sounds of shooting while in bed,

and had thought some one was out by night shooting owls in the mahogany

forests near Selle district.

“Not a very rose-tinted account of the present state of affairs here,”

thought Clensy as he left his two comrades and strolled back to his

lodgings. But Clensy was really more worried about Sestrina than

anything else. The idea that her father was an adherent to _vaudoux_

creed had greatly upset him at first. He was quite assured that Sestrina

had nothing whatever to do with the _vaudoux_. And as he thought over it

all, he realised that daughters are quite helpless so far as their

father’s sins are concerned. “Children can’t rear their parents and

subdue their passions and lead them on the better path; things might be

better if they could,” he thought to himself as he stood before his

looking-glass and brushed his hair. He was making himself look spruce,

for he had made up his mind to go that same evening and see if he could

meet Sestrina wandering by the palace. He had met her several times by

appointment, but she had not turned up at the last appointment. “Old

Gravelot must be home, laid up with a shot wound in his shoulder, so

he’s out of the way,” he thought, and as he reflected he made up his

mind to ask Sestrina if she would elope with him and clear out of Hayti.

“I’ll see her to-night if I have to sneak into the palace,” was his

mental reflection as he hastily brushed himself down. It wanted about

two hours before sunset, and so he began to wander about. Then he

strolled out into the street and started to go through the town so that

he could take a walk in the country before it was time to go and haunt

the palace grounds in an attempt to meet Sestrina.

“Biglow did not exaggerate about the people here being mad over fetishes

and possible revolutions,” he thought as the dark-eyed mulatto maids and

handsome creole girls and men stared at him as he passed down the

street. “Pretty fine state of affairs,” he thought as he began to ponder

over future possibilities, what might happen to Sestrina if a revolution

did break out in Hayti. Then he eased his troubled mind by recalling de

Cripsny’s words when he, Clensy, had asked him about the matter.

“It might be months and months and den all smooth down again, like it

has done before,” the half-caste Frenchman had said. But still,

notwithstanding de Cripsny’s sanguine outlook, Clensy noticed that the

old characteristic levity and song and brightness of the city’s

inhabitants had gone. And even he knew that the insurgents, or Cacaos,

as they were called, had become very powerful as they massed together

and gathered recruits from the cities as far away as Vera Cruz and the

sea ports of the Caribbean Sea. Indeed, no one in Hayti knew exactly

which was the potent authority, the Cacaos or the Government, by virtue

of the superiority of numbers, for, in Hayti, force of arms inevitably

decided all political controversies. Biglow was about the only white man

who knew the true state of affairs, and he knew that the insurgents were

the most powerful so far as numbers were concerned, also that they had

been so well supplied with cash from a secret source that they had been

able to purchase several steamers from the American shipowners. Even as

Clensy arrived at the top of the slope and gazed seaward, he could see

the tips of the mast of the steamer, which was one of many, that had

stolen into the harbour loaded up with guns and munition from the United

States.

Clensy had arrived into the wooded part of the country, half a mile from

the crowds of ugly houses in the valleys below. He quickened his

footsteps. His heart was thumping with apprehension as he thought of

Sestrina, and wondered if any harm would come to her if a revolution did

break out. “Oh, to hold her in my arms, kiss her lips, and feel she was

mine for ever! I’d starve, risk anything, do any crime to possess her,

body and soul, to gaze in her eyes and touch her sweet flesh with my

lips!” And as the young Englishman reflected, the ecstasy of his

feelings for Sestrina seemed to overwhelm his senses like a mad frenzy.

The thought that he might lose the girl seemed to stun him, as though

destiny had given him a tremendous blow on the heart. “Why, I’m as bad

as the frenzied _vaudoux_ worshippers,” he muttered as he vaguely

realised how strong a factor his passions were in the ecstasy which came

when he thought of Sestrina.

“I haven’t always felt like this. Perhaps it’s some peculiar effect

through seeing those terrible _vaudoux_ devotees the other night,” he

thought as he felt a great wave of passion sweep his better self away,

till he wished he was some fanatic so that he might make Sestrina the

symbol of his creed and worship the shrine of her loveliness! Clensy’s

passion for Sestrina had strangely materialised, changed his old

spiritual ideals into sensuous dreams. Beauty, religion and all the

soulful wonder over the unknown were no longer visible to him in the

mystery of the skies, but were expressed in woman’s eyes, her loosened

hair, her red lips and the amorous beauty of her form.

Biglow, only a day or two before, had slapped him on the shoulder and

said: “All men go mad once in their lifetime over a woman, but they’re

not in love till they stand over a woman’s grave, as I’ve done, and then

seen all her beauty shining in the sunlight on the flowers over her.”

It must be admitted that Clensy had stared long and curiously at Biglow

when he spoke like that; it was so unexpected from the lips of one who

seemed to be the last man who he would have expected to show signs of

spiritual sentiment.

The visible world, to Clensy, existed only as a vast garden wherein love

could walk and enjoy the physical emotions and ecstatic pangs of the

senses. He saw Creation as an almighty impassioned lover, holding the

stars in her eyes of night, the oceans kissing her feet of a thousand

shores. Sex had become the godhead of his desires. In short, Clensy saw

the world, nay, the universe itself, as a vast deification of himself,

whereas he was only the tiniest, humblest miniature of creation’s

conscious yearning to make the leaf green; his own life no more than a

sunbeam’s warmth on a wild flower.

And Sestrina? the maid of southern blood, the light of the tropic suns

and stars in her veins? She did not rave when she thought of Clensy, she

made no god or goddess of her physical sensations. Neither did her mind

conjure up poetical impressions and pictures over high aspirations which

were only daubs painted from the fires of a physical passion. No;

Sestrina saw Clensy as some wonderful apostle of her own simple faith,

the religion which was Père Chaco’s, the Catholic priest, the one who

had encouraged the girl’s spiritual dreams since she was a toddling

child. It was a pure woman’s faith, and was destined to expand, to grow

like a lovely tree on _the lonely desert isle—the soul which is in all

of us—set in the boundless seas encircled by the dim starlit horizons of

mortal imagination_.

As Clensy stood on top of the lovely hills and drank in the sombre

beauty of the shifting sunlight on the ancient trees, he began to feel

strangely calm. “I’m worrying about revolutions like a foolish child;

it’s only a rumour; yet, if anything happened to her! Ah, after all, she

is only a woman, and so little dreams how deeply men can love, how

eternal their faith in woman is.” Ah, Clensy!

As Clensy so reflected, he walked into the shadows of the palms and then

started to climb the slope’s side. Though he was well aware of the risk

he ran in wandering alone into the solitudes around Port-au-Prince, he

walked carelessly onward. All that worried Clensy was how to kill time

till dusk fell over Hayti so that he might steal back to the palace

precincts and haunt the orange groves in the hope of seeing Sestrina.

Gazing around, he discovered that he had already arrived at the lower

slopes of the mountains. He could see the tiny spirals of smoke

ascending from distant villages that were nestled in the valleys far to

the right. The brooding silence of the wooded country calmed his

feverish thoughts. His mind became absorbed in the deep philosophy of

the whispering trees and the picturesqueness of nature’s lovely talents

which were expressed in all the tropical scenery. The cool sea winds,

drifting inland, stirred the tops of the leafy trees and the

multitudinous patterns that decorated the flower-bespangled carpet of

the valleys, the slopes and rolling hills. What lore of the ages were

the wise old trees about him whispering? He distinctly heard them sigh

the far-away romance of the distant seas. “How beautiful!” he murmured

as a faint breath came to his nostrils from the decaying tropical

flowers. In the magic of his poetic mood those richly-scented floating

wines of creation’s oldest vintage, intoxicated his senses and whispered

infinite wisdom to him. The big fiery blossoms, that resembled the

blooms of the Australian waratah tree, brightened the gullies and

hill-sides as the sun sank behind the western peaks of the mountains.

There was grandeur, a majestic kind of beauty in the sight of the mighty

mahogany trees that stood to the left of him. But somehow, the sight of

it all sickened Clensy’s heart. The scenery lacked the refreshing green

of his native hills. Clensy had the artistic eye that loves nature’s

brooding handiwork in leaf and flower, and the solid architectural

grandeur of gnarled trunks. It was born in him, a strain deeper than his

love of sensuous beauty, and, so, was the strain which would survive the

mad passions of sanguine youth.

“Ah, there’s no scenery in the world that can outrival the peaceful

loveliness of the English woods, the pine-clad hills and the undulating

pastures of richest green.” So ran Clensy’s meditations, and as his eyes

roamed over the sombre forest pigments, he thought of the wild

hedge-rows of his native land, the spring-quickening valleys and the

waking primroses, and felt homesick. The sombre mahogany trees and the

broad-leafed palms, in which droves of parrots and cockatoos screeched,

made no appeal to him. Where was the melodious poetry of the

full-throated brown thrush’s song, or the wintry piping of the robin in

the apple trees, or the idly flapping crows fading away like the weary

dreams of sad men and women into the sunset? The cockatoo’s dismal

screech and the discordant cry of the daylight owl have their music too;

but ah, what music can outrival the soaring song of the skylark, pouring

forth its silvery chain of melody between the billowy green of the

fields and the eternal blue of an English sky? And as Royal Clensy stood

on the Haytian hills and asked himself these things, he wondered if he

would ever see the Old Country again, till he almost forgot the flight

of time.

In a moment he had turned about and had begun to retrace his footsteps.

“By the time I arrive near the palace it will be dark,” he mused, as he

stared towards the west—sunset was flooding the horizon with ethereal

pigments of saffron and liquid gold, hues that seemed to be magically

reflected in opposite colours of purple, crimson, and orange tinted

streaks on the mountain ranges to the east. One distant mountain peak

strangely resembled a mighty dark, forest-bearded giant, an Olympian god

putting forth promontory-like arms into space, holding great sheafs of

golden sunset in its hands. It looked like some tremendous shadowy

symbol of the eternity of the past and the dubious hopes of the future,

as though it would steal a portion of the dying day’s splendour to cheer

the night of gloom when the stars whispered about its rugged, calm,

time-wrinkled brow.

As Clensy turned away from that weird, yet strangely beautiful

symbolical sight of light on the mountains, he sighed. Then he passed

swiftly down the slopes and faded into the shadows of the forest below.

In less than half an hour he found himself standing by the spot where he

had twice secretly met Sestrina after dark. It was a lovely trysting

spot, for it was close to an inland lagoon and was sheltered by feathery

palms.

“Hist, monsieur!” whispered a voice in the shadows.

Clensy turned and stared in astonishment.

“Good heavens, you!” he exclaimed, as he looked swiftly this way and

that way to see if the dark woman who stood before him was accompanied

by her whom he so wished to see. It was old Claircine, Sestrina’s

serving maid, who stood before him!

“I been ’ere ebery night, for two nights, hobing to zee yous, monsieur,”

whispered the old negress as she hastily took a note from the folds of

her rather dilapidated _sarong_ and handed it to Clensy. He ripped the

_billet doux_ open in feverish haste and read:

“OH, MONSIEUR ROYAL,

“_Unhappy am I. I send Claircine every night to the trysting

place hoping that she might find you there, since I cannot come

myself. I know not why, but my father is having me watched, and

so I have been unable to get out. I write this so that you may

understand that Sestrina is always thinking of you. Ah,

monsieur, you do not know how deep are the thoughts of a woman

who truly loves. And since I am unable to get to you, I would

ask you to come to me. I am in the room that is just above the

balcony at the back of the palace, by the orange groves where we

first met. And, Monsieur Royal, I would have you to know that

the grape-vine grows thick on the walls below my chamber’s

casement, which is ever open. So, Monsieur Royal, should an

enemy wish to climb up the wall and enter my room to slay me, it

could be, alas, easily accomplished. Think well, O Monsieur,

over this danger _of mine, and I will retire late to-morrow

night.

_Believe me, O Monsieur Royal, to be your_

“_unhappy_ SESTRINA, _till I see you_.”

So ran Sestrina’s note. The style had obviously been inspired by French

novels. The delicate hint thrown out in that epistle thrilled Clensy.

What else could Sestrina mean than to hint that he could, with ease,

climb up the grape-vine which grew thickly on the walls below her

chamber? In another moment he had taken a small bit of paper from his

pocket and had written:

“_Beloved Sestrina,—If woman loves deeply, how deep must be the

love of man? I will be with you to-morrow night a few moments

after dusk. The grape-vine outside your chamber’s window will

bear the sweetest thoughts and fruits of love as it brings me to

your lips and eyes._

“_In haste._

“_Yours_,

“ROYAL.”

Claircine curtsied, then greedily grabbed the coin.

“Go immediately and give this note to your mistress.”

“Dat I will, monsieur!”

No sooner was the kind old negress out of sight, than Clensy began to

reflect. “What an ass I am! Why on earth didn’t I say that I would go

to-night and climb the grape-vine?” And as he mused and thought over

Sestrina’s letter, he resolved to go to the palace that very night. “By

Jove! what a chance, only a grape-vine to climb and then—Sestrina’s eyes

and arms.”

Night lay over the palm-clad hills around Port-au-Prince. Clensy had

already reached the palace grounds. He had escaped the vigilant eyes of

two big negroes, who did sentry duty at the palace gates, by climbing

over the stone walls in the rear of the palace. “Thank heaven the moon

isn’t up yet,” Clensy thought as he slipped into the shade of the

bamboos and looked up at the sky.

The tropic twilight and the ethereal, pulsing gleams of a thousand

thousand stars gave sufficient light for Clensy’s requirements that

night. For a moment he stood perfectly still. Being assured that no one

was about, he crept stealthily forward, pushing the tall ferns and scrub

apart with his hands, very softly, so that his advance made no rustle.

Slipping noiselessly under the orange groves he felt more at his ease.

He was now familiar with the surroundings. He was at the spot where he

had first met and walked with Sestrina after his first engagement as

pianist at the presidential ball.

“How romantic, I’m like the hero of a romantic novel, blest if I’m not,”

he thought as he peered cautiously through the thickets of bamboos and

spied the balcony that fronted the chamber wherein Sestrina slept.

Creeping close to the wall he spied the thick stems of the grape-vine

that soared to the vine-covered casement. To Clensy’s romantic soul it

was indeed the magic casement that opened on the green foams of leafy,

wind-stirred palms and perilous seas of romance. Even as he watched and

listened Clensy heard the palms sigh some whispering melody that came in

from the ocean. The fireflies were dancing like miniature constellations

of stars in leafy glooms. A strange bird began to sing, somewhere up in

the mahogany tree hard by. “Too-willow, too-willow it-te-willowy

lan-lone, wee-it!” it went, ere it burst forth into a merry tinkling

song, as though it had suddenly got wind of all that was happening!

Clensy stood still and gazed intently up at the half-open casement: he

could see no light. “Perhaps she’s asleep? Or maybe she hasn’t retired

yet?” And, as he reflected, he lit a cigarette, carefully hiding the

gleam of the lighted match in the closed hollows of his hands. Already

his romantic imagination had begun to picture Sestrina in her chamber.

He began to feel nervous.

“Perhaps I should first throw a pebble, give her some warning,” he

thought as he puffed away at his cigarette and wondered what Sestrina

would think to see him appear at her chamber-casement without due

warning. “Pish! what does it matter? She is a sensible Haytian girl, not

a namby-pamby European girl,” he muttered as he tried to find an excuse

for his own meditations.

Clensy’s adoration for materialised beauty, the inherent greed of his

love of the sensuous—which he imagined was spiritual love—had made him

secretly aspire to see something different to the shadowy, divine

loveliness that the pure poetic imagination pictures when dreaming over

the charms of the woman loved. He aspired to see something which would

correspond with all that his physical senses felt, not the visionary

form that feeds the imagination eternally with increasing hope and

beauty, making the Fates whisper into the lover’s ears:

“She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss.

Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!”

And so Clensy was bound to be disillusioned. True enough, it was a brief

disillusionment, but it came like a hint that would reveal the briefness

of sensuous beauty: and that’s all. It did not give him a hint, one

prophetic glimpse of the terrible drama, the unspeakable irony of human

things, the vision of the truth which his eyes were to see, when, with

wisdom and sorrow in his soul, he goes out of the last page of this

story.

As Clensy stood there in the shadows of the bamboos his eyes brightened

over his thoughts. Yet he still hesitated. He had been reared in polite

society; he was the son of a gentleman and had ever lifted his hat when

he passed a lady. And now—where was his spirit of chivalry?

“Men have done worse when they have truly loved a beautiful woman. And

this is Hayti, not England! Hayti!”; and thinking in this wise, he

thought of Sestrina sitting in the seclusion of her chamber and

scattered his qualms to the winds. “Hayti, land of romance and song, and

Sestrina,” murmured his ardent thoughts as he put forth his hands and

began to climb up the thick runners of the grape-vine! The thought of

what he might see when he reached the balcony and peeped into Sestrina’s

chamber intoxicated his senses.

As he slowly climbed, he seemed to drift into a subconscious state. How

carefully he climbed. Hand over hand he stealthily ascended, one false

step and the spheres would roll askew! He suddenly stopped and breathed

a sigh of relief. He had reached the jutting floor of the balcony. With

his right hand he gripped the thick stem of the grape-vine, then,

throwing his head back, he put forth his disengaged hand and grasped the

outer support post of the railings. The next minute he had twisted his

body back—for one moment he hung suspended in space, the next moment he

had clutched the vine-clad railings, and had pulled himself up—he was

standing on the balcony! His form was hidden in the deep shadows of the

overhanging mahogany tree’s branches. For a moment he groped about in

trembling indecision. It was then that he noticed the glimmer of light

stealing through the clusters of flowers that grew about a casement to

the right of him. “Her chamber!” He hesitated. In that supreme moment

his grosser thoughts vanished. He felt as one might feel if about to fix

the eye at a telescope tube that would reveal the ethereal landscapes

and roaming angels of another world. The next moment he had boldly fixed

his eye to a chink in the half-open shutter.

He stood in perfect safety, for the clusters of flowers and hanging vine

completely hid him. “In bed!” was his mental ejaculation. He saw the

bunched counterpane, its crimson lace fringe all crumpled. The outline

of the lone occupant was distinctly visible through the misty mosquito

curtains that draped the bed, hanging tent-like from the four high

brass-nobbed posts.

“She’s reading! How small a chamber, how poorly furnished!” A chill of

disappointment struck his heart: he expected to see something so

different. Where was the wild confusion of falling tresses? Where the

magic of dreaming eyes, and the secret loveliness of a maiden’s

deshabille? Ah, Clensy! He had yet to learn that nothing corresponds

with a mortal’s conceptions of beauty, that only dreams bring happiness;

that beauty like the horizon is to be imagined only, shadowed stars in

water, yes, even as the stars are only the reflex of their hidden

realities.

And still he stared. “Only the outline of her form under a sheet! Well!

I’ll tap the casement and then she’ll turn in her bed, yet—perhaps I’d

better—!” He gasped. The mosquito curtains had been swiftly pushed

aside! “Heavens, she’s getting out of bed!” He gazed with burning eyes.

The supreme moment had arrived. The ecstasy of his imaginings, all that

mystery and loveliness which he expected to see, made his brain reel.

Just for a second he closed his eyes, yes, one wondrous blink ere his

eyelids parted and he gazed again. What had happened! Anguish had

wrinkled his brow! He could hardly suppress a cry of horror escaping his

lips—two bony, skeleton-like legs had suddenly protruded from beneath

the laced edges of the counterpane! The castle of romance, all the

loveliness which his imagination had conjured up, fell with a silent

crash! The sight of those skinny legs, covered with shrunken flesh,

looking like unfilled sausage skins, sent an icy chill to his heart.

That awful sight was, to him, like the Egyptian skull of death shown,

not before the festivities, but in the presence of empty dishes and

wineless goblets.

“Thank God!” he murmured as he stared again—he had peeped through the

wrong casement, it was upon the old negress, Claircine, that he had

spied. She had leapt from her bed to put the lamp out! Clensy’s

ludicrous mistake made him feel sane. The sight of Claircine’s skinny

legs waving in space for one second ere they attained the perpendicular,

had taught him more about the vanity of human wishes and the briefness

of beauty than all the philosophies in existence.

For a moment he felt an abject fool. Then the reaction set in. His

imagination began, in feverish haste, to conjure up voluptuous pictures

of Sestrina’s beauty, all that she must look like when compared to poor

emaciated, shrunken Claircine.

“What an ass I am,” he murmured as he began to creep in haste on his

hands and knees towards the next casement. The shutters of that casement

were also half opened and conveniently hidden by clusters of flowers and

twining vine. Pushing the leaves aside with his hands, he peeped once

again. No mistake this time! There on a couch was Sestrina’s reclining

form. She was leaning back on the couch’s arm, her hair down, falling in

perfect confusion over her half-clad shoulders. The delicate drapery of

the couch was disturbed where one of her legs was lifted, the left knee

softly couched, inclined over the right leg. The silken brown stocking,

barely reaching to the knee, intensified the soft warm flush of beauty

and each dimpled curve. She placed her fingers between the laced

division of her unbuttoned bodice, and taking forth a tiny scented

handkerchief, placed it to her face, which was half hidden by the

tangled folds of her tresses, and wept!

The sight of the weeping girl filled Clensy’s heart with sorrow—and

shame. He sighed, and then, for all his remorse, stared again. Sestrina

had lifted her face, and, placing her hands on either cheek, was staring

in tearful thought at the ceiling.

“To-morrow night and he will be here! Ah, how I long to gaze in his

eyes, to hear him say those words again.”

Clensy had moved closer to the half-open shutter: his perfidious ears

drank in every word that escaped Sestrina’s lips. She sighed. He saw her

lips tremble as she breathed some rapturous thought. “What was she

saying to herself?” Clensy leaned forward; the boards beneath his feet

creaked! His figure stiffened as he stood alert, breathless in suspense.

Had she heard that creak? He breathed a sigh of relief.

Sestrina must have thought it was a night bird fluttering in the boughs

of the mahogany tree just beyond her window. She had arisen from her

couch. Her eyes sparkled as though in the delight of some sudden happy

idea. She moved towards the mirror, and, tossing her ringlets into

greater confusion, gazed upon her image. One glossy ringlet strayed from

its companions and curled serpentwise down over the billowy softness of

her bosom, which was revealed through her unlaced bodice.

Clensy stared at her figure just as a mad sculptor might stare on his

masterpiece. The charm of her deshabille, the mystery of her fluttering

lingerie as the orange and lemon scented zephyrs floated through the

open casement, intoxicated his senses. He stood spellbound, his eyes

drinking in the delicate harmony of each outline. His soul was thrilled

with the beauty and mystery of all that was left to his imagination, all

that was suggested, since he could only see her pretty sandalled feet, a

glimpse of the arms’ whiteness and the loveliness revealed between the

luxuriance of her falling tresses. “God, how beautiful!” he murmured.

A deep feeling of reverence for the girl crept into his sinful heart.

There was something so innocent about her pose, and her every action.

She had opened a tiny sandalwood box, and taking therefrom a small

powder-puff had softly dabbed it on a pimple that looked as though a

ladybird had flown through the open casement and had settled on the warm

whiteness of her bosom. Certainly a peculiar impression to get on

Clensy’s mind, but it was just like him!

“Why does she weep? I had thought to see her happy,” murmured Clensy as

Sestrina placed the powder-puff on the toilet, and then gazed in the

mirror on her own tearful eyes.

Clensy did not know that there had been misery in the palace for the

last three days. First of all, Sestrina and Claircine and Gravelot’s

valet, Zelong, had sat up all night talking about the rumours of a

revolution. And then the President had arrived home at midnight in a

fainting condition, a bullet wound in his shoulder. He had fallen down

in the hall. His eyes had no longer looked cruel.

“Forgive me, Sestrina,” he had murmured as Claircine, Sestrina, and

Zelong had helped carry him into his chamber.

When Sestrina had found herself alone with her parent, she had wished to

send for a doctor. But, no, Gravelot would not hear of such a thing. And

so, Sestrina carefully bathed and bound the shot-wound which had been

inflicted by Biglow’s revolver. That same night the President had

confessed to his daughter that he had been under the vile spell of the

_vaudoux_ worship.

Sestrina tried to soothe her father as he wept. His sobered senses made

him realise the wickedness and cruelty of the _papaloi_ and their fetish

rites.

“Thank God, Sestrina, that _you_ were strong enough to resist and keep

true to your old Père Chaco,” he cried, as he thought of all that would

have happened to the girl had she responded to his wishes and attended

the _vaudoux_ temples.

Then the President had told Sestrina of his fears, how the Cacaos were

rising in great force. Sestrina was astonished when her father informed

her that the palace might be stormed by the rebels if they once got into

the town. Then he had said: “Sestrina, if anything happens to me, you

must fly from the palace and seek safety on one of the Government

steamers and so get away from Hayti as soon as possible. The insurgents

would surely shoot all who are related to me.” And when the President,

continuing, said, “You must not leave the palace on any account, for I

have received information that several Cacaos chiefs are on watch to get

my body dead or alive,” Sestrina had felt terribly upset. Consequently

she had written to Clensy and begged him to come to her, and at the same

time had kept her true reasons for taking this bold course to herself.

It was not till Claircine had gone off with the note in hopes to see

Clensy and give it him, that Sestrina, woman-like, had reflected on the

matter and realised how dangerous it would be for Clensy, a white man,

to be seen stealthily approaching the palace after dark.

“_Mon Dieu!_ the sentinels will think he is an assassin, will think he

is some Cacaos chief waiting in ambush to slay my father. O, _mon Dieu_!

he will be shot, and all through me! It is I who have told him to come

and climb the grape-vine to-morrow night!”

And as she sat there on the couch in her chamber, she once more bowed

her head and wept bitterly.

“To-morrow night! To-morrow! I must write another note and tell

Claircine that it means death to Monsieur Royal if she does not deliver

it to him.”

And as she sighed, she gazed tearfully towards her casement, little

dreaming that her lover’s eyes at that very moment gazed upon her from

behind the clusters of flowers of the half-hidden trellis work. As she

sighed, Clensy once more inclined his head and listened.

“Oh! kind Père Chaco, I will see him to-morrow and confess all, and then

he will pray for his safety, for my beautiful Royal’s soul.”

Sestrina had taken a tiny crucifix from the fold of her robe and,

touching it with her lips, had murmured “Royal!”

Clensy’s eyes, as they stared through the scented leaves and crimson

blooms, brightened, shone like stars. His impassioned thoughts were

expressed on his flushed face. He seemed to lose control over his senses

and limbs too—he had leaned forward, and, swaying like something blown

by a great wind, he fell through the open casement.

“Royal!”

“Sestrina mine!”

The next second they were in each other’s arms.

Since the propriety of the means which Clensy had taken to meet Sestrina

that night can be quibbled over, and with perfect justice too, the

exclusion of much which they said and did can remain unrecorded without

hurting the feelings of the sensitive, conventional minded. It will

suffice to say, that Royal Clensy was a gentleman. The fact that the

young Englishman had crawled on all fours, and without announcing his

presence, into a maiden’s bedroom at midnight, must not let it be

assumed that our hero had a perverted mind. The strange things that

heroes and lovers think are often very different from the things that

they do—even when the opportunity of doing strange things presents

itself. Though Clensy’s love dream was sensuous more than spiritual, he

was not a bad type. He had a love of naturalness and a great hatred for

the sickening realities of conventional life.

He had long ago spoken to himself and seen through the mighty pretence

of civilised communities in the cities, where fat old men and women

passed in their robes of splendour through the door of the temple of

fame. Metaphorically speaking, he had sickened of seeing the devotees of

European _vaudoux_ worship kneel before the sacrificial altars of hot

meats, burning wines, and highly-seasoned foods. Even in his own little

brief worship at the altars of the terrible European _papaloi_ he had

felt indignation when some wealthy British _vaudoux_ chief had caught a

maiden of innocence, had lured her into the presence of the gaudy

_vaudoux_ temples, and had then sacrificed her strangled body on the

bloodthirsty altars of his heathenish deities. Let it be said, on

Clensy’s behalf, that he had often gazed on his own white unsoiled hands

and felt compassion for the corn-hardened hands of weary men who had

been born where the sad, mechanical charity organisation officials

loudly knocked the door. Long ago he had realised that the trembling

hand that toiled in the mud or brushed the boots of prosperity, might

easily be the hand that could pen the perfect poem, or paint the

outlines of the sorrowful saints and Madonnas, yes, the visionary

creations that haunt the minds of men who are adherents to the great

inborn creed, and worship at the sombre, sad altars of the Gospel of

Truth and Beauty. Clensy also had the instinctive insight of the artist

in his soul, consequently he saw Sestrina as a child who favoured his

presence in her chamber because she felt utterly alone, and was one who

had perfect trust in him by virtue of her own innocence.

Sestrina gazed into his eyes a moment, then turned her face away. Ah,

how beautiful she looked as she stood there clasped in Clensy’s arms,

wiping the tears from her eyes with the tiny flower-decorated

handkerchief. For she had wept afresh in her delight at the sudden

presence of her handsome lover.

Clensy bade her sit down on the couch. And there, as Clensy held her

hand, while the fireflies danced about the wine-scented flowers of the

open casement and the Haytian nightingale sang in the palms, Sestrina

took delicate sniffs from her salt-bottle and slowly told him all that

troubled her.

When Clensy heard of her father’s fears over a possible revolution, he

could hardly believe his ears. Though he was acquainted with all that

rumour told about the mysterious Cacaos in the Black Mountains, he had

not really seriously reflected over the matter, but had put it all down

to the ignorant babblings of the negro population. It all sounded so

different to him, coming from Sestrina’s lips. “Revolution! Palace

bombarded! Incredible!” And as the girl spoke on and he reflected deeply

and began to see things in their serious, possibly true perspective, his

first thought was over Sestrina’s safety. The ardency of his affection

for Sestrina swiftly inspired him with thoughts as to the best and

happiest way to get out of the difficulty.

“Sestrina, if the palace is attacked by the rebels, you might get

killed.”

“I know, Monsieur Royal.”

“And, knowing this, Sestrina dearest, I beg of you to consent to fly

with me from this cursed hole at the first opportunity. I’ve got plenty

of money, and we can get married somewhere and somehow. Will you do

this, Sestrina?”

President Gravelot’s daughter gazed at the flushed face of the young

Englishman like a wondering child—with wide-open eyes. Then she blushed

deeply. She had realised something of the import of what he had suddenly

asked of her.

“Do you mean that I be your wife?” she whispered as she gazed intently

into his eyes. Then she smiled, and placing her arms round his neck,

kissed him softly on the cheek. Then she softly released her clasp and

slid gently to the floor, fell on her knees before Clensy so that he

could kiss the flowers in her hair. It was an old Haytian custom, and

exactly according to fashion when a maid was willing to accept one as a

husband.

Clensy sat perfectly silent. Boundless happiness had left him speechless

for the moment.

“Way in Australia; how beautiful!” whispered Sestrina when Clensy had

told her that he had wealthy relatives in Melbourne, and it was there

that he would take her.

“You agree to fly from the palace and come to me at the first sign of

danger?” he said.

Sestrina nodded her head vigorously. Then they planned and planned.

“Should anything occur that separates us, I will fly to Honolulu and

wait till you come.”

“Why Honolulu, Monsieur Royal?”

“It’s there that my people in England will send my next letters with my

money in them. Also, we can easily get a passage on one of the ships for

Melbourne in Honolulu.”

And as Clensy spoke on and arranged a meeting spot at the T— Hotel in B—

Street, Honolulu, Sestrina’s heart bubbled with joy. In the excitement

of it all she quite forgot her father’s troubles, and the danger of the

revolution, should there be a rising.

Though Clensy’s plans to fly to Honolulu with Sestrina and go from there

to Melbourne might sound foolish to worldly minds, it was the most manly

and the safest course to follow. For, as has already been hinted, and as

Haytian history shows, the periodical risings in Hayti were conducted

with indescribable fury and bloodshed. The element of negro blood in the

vast population asserted itself in terrific fury after having been pent

up by the laws that compelled restraint for the passions and instinctive

love of bloodshedding in the half-caste Haytians. Men, women and

children were shot down at sight by the insurgents; nothing was sacred

when the war-fever was raging. Whole towns were fired, razed to the

ground, and the adherents of the _vaudoux_ creed lit fetish fires in the

mountains and indulged in frenzied dancing, debauchery, lust and

cannibalism. And so Clensy was wise in advising Sestrina to fly with him

or by herself to Honolulu should the revolution break out after all. She

was Gravelot’s daughter, and the rebels would probably shoot her at

sight.

“Your father, the president, owns several steamers, so you would have

little trouble in getting away should I lose sight of you,” he said, as

Sestrina and he sat side by side in deep thought.

“Yes, he has,” said Sestrina, and then, in response to Clensy’s query,

she told him that the steamers ran between Port-au-Prince and the

seaports in the Gulf of Mexico and Caribbean Sea, going as far as Vera

Cruz.

“But why worry? There may be no revolution, after all,” he murmured as

he tried to soothe Sestrina’s fears. For the girl seemed worried about

her father, as she wondered over all what might happen to him if the

palace was bombarded.

It was at this moment that the little door that divided Sestrina’s

chamber from the next apartment opened and revealed Claircine’s

ebony-hued, smiling face. In her dusky hand she held a silver salver,

whereon was a small decanter of light Haytian wine. Claircine had, and

with commendable discreetness, kept in the background till that moment.

She had heard voices, and had immediately jumped out of bed and, placing

her eye to the keyhole, had seen Clensy and her mistress sitting on the

settee, their faces turned one toward the other as they kissed and

embraced.

“Mon Dieu, si aoe ma eperdi suka,” she had cried in the creole tongue as

she lifted her hands to the ceiling in horror—and then peeped again.

* * * * *

“Ah, Claircine, is he not handsome?” whispered Sestrina as she and the

negress stood trembling by the open casement through which Clensy a

moment before had taken his undignified departure.

“You have now heard for yourself what he thinks of you and of your kind

face and nice figure,” said Sestrina, referring to Clensy’s wicked

flattery when he looked the negress straight in the eyes a few moments

before.

“Ah, si ver du pero, ma seque,” murmured the old negress as she placed

her dusky hand above her throbbing heart, little dreaming how Clensy had

been shocked at the sight of her skinny legs an hour before!

Sestrina’s heart fluttered as she leaned over the balcony’s railing and

watched her lover slowly descend, step by step, down the thick stems of

the grape-vine. “Mon Dieu,” she wailed as she noticed that the moonrise

was sending waves of pale light over the distant mountain ranges and far

down into the valleys by the palace grounds, “he will be seen!” But her

fears were needless. She saw Clensy’s form hasten across the yam patch

far beyond the palace grounds. The next moment he had disappeared into

the depths, under the great mahogany trees.

* * * * *

The next day Clensy suddenly walked into Biglow’s lodgings, near the

market-place at Selle. Adams was sitting by the window that opened on to

the veranda, tugging his side-whiskers. His face wore a serious

expression, and was as red as boiled beetroot.

“Where yer been to?” he said in a husky voice as he stared up at Clensy.

Clensy made no reply, but simply looked round the room and wondered why

Biglow was so busy packing his old carpet bag.

“Going to move again?” he said, as Biglow looked up, gave him a friendly

glance and then continued to ram pipes, thread and coloured shirts into

the bag.

Biglow suddenly ceased from packing, and, standing erect, said:

“If you hang about here after Sestrina much more, you’ll get shot.

Savvy?”

“I’ll hang about who I like, Mr. Bartholomew Biglow,” replied Clensy,

with considerable warmth. He was rather sensitive about any remarks that

referred to Sestrina, for Adams and Biglow had chaffed him a good deal

of late over his infatuation for Gravelot’s daughter.

“So! so! good lad; don’t be angry. Sestrina’s worth a hundred maids and

shots in the back. Got beautiful eyes too. Reminds me of Queen Vaekehu,

of the Marquesas, my first wife,” said Biglow.

“Your queen wasn’t a patch on Sestrina. Never seed a girl wif such

beautiful eyes and lovely bust,” chimed in Adams, who at the same time

gave Clensy a friendly wink.

“Don’t be silly,” said Clensy as he calmed down; then he added, “Why are

you packing up?”

“Because it’s a-coming, a blasted revolution, blazes and murder, and

thet’s ’zakley what Biggy here means,” said Adams.

Clensy’s heart thumped like a muffled drum.

“Look you here,” said Biglow, as he regarded the young Englishman with

his large serious-looking eyes. “It’s coming along any moment now; the

Cacaos are only awaiting the signal to blaze this town to the ground and

shoot every one who happens to get in the way. Savvy?”

The expression on Biglow’s face told Clensy that he meant what he said.

“Can it be possible, in these enlightened times, too?”

“It can!” said Biglow quietly, as he stared at our hero for a moment as

though in some hesitation; then he leaned forward and said: “I’ve been

doing a bit of gun-running for both sides, the legal authorities and the

rebels too, and you’ve been seen with me, and that means that they would

shoot you at sight to settle their doubts—if they had any!”

“Thank you, Mr. Bartholomew Biglow,” said Clensy.

Then the big man looked half sorrowfully at Clensy and said:

“Perhaps I ought to have warned you that I was dangerous company.

Anyhow, our only chance of safety is getting away from here by steamer

if a rising _does_ take place.”

“I’ll see you both again later,” replied Clensy, and before the two men

could look round he had vanished.

It was still daylight when Clensy arrived back at his apartments. He had

made up his mind to go straight to the palace and warn Sestrina of her

danger, and, if possible, get her to fly with him from the palace

without further delay. Just as he was getting ready to leave his rooms

and go out, his landlady, a creole woman, tapped at his door.

“Some one like to zee yous, Anglesman,” she said.

Poking his head out of the doorway, Clensy found himself face to face

with Claircine. The old negress looked very excited as she handed him a

note. In a moment Clensy had torn the envelope open and read:

“OH, MONSIEUR ROYAL,

“_Do not attempt to come to the palace to see me. They have

placed sentinels in the grounds as well as at the gates.

Something dreadful is going to happen, I’m sure. My father told

me this morning that should I have to fly from here I must get

on one of the Government steamers and go to the South American

States. If I do that I may never see you again. Oh, ’tis

dreadful, Monsieur Royal. Advise me as to what is best for me to

do. Claircine will wait about till she sees you and can slip

this note into the hands that I love_.

“_In haste_,

“SESTRINA.

“_P.S. If you would like to see Père Chaco, the priest, he lives

in that small wooden house near the groves of pomegranates,

where we stood when you gave me your photograph and I gave you

mine._”

“Wait a minute, Claircine,” said Clensy as soon as he had read

Sestrina’s letter. Then he rushed back into his room and penned the

following reply:

“MY DARLING SESTRINA,

“_I write in haste. I would risk coming to the palace, but I

know you would not wish it. Your father’s advice is the best. By

all means get on one of the steamers if trouble comes. Do not

fear that you will lose sight of me or I of you. I will seek the

steamers and find out which one you are on. Now, Sestrina,

remember that I am yours, heart and soul. And remember, dearest,

that in the event of my losing sight of you, you must make your

way to Honolulu and wait for me at the T— Hotel in B— Street, or

I will wait for you should I get there first. Once there

together, we can do all that you agreed to do when I saw you

last. Should all go well, I will come to the palace at the first

opportunity and climb the grape-vine. Claircine can easily bring

me a note from you to say when the sentinels have been removed.

Remember, Sestrina, that I love you with all my heart and soul._

“_Yours ever and ever_,

“ROYAL.”

Handing Claircine the foregoing note, Clensy bade her hasten back to her

mistress.

“Ah, monsieur!” wailed the old negress as she looked into his eyes in a

sorrowful way, and then added: “Madamsele weeps, and loves you well,

_dat_ she does.” The next moment the old negress had disappeared under

the flamboyant trees that grew in front of Clensy’s lodgings.

That same night Clensy was suddenly awakened by a crash. He leapt from

his bed and hastened out on to the veranda. Notwithstanding all that he

had heard about the insurgents, he was surprised to hear the sounds of

heavy cannonading somewhere away in the hills—the Cacaos and Government

soldiery had met! The streets were alive with frightened, babbling

negroes and mulattoes, running about as though they were demented.

Children and women ran in and out the small wooden houses wringing their

hands and wailing in a weird, dismal manner. As Clensy stared out into

the night he saw a great blaze of reddish light up the hills in the

direction of La Coupe. The rebels were firing the villages along the

slopes and in the valleys! “Good God!” was all that Clensy could say to

express his consternation. In a moment he was dressed and out in the

streets. “I’ll risk it!” he muttered. The next moment he was hurrying

off in the direction of the palace. But as he got to the outskirts of

the town he found that he was too late. Hundreds of Government soldiers

were already entrenched along the main roads outside the town. They

would allow none to pass. Seeing some Haytians hurrying along, Clensy

asked them what was happening.

“Revolution! War! We must fly or be killed!” they cried.

“Is the palace in the hands of the Government or the rebels?” he asked,

a great fear clutching at his heart.

“In the hands of the Government and the rebels too,” shouted some one.

Then Clensy gathered that many of the Government soldiers who had been

brought to the palace had gone over to the side of the Cacaos. Seeing

that he could do nothing, that he was utterly helpless to help Sestrina

or even find out anything about her, Clensy took to his heels and made

his way to the small wooden house on the outskirts of the town where

Sestrina had told him Père Chaco, the Catholic, dwelt. In less than ten

minutes he stood in front of the small wooden building that had a small

cross on top of it. He knocked at the door. It was immediately opened by

a grey-bearded, serious-looking old man. The face before Clensy was

expressive, very melancholy looking, the eyes deep set and clear, the

brow high and intellectual.

“Well, my son, and what would you wish of me?”

“I am a friend of Sestrina’s, President Gravelot’s daughter. What can be

done about her?” said Clensy, immediately going into the matter.

“A true friend?” said the father.

“Yes, her life is all to me,” said Clensy.

The old priest scanned him steadily with his deep-set, earnest eyes, and

then said, “Um!” Then the aged priest told Clensy that his call had

already been too prolonged, for he, the priest, had just been about to

go off and visit the British Consul to ask about Sestrina and get help

in case her life should be in danger.

“Thank God for that!” exclaimed Clensy. Then the priest laid his

wrinkled hand on Clensy’s shoulder, and told him to have faith, and

possibly all would be well. The next moment Père Chaco had hurried away,

and Clensy was hastening back to the town to see Biglow and Adams.

“Thank heaven you’re here!” exclaimed the young Englishman as he entered

Biglow’s lodgings and found him standing by his old carpet bag, all

packed ready for immediate removal. “Well, it’s come!” exclaimed Clensy.

“Yes, and Adams and I and you had better be going!” said Biglow.

“I can’t go. I must hear if Sestrina’s safe first. I’d go mad if

anything happened to her,” said Clensy, as he almost lost control of

himself.

“Don’t worry about Sestrina, bless yer, she’s on board the _Catholot_, a

Government steamer, that’s outbound for Vera Cruz,” said Biglow.

Clensy’s relief at hearing this information may be imagined.

“Sestrina safe. I’ll see her again!” he cried out as Adams walked in and

said he wasn’t going to walk any longer about a place where “myderers”

kept firing revolvers and strangling people.

“You’re quite sure Sestrina’s safe?” said Clensy as he looked steadily

in the gun-runner’s eyes.

“Safe as houses, and her old man, the president, had the top of his head

blown off, and De Cripsny’s got his left ear blown away.”

“No!” exclaimed Clensy in a horrified voice.

“Well, he’s Sestrina’s father to you, but I don’t look upon him in that

light,” said Biglow when he noticed the note of sorrow in Clensy’s voice

on hearing that the president had been shot. “He won’t be a party to

killing any more children at the _vaudoux_ altars in the mountains, will

he?” said Biglow.

“No, he won’t,” replied Clensy in a very quiet voice.

Then Biglow began to inform our hero that directly the first shots had

been fired by the Government scouts in the hills behind Port-au-Prince,

the officials of the British and French consulates had immediately set

out for the presidential palace to warn the president and take charge of

Sestrina. It appeared that when they arrived at the palace the

president, who had foolishly ventured out to plead to the soldiers who

had shown signs of going over to the insurgents, had been shot by one in

the crowd.

Sestrina, who still remained ignorant of her father’s death, had been

immediately disguised in a servant’s robe, and hurried out of the palace

by a back entrance. She had then been at once escorted down to Cap

Hatien, and then taken in a boat out to the steamer _Catholot_ which lay

in the middle of the harbour.

“Must get out to the _Catholot_, whatever happens,” said Clensy. Biglow

could hear his comrade’s eagerness trembling in his voice. “I’ve got

eight pounds, and I’ll give you the lot if you can get me out to the

_Catholot_,” said Clensy.

“Keep yer money, lad. It’s my fault that you’re in this scrape, and I’ve

got enough money to get you out of the fix which I’ve got you in,” said

Biglow, as he gripped Clensy’s hand, and promised to do all he could to

bring Clensy and Sestrina together again, and get them safely away from

Hayti.

That same day Biglow kept his word, for he managed to hire a boat and

take Clensy out to the _Catholot_ himself.

The _Catholot_ was a steamer of about two thousand tons.

As Biglow rowed alongside, the funnel was smoking heavily.

“She’s getting up steam, ready to sail at a moment’s notice,” said

Clensy, his heart heavy to think that Sestrina might leave Hayti without

him. “I’m going to sail with her, if it can possibly be done,” was his

determined thought as he arrived on the _Catholot’s_ deck.

One of the sailors, urged by a liberal tip from Clensy, led them down

the steamer’s alley-way that led aft, and, after making several

inquiries, pointed out Sestrina’s cabin.

Directly Sestrina saw Clensy’s face looking over the shoulders of the

other passengers, she rushed forward and threw her arms around him. The

girl nearly broke down at that meeting.

Biglow stood aside, a kind look in his serious eyes as he gazed on the

scene, affected by the refugee girl’s grief.

“You will come with me, won’t you?” she reiterated, when they told her

not to fear, that they would keep in touch with her.

“If it can possibly be managed, I’m coming on this steamer as a

passenger,” said Clensy, when Sestrina, Biglow and he stood in a quiet

spot by the engine room, out of earshot of the excited refugees who

crowded the deck and cabins.

For a long time Clensy and Sestrina stood whispering together. Clensy

had never realised till that moment what the girl’s life meant to him.

“I reckon we’d better be making a move and try and see the skipper,”

said Biglow, who had begun to get impatient, for he saw that the lovers

were likely to stand there making plans and whispering till it was too

late.

Clensy tore himself away from the girl.

Sestrina’s depressed spirits had wonderfully revived when Clensy and

Biglow left her to seek the _Catholot’s_ skipper, and to try and

negotiate for berths as deck passengers.

When Clensy and Biglow at last found the skipper, and asked for

passages, they were sadly disappointed at finding that the authorities

at Port-au-Prince had given orders that no more passengers were to be

taken without permits being produced. Why such an order should have been

given out was a mystery. However, the skipper only shook his head to all

Biglow’s persuasions. “I’ve had strict orders from the officials, and

not another soul comes aboard. I should probably get shot were I to take

you fellows: how do I know who you are?” So spake the skipper. And

Biglow, after assuring the skipper that he wouldn’t like to see him shot

or mutilated in any way through swerving from his duty, told Clensy to

follow him.

“Never mind the girl now, she’s all right; I’ll manage everything.”

“Thank you,” exclaimed Clensy, who felt humbled through the uncertainty

of things, and his fear of losing Sestrina.

In a few moments they had reached the gangway.

“Make haste, no time to lose,” said Biglow, as he walked down the

gangway and re-entered their boat.

“He’s got some good scheme up his sleeve,” thought Clensy, as he

obsequiously followed his lusty comrade.

Immediately they had re-embarked and had rowed the boat out of earshot,

Biglow said, “We’ll stow away on her to-night! see?”

Clensy, at hearing the gun-runner say that, was considerably cheered up.

He had already told Sestrina not to despair. He had said, “Don’t you

worry, dearest, I’ll follow on by another steamer if I cannot get on

this boat.” Then he had taken Sestrina aside, and had told her to make

her way to Honolulu just as they had planned. “Go straight to this

address,” he had said, as he wrote down fullest particulars. “I’ll come

to Honolulu and wait there till you come if you are delayed in any way,

trust me, dear.” And, as he spoke, Sestrina had looked into his eyes and

knew that he meant what he said.

Before Clensy left the _Catholot_ he told Sestrina to expect to see him

on board again that same night.

The _Catholot_ was supposed to sail next morning, so Clensy naturally

presumed that he could, at any rate, row out to her and see Sestrina

once more before she sailed.

That same night, Biglow, Clensy and Adams packed their few goods and got

all ready to clear out of Hayti. They had decided to take a boat from L—

and row out to the _Catholot_ after dark, get on board by some excuse

and then stow away.

That night, without delay, they hired the boat.

“If _one_ can stow away three can, eh, lad?” said Biglow, as they pulled

at the oars and got round by the bend of the harbour near S—.

In a few moments they had turned the point where they got a good view of

the harbour.

“Done! She’s sailed!” said Biglow in a mighty voice.

He nearly upset the boat as he stood up and stared over the waters of

the starlit harbour.

It was true enough, the _Catholot_ had sailed. Sestrina had gone from

Hayti!

“We’ll all be mydered, sure!” wailed Adams, as he leaned back on his

portmanteau—an old red handkerchief—and groaned.

“It’s the fear of the blockade that made her sail to-day instead of

to-morrow. Hear that?” said Biglow.

And as the three of them listened they could distinctly hear the distant

booms of the guns and furious cannonade. It was evident that the

insurgents were already besieging Cap Hatien, as in the south the

Government soldiers were attacking Jacmel, Jéréme and Les Cayes.

Biglow swore terrifically when he realised their position. Clensy and

Adams placed themselves unreservedly in his hands. They knew that if

there was a way of getting out of Hayti, Biglow would find that way. And

so he did! for, in less than twenty-four hours after finding that the

_Catholot_ had sailed, Biglow, Adams and Clensy found themselves on

board a Government steamer outbound for South America. The reason they

did get away so easily was because Biglow, through his gun-running

exploits, was well in with the American Consul. He knew so much about

the financial side of the gun-running business, that in the event of the

Government overthrowing the insurgents and still retaining power, it

would turn out more convenient for the officials to get a man like

Biglow as far away from Hayti as possible.

“This is hell enough, without being worried out of my mind like this,”

muttered Clensy as he stood by the bulwark side of the _S.S. Prince_,

staring out to sea. The fact is, there was a terrible crush on the

steamer which he and Biglow found themselves aboard. There were about

two hundred refugees on board, mostly high-class Haytians who could

afford to seek safety from the terrors of their war-stricken province.

The weather was terrifically hot, too, and Clensy had to sleep in a

stuffy cabin with ten refugees. Consequently, after the first night of

unspeakable misery, he slept on deck. His whole thoughts were centred on

Sestrina.

“She’ll know it wasn’t my fault,” he mused, as he thought of the girl’s

disappointment when the _Catholot_ sailed before her time, thus making

him unable to keep his promise to see her again.

“Don’t you worry, lad,” said Biglow, who had suddenly walked up to

Clensy’s side. “We’ll find the girl!”

“But we don’t really know where she’s gone to,” said Clensy, as he

realised how the Government steamers sailed away from Hayti and gave a

false report as to the port they were really bound for.

“I’m sorry, lad, to have placed you in this pickle; it’s all my doings,”

said Biglow, as he stood by Clensy’s side and stared across the starlit

tropic seas. There was a tender, wistful note in the big man’s voice as

he spoke to Clensy.

“You couldn’t help it. Sestrina would have had to fly from the palace if

you had been ten thousand miles from Hayti when the revolution broke

out,” said Clensy in a mournful voice.

“Perhaps you’re right, lad; anyway, I’ll stick to you.”

“Thank you,” replied Clensy. He wanted a genuine comrade. Adams wasn’t

worth his salt. He had got mixed up with the crew of the steamer. In

fact, he had got so drunk and uninteresting that Biglow and Clensy

decided to have no more to do with him: and they, and the hidden voice

behind these pages, were more than thankful to see the old reprobate

Adams go out of the story altogether.

“As sure as my name’s Samuel Bilbao, you’ll see the girl again, lad. I’m

one who believes in everything that no one else believes in,” said

Biglow suddenly.

“Samuel Bilbao! Is that your real name?” said Clensy in an astonished

voice.

The fact is, that Samuel Bilbao was notorious from Fiji to Terra del

Fuego as one of the last of the wild, flamboyant traders who had hunted

the blackbirders down in the South Seas slaving days of ten years

before. Yes, it was Samuel Bilbao who stood beside Clensy; Bilbao who

ran the blockade in the Haytian revolution of three years before; Bilbao

who led the Marquesans in the great tribal battle at Taiohae; Bilbao who

helped the Tahitian chiefs when they fought the French in 18—, and

smashed a well-equipped garrison to smithereens. Yes, such things had

been accomplished by that worthy in the splendour of his prime.

When Clensy discovered that he was on the high seas with Samuel Bilbao

as his right hand, he blessed the fates. “Things could be worse,” he

thought.

Samuel Bilbao, to give him his proper name, was the life of the

_Prince_. The Haytian ladies on board tried hard to blush as he sang his

rollicking songs, extemporising words in their own language as his

versatile brain took in the degrees of temperament and the moral

lassitude of the female company he sang to. He infused life and laughter

into the hearts of the most woebegone refugees as he danced and made the

_Prince’s_ deck like a moonlit ball-room as they steamed along under the

stars. Yes, Samuel Bilbao was the best comrade Clensy could have found

under the circumstances.

It seemed like the memory of some feverish dream when Clensy, one month

after flying from Hayti, sat in the Rio Grande café at M— and thought of

all that he and Bilbao had gone through in their search for Sestrina.

“And all for nothing! Sestrina might have been swallowed up by an

earthquake for all we’ve heard to the contrary,” Clensy muttered, as he

looked through the open window on to the palm groves that faced the

veranda. “Thank heaven I’ve got enough money to take the next boat that

sails for Honolulu,” he thought, as he counted out his notes and gold.

He had only the day before received a generous remittance from England

by cable. And, as he reflected and mused on, he murmured: “There’s still

a good chance that we’ve missed her; there’s several ways of getting to

Hawaii. She might have got on a schooner that sailed from the lower

Californian seaboard harbours.” And as Clensy mused on and thought over

all the possibilities, he became very hopeful.

Samuel Bilbao had kept his promise, had not deserted our hero, for that

romantic worthy was just up the grove roaring forth a rollicking sea

chanty in the De La Plaza grog-saloon. Even as Clensy listened he could

hear the loud clapping and stumping and guttural cries of the delighted

Mexicans and Spanish hidalgos. Bilbao had managed to cheer Clensy up

many times during his fits of depression. For Royal Clensy had become a

different man since he had left Hayti. His love for Sestrina and the

uncertainty of the girl’s fate had strangely humbled him, had made him

look out on life with wiser and sadder eyes. Just as drink and

debauchery changes a man and debases his character, Clensy’s mind had

been elevated and made sympathetic and thoughtful through sorrow.

When Clensy at last arrived at Honolulu and still no news of Sestrina,

it wanted all the hilarity and flamboyant song of Bilbao’s cheerful

personality to bring a ghost of a smile to our hero’s lips. Not once did

the young Englishman’s faith in Sestrina waver. He was convinced that if

Sestrina never turned up at Honolulu it was because she was either dead

or very ill. As the weeks passed his hopes of seeing Sestrina again

faded, but his desire for her presence increased. His imagination began

to clothe his memory of her in all the beauty and the mystery which men

of his temperament imagine a good woman possesses. His romantic passion

for the girl transmuted his memory of her till her eyes sparkled as

far-off stars shining on the horizon of his imagination. She became the

unattainable, the mystery and spiritual wonder of the great undiscovered

lands that must ever lie beyond the skylines of mortal dreams, filling

human hearts with passionate longing and yearning for far-off divine

things. All that was beautiful in sounds lingered in Clensy’s memory of

Sestrina’s voice; her songs resolved into a dream, and became the

unheard music of his own soul, till he seemed to hear the dim murmurings

of the shells on the shores of the ocean that divides romance from

reality. The sorrow and uncertainty of their parting became his calvary

of anguish and the heart-crying creed which nourished a dim yearning

hope of some future. He vaguely realised that, though he might never see

Sestrina again, she had brought him boundless wealth; that he could

kneel at the altar of his great faith in her love and get as near the

realisation of his best ideals as man can get when he imagines the world

holds things that will correspond with his soul’s conceptions of the

beautiful. He knew well enough that his mind had got into that morbid

state which worldly men term foolish and sentimental. But the happiness

that his sentiment brought him and his knowledge of the little happiness

he would get from such dreams as worldly men indulged in, inspired him

with that wisdom which enables men to reign as king over their

imagination.

Through reading the musty volumes which he discovered in his apartments

in Honolulu, as he waited through weary months for Sestrina, he began to

get quite philosophical. His outlook on life became cynical, yet was

softened with the old sympathy of his earlier and happier days. “I was a

fool to ever fall in love and get unhappy like this. I thought I was so

wise, too!” The wisest men who ever lived are only little children

crying in the dark for light as they throw pebbles into their little

ponds of dreams and imagine they are sounding the depths of infinity, of

human nature and the mystery of life and death. Men know nothing! The

present is a chimera, the past a remembrance of it, and the dim future

the uncertainty that is the soul of religion. Why, even that bedraggled

old cockatoo on the palm outside my window might easily be some

reincarnation of a dead disillusioned philosopher. Its dismal discordant

cry sounds as though it curses the memory of some far-off day when its

mad intellect soared above the yearnings of its digestive apparatus,

when it fell into the abyss of its own thoughts and broke the backs of

its faiths one by one.

As Clensy soliloquised over his mad metaphysics, he saw a tawny Hawaiian

lift a gun to his shoulder, and prepared to aim at the very bird which

had inspired him with such mad ideas. “Don’t shoot, for heaven’s sake,”

he shouted, as he leaned out of the window and threw the Hawaiian a

coin. “Thank God I’ve saved it,” he muttered, as the aged, dilapidated

cockatoo looked sideways from its leafy perch, and muttered its deepest

gratitude ere it took its flight. “Perhaps it’s some dismal thought of

Sestrina’s reincarnated, now a cockatoo, hovering by my window to let me

know the truth why she cannot come? Ah, it’s madness to encourage such

fancies. Who would believe me were I to tell how I remember the harvest

girls singing as they sat with sickle in hand by their golden sheaves in

the cornfields of ancient Assyria? Why did the scent from the big dish

of overripe yellow oranges in the drawing-room of my home in England

send my thoughts adrift, make me go to sea—in search of what? They said

I was a fool—had romantic notions. What are romantic notions? And why do

millions of sensible and great-minded men and women kneel in true

devotion before the shadowy altar of that Heaven which no living mortal

since the birth of Time ever saw except in dreams.”

Crash! Some one had banged at Clensy’s door and had swept his peculiar

imaginings and metaphysical speculations to the winds, which are the

only elements that know how to deal with such wild fancies.

The next moment Samuel Bilbao’s huge personality and figure stood in our

hero’s apartments.

“Well, how are things going along?” said Clensy, as he swiftly released

his hand from the mighty grip of his comrade’s painful clasp.

Then Bilbao sat down and informed Clensy that trouble was brewing in one

of the South American republics, and that he was wanted. “It’s something

better than gun-running; there’s a wealthy president’s daughter waiting

to be abducted, whipped off into another state _against her will_, so

that she can marry the rival president’s only begotten son. There’s

plenty of money in the game, too.” So spake our worthy friend Samuel

Bilbao, giving out hints but leaving Clensy’s brain in the usual maze as

to what the big man had on his mind.

“Do you mean that you are leaving Honolulu?” said Clensy.

“Yes, lad, keep your heart up, I must go,” said Bilbao. Nor was he

leaving Clensy unduly, for he had stopped religiously with our hero in

Honolulu for eight months, and eight months in a place like Honolulu was

dead against the grain of a man like Samuel Bilbao.

“Eight months waiting in this hole of a place!” sighed Clensy. “I wish

to heaven I’d never seen Port-au-Prince.”

“Cheer up, lad, as sure as God made little apples you’ll see the girl

again some day,” said Bilbao. “If a girl with canny eyes like that

Sestrina’s got loves a fellow she’ll find _some_ means of letting him

know what’s become of her, I know!”

“But supposing she is dead,” said Clensy in a pathetic, mournful voice.

“Being dead makes no difference, lad, the dead are the only folk who are

living as they walk before us,” said Bilbao, in a soft, earnest, almost

religious voice!

“Well, _you_ of all men on earth!” thought Clensy, as he stared at the

gun-runner’s flushed face and the large, grey, expressive eyes.

And as Samuel Bilbao spoke on, his voice became as tender as a girl’s, a

troubled something wrinkling his fine brow. Then he laid his hand on

Clensy’s shoulder, and said: “Lad, the girl I loved has been dead

fifteen years, and it was only the other night she stood beside me.

‘Don’t drink that,’ she said, as she knocked the goblet full of rum from

my hand, smashing it to atoms at my feet! And all the traders and

shellbacks in the grog-shanty at Murrumbee Creek stared like blasted

lunatics as I took her hand and laid my head on her shoulders and then

looked into the eyes—of nothing! So the blind fools said!”

As Bilbao ceased, Clensy gazed in wonder on the expressive face before

him. He hardly recognised the great blustering, boisterous Samuel Bilbao

in the face of that superstitious, yet intellectual looking sunburnt man

of the seas.

“Yes, lad, dead women don’t forget,” said Bilbao softly, as he sat there

in Royal Clensy’s room in Honolulu, and the stars crept over the blue

skies to the east of Mount Pepé.

Years afterwards every word Bilbao had uttered that night came back and

lingered in Clensy’s memory, coming like echoes from the songs of the

long dead nightingales that had once sung in the mahogany forests by the

presidential palace in Hayti when he was a boy.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

PART II

CHAPTER I

WHEN Sestrina, on the morning after the _Catholot_ had sailed from

Port-au-Prince, awoke and found that she was far out at sea, she felt

greatly depressed. She could hardly believe her own ears when she heard

the muffled thumping of the steamer’s screw and the pounding of the

engine’s pistons. She immediately ran from her cabin and sought the

skipper. He was a Yankee, and a kind-hearted man.

“Oh, I am so unhappy, I expected some one to come and see me last night

or to-day; I quite understood that your ship was not leaving

Port-au-Prince till to-night.”

“Did you, missy?” replied the skipper as he looked into Sestrina’s

tearful eyes and explained to her that the _Catholot_ had sailed before

her time so that they might not be locked in the harbour through the

blockade, for months. “It’s not my fault, missy,” he added, as he gazed

in a sympathetic way at the distressed girl.

“Am I alone on board? Where’s my father and Claircine?”

“I guess there’s no Pa or Claircine on board here with you,” replied the

skipper.

When Sestrina discovered that she was quite alone on board the

_Catholot_ her distress was deep indeed. But hope ever reigns in

youthful hearts, and so Sestrina calmed herself by taking Clensy’s last

two letters from the folds of her bodice and reading them over and over

again. She felt quite certain that Clensy would hasten to follow her,

and at once made up her mind to get to Honolulu as swiftly as possible.

Then she clasped her hands across the hidden crucifix in the folds of

her bodice, and thanked God that Royal Clensy had been thoughtful enough

to make plans to meet the strait in which she found herself. Then she

began to wonder if Clensy would be able to get safely away from Hayti.

In her mind she could still hear the furious cannonade in the hills

round Port-au-Prince and see the entrenched soldiers round the palace.

And, as she thought on, the terror and horror of it all became

intensified; her imagination began to picture all kinds of dire

disasters.

“He might be killed. Oh, Royal!” she murmured, and then she stole into

her cabin again and wept.

Two of the saloon passengers, an elderly American and his wife, took

compassion on Sestrina when they saw her grief, and did their best to

cheer her up. Their interest in her deepened when they discovered that

she was the daughter of the late President Gravelot of the Black

Republic at Hayti. The American had belonged to the U.S.A. Consulate at

Port-au-Prince, and had heard that President Gravelot had been shot; but

he did not tell Sestrina about the disaster which had befallen her

father. Sestrina became much happier when the American and his wife

invited her into their cabin and promised to do their best to place her

in good hands till such time as she could return to Hayti.

“The revolution won’t last for ever, you know,” said the American. But

Sestrina soon let her new found friends know that she had no desire to

return to Port-au-Prince again.

“Have you relations in Hawaii, mademoiselle?” queried the American, when

Sestrina once more emphatically informed that gentleman and his wife

that she wished to get to Honolulu with all speed.

“Yes, it is in Honolulu where I shall meet my best friends.”

It is almost needless to point that the pluralty of Sestrina’s “best

friends” in Honolulu were comprised in the sole personality of Royal

Clensy, who she expected to meet there.

When the American informed Sestrina that the _Catholot_ was bound for

Vera Cruz, in the Gulf of Mexico, and it was a fairly easy journey to

the Pacific coast where she could get a ship that sailed for Hawaii, she

was delighted. She went straight into her cabin and, falling on her

knees, kissed the crucifix, and felt that God had listened to her

heartfelt prayers at last. The outlook began to look quite rose-tinted

to her sanguine eyes. She had a thousand dollars in her possession,

which her father had thoughtfully provided her with. For, like a good

many sinners in this world, President Gravelot had a better side to his

nature, a side which was revealed when calamity came his way to remind

him that the world was made for sweetness and not for the gratification

of the passions alone.

So did Sestrina find friends when she became a refugee and fled from

Hayti with only Royal Clensy’s memory and his love letters to comfort

her.

When the _Catholot_ arrived at Vera Cruz, the American and his wife went

ashore with her and placed her under the care of the U.S.A. Consul at

Plaza Mexo. This estimable gentleman made himself very busy on

Sestrina’s behalf. He eventually advised her to leave Vera Cruz and go

to the United States.

“You will be in direct communication with Hayti and will know exactly

when to return, for the war may be over soon, or even now,” he said.

As can be imagined, Sestrina listened respectfully to the advice

tendered on her behalf, but was still determined to follow the course of

her prearranged plans, which agreed with all her hopes and sole ambition

in life.

And so, about one week after Sestrina had arrived at Vera Cruz, the

U.S.A. Consul called at the hotel where Sestrina was staying, and was

somewhat surprised to find that she had gone, had vanished, leaving no

trace whatever behind her! The fact is, that Sestrina had made

inquiries, and had found out that by getting to Acapulco or Yucata, on

the Pacific coast, she could get a passage to Honolulu on one of the

many schooners that sailed for the South Sea Islands for cargoes of

copra, pearls, etc.

It is a trite but true saying that “Man proposes and God disposes,” and

equally true is it that “Coming events do not always cast their shadows

before.” No prophetic hint of all the sorrow that lay before Sestrina’s

sad path in the new world which she was entering, came to disturb her

dreams as the winds stirred the palms just opposite her window at her

lodgings at Yucata. She had only arrived at the ancient seaport town the

day before and so was still feeling the fatigue of the long journey she

had undertaken after giving the U.S. Consul at Vera Cruz the slip.

So often had the passionate, impulsive Haytian girl thought of Clensy,

so often had her mind dwelt in the imaginary happiness of dreams that

corresponded with all that her sanguine heart anticipated would happen

when she met Clensy again, that her whole soul was centred on one

burning ambition—the swiftest way to get to Honolulu.

She had been greatly upset when she first arrived at Yucata, for, when

she tendered some of her notes as payment for her apartments, the tawny

half-caste Spaniard, her landlord, informed her that half of her money

was worthless paper, through the overthrow of the Haytian Government

that issued it. However, she had a good sum of legitimate cash in hand

and was greatly relieved to find that for about forty dollars she could

get a passage to Honolulu, on the _Belle Isle_, a rakish-looking

schooner that was due to sail for Hawaii in a day or two.

Though her Spanish landlord strongly advised her to wait till one of the

larger steamers was leaving with mails for Honolulu, she would not wait.

Her unthinking impulsive mind had begun to fear that Royal Clensy would

arrive at Honolulu and, not finding her there, would leave again

thinking she was not coming.

“Perhaps now that I’m far away from his sight he will cease to think so

much of me, and even think that I’ve forgotten him,” she murmured, as

her feverish imagination began to think over it all.

She looked into the mirror of the low-roofed hotel room and saw dark

rings around her eyes, her face was drawn and haggard too. In the

natural modesty of women that possess looks, she gazed with distress on

her imaged, beautiful face. “I’m not beautiful at all! He only said

those things to please me. I mustn’t wait! He might forget me! He might

forget me!” she almost sobbed, as the shadows of night fell over Yucata

and the drunken Mexican sailors passed below her window, singing strange

words to ancient sounding melodies as they tinkled on their guitars.

Sestrina had been in Yucata for eight days when she found herself on

board the _Belle Isle_. There was only one other passenger on board, and

that was an extraordinary looking aged Chinaman.

Though the _Belle Isle_ was called a schooner, she was a brigantine, a

hermaphrodite, square-rigged schooner, that carried square sails on the

foremast and the main. She was due to sail at any moment; was only

waiting a favourable wind.

The _Belle Isle_ looked as though she was off on some buccaneering

voyage, that is, if the character of the crew was anything like the

expression on their faces. The fact is, that Sestrina had entrusted an

aged Mexican priest to arrange for her passage, also the choice of the

boat. And it will not be defamation of character to positively assert

that the aforesaid old priest had secured Sestrina the cheapest berth on

the rottenest schooner he could find, so that he could put half of the

money entrusted to him in his own pocket. And though the Mexican

ecclesiastic had fallen on his sinful knees and prayed for Sestrina’s

soul and a pleasant voyage when she bade him farewell, Sestrina was

convinced that she had been swindled directly she set foot on the deck

of the _Belle Isle_.

The skipper was a swarthy Mexican. He looked as though he wouldn’t die

of remorse after cutting a man’s throat for the bribe of a dollar.

However, he had gallant manners, for he bowed profusely when he saw

Sestrina jump down on deck, and seemed to be quite elated to find that

his saloon passenger was so prepossessing.

The crew were a mixed lot: two or three full-blooded Mexicans, a

Chinese-Tahitian, two Yankee niggers, one old man who looked like a

civilised Hottentot, and two Kanakas. There was also a tiny lad, Rajao,

about nine years of age, he was the child of one of the Mexican sailors.

Sestrina’s dismay was very obvious when the nigger steward showed her

into her mingy cabin that was situated in the schooner’s cuddy (saloon).

But the Haytian girl accepted the situation with wonderful fortitude.

“It’s not for long!” she thought as she looked up at the ancient-looking

yellowish-hued hanging canvas aloft, and thought of how they would

spread to the winds and bear her across the ocean to Honolulu and

Clensy’s arms.

As she stood on deck that night and felt the breeze coming that would

cause the skipper to up anchor and set sail, she became quite happy. “On

a ship at last, bound for Honolulu!” she thought. “And where is he?

Perhaps still in Hayti. I will wait till he comes and then we will meet

again and remember the sweet nights and the grape-vine and be happy!”

Ah, Sestrina!

All wise men agree that happiness is only a fleeting anticipation of

some longed-for event which, in its best consummation, can only end in

disillusionment. And so it was as well that Sestrina should dream her

own happiness that night. It was to be brief enough, God knows.

She little dreamed the true nature of the schooner on which she had

embarked, and why it took a ghastly cargo on by stealth at midnight.

Alas, through being educated from French novels instead of realistic

South Sea novels, Sestrina was quite ignorant of the terrible dramas of

the Pacific seas and lonely island groups. Had she known more of the

ways of the world and life and sorrow in those seas, she would never

have placed herself in the most terrible position that a girl could well

be in. Even wilful Sestrina began to wish she had listened to her

Spanish landlord’s advice, to wait for one of the large steamers that

went to Honolulu. For as she lay in her bunk that night, just before the

_Belle Isle_ sailed at dawn, she felt sure she heard strange groans and

the clankings of iron chains!

“What did it all mean? Was that a smothered groan and then a farewell as

some one wailed ‘Talofa! Aue! O Langi!’? Why had the skipper shut the

cuddy’s door tight, as though he wished to keep those moans and murmurs

on the deck that night from the ears of his fair passenger? Was that a

phantom bay that the _Belle Isle_ lay anchored in as the red tropic moon

bathed the palm-clad shores by Yucata with ghostly gleams. What

nightmare could it be where chained men, with bulged, vacant eyes, were

being carried and helped on deck of the _Belle Isle_, and then secretly

dropped down into the fetid hold? The _Belle Isle_ was not a

blackbirding schooner (slave ship), for King Hammerehai of Hawaii had

issued an edict that all persons found dealing in slave traffic were to

be ‘shot at sight.’ And the _Belle Isle_ was bound for Hawaii. So what

was the mystery of that dark hold’s cargo?”

Sestrina awoke in the morning and half fancied that she must have

dreamed the terror that had haunted her during the early night hours.

Before the sun was well up on the horizon the _Belle Isle_, with every

stitch of her old-fashioned canvas spread, was fast leaving the Pacific

coast. Sestrina was very ill for the first two days, then her languor

left her. As she stood on deck, the boundless loneliness of the tropic

seas depressed her. She stared over the bulwark side, the dim blue

horizon seemed as far away, as illusive as her own hopes and dreams. The

noise of the half-filled canvas sails depressed her, as they filled out

to the lazy hot wind and then collapsed with a muffled rumble.

Only two members of the crew were visible as she stood on deck, and they

were stalwart ferocious-looking men, who wore strange tasselled caps,

and somehow reminded her of the pictures of the pirates of the Spanish

Main which she had seen on the walls of the British Consul’s residence

at Petionville, Port-au-Prince. One of the men seemed to be busy over an

endless coil of rope. The other man stood like an inanimate figure, some

fixture amidships, by the hatchway. Only the tobacco smoke issuing from

between his blackened teeth destroyed the statuesque effect as he stood

sentinel at that spot.

“Noa come dis way, miss,” the man muttered as he put forth his skinny

hand and warned Sestrina away as she started to walk forward.

Finding she was even denied the freedom of walking about the schooner as

she pleased the girl’s heart became heavy with dim forebodings. She

began to realise that something was being hidden from her.

Hoping to find some one congenial to speak to, she strolled aft, then

concluded that her own reflections were the better company.

The man at the wheel was a wrinkled, weird looking Mongolian. As he

stood there, his hands gripping the spokes of the wheel, his pigtail,

moving to the rolling of the schooner, swung to and fro like a pendulum,

and to Sestrina’s overwrought brain, seemed to be ticking off the slow

minutes of the hours to pass, ere something dreadful happened! The aged

Chinaman, Sestrina’s fellow passenger in the cuddy, had been the more

congenial to Sestrina had he never come on board: he lay in his bunk day

and night chanting weird words as his yellow-skinned hand clutched an

ivory idol, some heathenish symbol of his religion. It was only little

Rajao, the Mexican boatswain’s child of nine years of age, who Sestrina

felt inclined to welcome. Once he came running up to the girl, and after

staring into her face curiously, he said, “You nice, Señorita, I like

you.” Then he ran away forward.

“Morning, Señorita, nicer day.” Sestrina turned round and saw the

Mexican skipper. “You speak Englesse?” he said.

Sestrina nodded. For a moment she could not speak. There was something

sinister-looking about the man’s face. His small, brilliant eyes and

thin, cruel-looking lips made her heart quake. He had stepped forward

and had touched Sestrina under the chin, giving her a vulgar leer. The

next moment the Haytian girl had swiftly brought her hand up and knocked

his arm aside. So did Sestrina let the Mexican skipper of the _Belle

Isle_ see the quality of her mettle. After that incident, she made up

her mind to keep severely to herself. She had scanned each member of the

crew and had come to the conclusion that she had never seen such a pack

of cut-throats before. Only the negro steward seemed human. He _did_

have the grace to say, “Marning, missa,” and waited on her at the

cuddy’s table without giving lascivious leers. Sestrina’s heart resented

the weird music that accompanied her meals, for the Chinese passenger,

who was suffering from some mortal disease, intensified the gloom of the

cuddy as he chanted continuously to his ivory idol.

When the skipper discovered that Sestrina would allow no undue

familiarities, he tried to redeem his lost character by giving her

dainty dishes: tinned Californian pears, mangoes, yams, pineapples, and

sweet scented preserves and candies adorned the mingy cuddy’s table.

Sestrina discovered that every time she went out on deck, she was

shadowed by one of the crew, who would not allow her to go beyond the

galley which was situated just abaft the hatchway. This restraint placed

on her movements irritated her, as well as filling her already worried

mind with apprehension. Though she thought and thought, she could not

guess what the mystery could be. Why was the hatchway always open during

the sweltering heat of the tropic days, while the _Belle Isle_ rolled

becalmed on the glassy sea, and guarded by at least one member of the

crew day and night? Who was down there in that fetid hold? Sestrina was

certain that she could hear strange mumblings and faint wails, and

sometimes a sorrowful-sounding song being hummed in the _Belle Isle’s_

hold during the vast silence of the tropic nights. Perhaps they were

prisoners, convicts being transported from South America to some penal

settlement away in the Pacific Islands, or refugees, like herself, and

afraid to show their faces by the light of day?

As Sestrina reflected over the mystery of the schooner a nervous fright

seized her heart. She began to dread the cramped cuddy, and so she stood

on deck each night, watching the hot zephyrs drift across the glassy sea

and ruffle the mirroring water, shattering the crowds of imaged stars.

As the days went by, the plomp of the yellow canvas overhead and the

interminable moan and mystery of the beings down in the hold began to

tell on the Haytian girl’s brain. At last she would sit on deck all

night, too terrified and miserable to stay in the cuddy.

The aged Celestial passenger was dying, and in his delirium would

incessantly put his withered yellow-skinned hand through his cabin

porthole—which faced the cuddy’s table—and, clutching the ivory idol,

would moan and chant strange words to it. Sestrina felt like screaming

in her horror over that heathenish, but sad sight.

One night the Mexican skipper knocked the skinny, yellowish hand back

and gave a terrible oath as the sight got on his nerves too.

“_E fitu, padre meando_,” he said as he touched his brow significantly

and gave Sestrina a sympathetic look.

But Sestrina hated the man. She knew that he had deceived her; had

placed her in that precarious position with his cut-throat crew so that

he could make a few extra dollars by securing her as a passenger.

On the second week out from Yucata, the Chinese passenger died, and the

ivory idol and the withered, yellowish hand disappeared from the

porthole; the chanting was over for ever. But strange enough, Sestrina

felt terribly lonely when she heard that the Celestial was dead. The

skipper, seeing her nervous state, had the grace to attempt to keep the

Chinaman’s death from her. But Sestrina knew what had happened at once,

for she saw two of the crew go into the silent cabin and pull in yards

of sailcloth. Then she saw the crew collect on deck at sunset, ready to

commit the body to the deep. The Mexican captain, for all his villainy,

became religious in the presence of death.

Whether it was carelessness, or had been done deliberately, she did not

know, but the hammock-shroud was sewn down so that the skinny, yellow

hands were still visible, protruding about four inches through the

canvas. In a few moments the skipper had murmured the solemn sea burial

service as the crew stood in a row, their strange tasselled caps held

respectfully in their hands. The sight of it all fascinated Sestrina.

And as the weighted shroud softly splashed, alighted on the waters, she

half fancied she saw the yellow fingers move, as though they, at that

last moment in the world of the sun, sought to clutch the ivory idol.

Then she saw the coffin-shroud slowly sink, and, like some sad symbol of

all the universe of mortal desire, one bubble came to the calm

surface—and burst!

After seeing that sight Sestrina hurried into the cuddy, in some strange

fright seeking to hide from the memory of that sorrow which she had just

seen. But, in the great irony of accidental things, the first thing that

caught her eyes was the ivory idol lying on the cuddy’s table. She

stared on it, fascinated, picked it up, and then dropped it in fright.

Little did Sestrina dream that a day would come when she too would kneel

in humble pagan faith before that tiny carven ivory god.

On the third week out from Yucata, the barometer began to fall.

“Señorita, ze wind is gwing to blow, big waves come over deck, savvy?”

said the skipper.

“I don’t mind,” replied Sestrina as she gazed up at the deep blue of the

tropic sky and noticed flocks of strange birds travelling out of the dim

horizons. On, on they came, speeding across the sky, travelling

south-west on their migrating flight from some distant land, outbound

for another continent. Those winged travellers of the sky, voyaging

onward, had read their wonderful compass, instinct, and so had unerring

knowledge of the coming hurricane. Many of them had long necks and

peculiar loose hanging legs, and as they passed swiftly over the lonely

_Belle Isle_, Sestrina heard the faint rattle and whir of their ungainly

wings and legs rushing through space.

“Big winds blow, birds they know, and so fly fast,” said the captain as

he too followed Sestrina’s gaze and watched the flight of those

migrating birds.

“No, Señorita,” said the skipper when Sestrina attempted to pass out of

the cuddy and go on deck that night.

Perhaps it was as well that Sestrina obeyed the Mexican skipper, for the

first stars had hardly pierced the velvet blue of the evening skies when

the typhoon struck the _Belle Isle_. The sound of the storm’s first

breath came like the massed trampling of infinite cavalry and low

mutterings of mighty guns that fired the thunders and lightnings of the

heavens.

Sestrina, who had never been to sea in real bad weather, thought the

schooner was sinking.

“Rip! rppppppppp!” the stays and jib were torn to ribbons, were flapping

like mighty wings, making a noise which could be heard above the

universal clash and clamour of the thundering seas. The skipper helped

the crew put fresh sail out to steady the schooner that lay over as

though about to turn turtle. The crew worked with a will, for they well

knew that their lives were at stake.

“Let me out! I don’t want to be shut in this dismal place,” said

Sestrina, in an appealing voice to the skipper who had just entered the

cuddy. The schooner was rolling and pitching furiously. The girl had to

hold on to the iron stanchions of the cuddy to stay herself from being

violently flung to the deck. The skipper, who had rushed into the cuddy

for some rope and tackle, tried to soothe Sestrina’s fears. She noticed

that his manner had completely changed; he looked serious more manly.

But this fact did not ease Sestrina’s mind, since she knew the change in

his demeanour was because he saw danger ahead. Nor was the girl wrong in

her surmise. The skipper well knew that if the typhoon lasted much

longer, the _Belle Isle_ was likely to get broadside on to the great

seas and would possibly turn turtle, or the seas would sweep everything

on deck away.

“You stay, no fright, Señorita,” he said.

Then the man ran out on deck again.

At this moment little Rajao, the boatswain’s child, rushed into the

cuddy and clung to Sestrina’s skirt.

“Ze wins blow! Señorita,” wailed the child, a terrified look in his

eyes, as he stared up into her face.

“It’s all right, don’t be frightened, Rajao,” she said.

Sestrina laid the boy down in her bunk and left the cabin door open so

that he would not be frightened. Seeing by Rajao’s sudden appearance

that the skipper in his haste had left the cuddy’s door unfastened,

Sestrina immediately rushed towards it, and opening the door, stared out

into the night. By the flashing light of the stars, that seemed to

flicker to the force of the typhoon’s breath, she saw the great seas

rising up! up! They looked like travelling mountains, foaming liquid

ranges and multitudinous ridges lit with phosphorescent foams, that were

tossed and swept into tremendous cataracts of glittering sprays as the

typhoon’s breath swept the world of water like a huge unseen knife.

Crash! The schooner stopped, seemed to sink by the stern, then giving a

shivery jerk, fell before the dead weight of the onrushing seas that

crashed over her. The scene the lonely girl saw was as though God again

held the oceans in the hollows of His hands, as though the universe of

water had been re-thrown into the infinite; majestic liquid mountains

tossing mighty arms that resembled promontories of fiery foams,

triumphantly travelling through boundless space, bound for new regions,

taking the millions of marching stars with them, as like a lone ark,

with its little terrified mortality, the _Belle Isle_ flapped its broken

wings, bravely struggling in some effort to survive the chaos of a new

creation!

In her fright Sestrina shut the cuddy’s door, bang! and then stared in

terror through the porthole. She knew that something terrible had

happened. She distinctly heard faint wails, like the despairing cries of

helpless children calling from somewhere out in the infinity of dark and

wind. The square-rigged foremast had been snapped off just above the

mainyard—it had gone! The whole crew who had been aloft had disappeared,

washed overboard. Sestrina and little Rajao, the child, out of all the

crew, were left alone. The Haytian girl stood at the porthole, horrified

by the catastrophe which she knew had overtaken the _Belle Isle’s_ crew.

Like most women of her type, she revealed true pluck in a great

emergency. She rushed to the child Rajao. He had given a terrified

scream.

“It’s all right, Rajao, I’m near you,” she said as she clutched the

child in her arms, then standing him on the cuddy’s floor exhorted him

not to move. Then she stood waiting. An eternity of apprehensive terror

passed ere she felt the heavy rolling and pitching of the vessel

subside. The distant wails out in the night, the silence on the deck,

where a few moments before she had heard loudly shouted oaths, made her

realise that all the crew had gone. She knew that no human beings could

live in the chaotic crash of the charging seas that loomed before her

terror-stricken eyes like mountainous, glittering icebergs travelling

triumphant across the world! In the first realisation of her own

terrible loneliness, her thoughts flew to the imprisoned beings who, she

knew, were down in the hold of the _Belle Isle_. Looking out on deck,

she anxiously awaited her chance; the seas were still leaping over the

side, great liquid masses washing to and fro as the schooner pitched and

rolled. An opportunity presented itself; she ran out on deck and reached

the main hatchway. Inclining her head, she could distinctly hear above

the clamour of the charging seas muffled groans and wild cries coming

from below the hatchway. The crew had battened the hatch down just

before the typhoon had burst over the _Belle Isle_. As she stood there

and listened in terror, wondering what to do, a small shadowy figure ran

towards her. It was the child Rajao. He was wringing his hands and

calling for his father.

“Go back! get into the cuddy, quick,” cried Sestrina. The next moment a

tremendous sea crashed on board. The girl gripped a rope that was

hanging from the ratlines near the galley, and so saved herself from

being washed away. She let go and was immediately washed into the

scuppers on the windward side. In her horror at the terrible cry that

came to her ears, she ran to the side, and, careless of her own life,

stared over at the great seas—little Rajao had gone to his father! A

faint cry came out of the waters; then nothing more to tell of Rajao’s

existence. This new disaster upset Sestrina more than anything else that

had happened that night. She rushed back into the cuddy, and throwing

herself on the floor beat her hands and moaned like one demented. After

a while she calmed down. She had wisdom enough to realise that it was no

good grieving. Then she sought comfort by kneeling, and with the

crucifix in her hand prayed. And never did girl pray more fervently than

did Sestrina Gravelot that night on the storm-tossed _Belle Isle_. She

called Clensy’s name aloud in her prayers so that the word “Royal” might

bring comfort and companionship to her loneliness. Remembering the

appealing cry which she had heard when she had stood by the hatchway,

she calmed herself and longed to release the prisoners.

“Thank God that I’m not alone, there is some one near me,” she cried, as

she once more went to the cuddy’s door and anxiously waited a favourable

moment to get to the main hatch again. The first wild breath of the

typhoon had passed, but the seas were still running high. Seizing the

first opportunity she once more ran along the deck. Directly she came to

the main hatch she gripped a long piece of rope, and making one end fast

round her waist, tied the other end into the bolt at the bottom of the

mainmast. The whole time that she stood there she could hear muffled

wailings and voices speaking in a strange language, beseeching her to

release them from their perilous position.

Sestrina strove to lift the hatchway, but found it quite impossible to

do so with her delicate hands. Placing her face close to the cracks in

the hatch, she shouted, “Who are you? I’m all alone, the storm has

washed all the crew of this ship overboard!”

Then she listened. At first she heard a lot of mumbling, as though

insane men were gabbling in an unintelligible manner; then to her

immense relief a voice said:

“Wahine! Oh save us or we die!” It was a musical, clear voice and

sounded strangely calm in the midst of the hubbub of other voices that

gabbled incessantly.

“I cannot lift the hatch; I’m not strong enough,” she shouted back as

the wind swept her hair streaming behind her. A sea crashed on board.

She was only saved through her forethought in lashing herself to the

bolt in the mainmast. As soon as the water had subsided the schooner

ceased to roll.

Again she placed her mouth to the chink in the hatch and shouted once

more, “The crew have been washed overboard; I’m a woman, all alone up

here; and who are you?”

“All gone, wash way?” replied the melancholy voice, the only voice that

spoke in English. Then the voice continued, “You woman’s all alone?”

“Yes, I’m quite alone.”

“Getter hammer or lump of iron and knock lumps of wood, bolts, out of

the sides of the hatch so that we stricken men, O Wahine, may open it,”

said the voice in pathetic appeal.

The next moment Sestrina was groping about the dark deck seeking

something that would enable her to knock the large bolts from the

hatchway. At last she found an iron bar in the galley. Risking the

danger of the heavy seas that still leapt on board every time the _Belle

Isle_ rolled and lay over to windward, she lifted the bar and smashed

away at the bolts with all her might.

“I cannot move the bolts!” she cried when she had struck away till her

fingers bled.

“Oh, try again, Wahine, for the sake of dying men,” replied the voice as

the gabbling ceased.

“Who are you? and why are you locked down there?” replied Sestrina as

she stood breathless on the deck and for the first time realised her

position. There were evidently many men locked up in that fetid hold,

and she was there, a woman alone, about to release them. Her natural

instincts had begun to warn her.

“Ah papalagi, kind Wahine, we are only poor men who have been taken away

from our homes because we be ill.” There was an appealing, earnest note

in the voice that said this, that sounded unerringly true.

Sestrina’s fears vanished. “Ill!” she cried, as the winds swept the deck

and slashed her mass of wildly blown hair about her face. “Is that the

only reason that you have been locked up down there?” she called back.

“’Tis all that is the matter with us, and by the light of truth and the

great Kuahilo, Pelê, and the White God, I say this, O Wahine,” replied

the voice in a trembling way.

Sestrina’s heart was touched. The next moment she had once again begun

to deliver direct blows at the hatch bolts. Then she discovered that she

had been knocking them the wrong way. Crash! out came the first bolt;

crash! out came another. In a few minutes she stood still again; all the

bolts were out except two, one bolt on either side. Dawn was stealing

across the storm-tossed seas.

Though the first passion of the typhoon had blown itself out, a steady

wind of hurricane force was still blowing. Up! up! rose the tremendous

hills of water and the _Belle Isle_ creaked and groaned as she lifted

and the great seas passed safely under her! For a moment the lonely

Haytian girl stared seaward. It was a terrible, yet grand scene from the

derelict schooner’s deck as the battered wreck laboured like a brave,

conscious thing and the torn sails flapped and the seas leapt on board

and romped about her like hungry monsters.

Sestrina had opened the hatchway, and had at once hastily retreated

towards the cuddy’s doorway. As she stood there watching by the dim

light of the breaking dawn, which had barely extinguished the stars to

the west, she fancied she could hear the thumping of her own heart.

“Who had she rescued from the fetid depths of the schooner’s hold?” Her

eyes were fixed on the opened hatchway. First one head appeared; just

for a moment it wobbled and then sank back, as though from extreme

exhaustion through climbing the ladder that led from the schooner’s

bottom up to the deck. In another moment the head had reappeared.

Sestrina saw the face! She stared like one paralysed at that terrible,

ghastly sight. It was a skeleton of death, and the face noseless,

disease eaten; the head wobbled and swayed helplessly; the fleshless

lips grinned as the bony forehead turned and the face stared towards the

dawn of the far skyline with blind eyes! Then another head appeared; it

was white and blotched with snowy patches, hairless. The face might have

been some symbol of all sorrow and misery under the sun, so pathetic

looking was it, as it, too, shifted about, staring first to port and

then to starboard, as though it would scan the dim horizons of the grey

dawn-lit seas for help! Then came up another head. It was apparently the

head of the one who had stood below, behind the others, assisting them,

helping them ascend the ladder. There was no sign of disease on the head

or face of this one. He was a tall, handsome man with fine bright eyes.

Sestrina stared in surprise. She began to seek comfort in the thought

that all she saw was only some terrible nightmare of her afflicted

brain. The tall Hawaiian, for such he was, was attired in picturesque

costume, a tappa-cloth girdle and flowing robe, such as Hawaiian chiefs

wear. The man’s alert eyes at once espied Sestrina’s form as she stood

in the shadows, just inside the cuddy’s doorway. He had leapt on to the

deck and was moving in a hesitating way towards her. Sestrina gripped

the door handle, quite prepared to rush in the saloon and shut it; then

she stared hard in the soft grey light of the tropic dawn, and saw

something in the man’s face that told her he deserved her deepest

sympathy and not her fear!

“Who are you, and who are they? What’s the matter with them?” she asked

of the handsome Hawaiian, as she pointed towards the deck by the main

hatchway. Ten terrible-looking beings stood swaying like skeletons in

their ragged shrouds, drinking in the fresh air of the fast-breaking

dawn, as dying castaways might drink in water. What more terrible sight

could the whole world present than that lonely, wrecked, waterlogged

schooner, and on its deck those wobbling heads with half-blind eyes, the

rags of the skeleton frames flapping in the wind, their forms falling to

the deck as the schooner rolled and pitched on the storm-tossed seas.

The fallen figures were on their knees, with lifted hands, praying

feverishly in some musical tongue to the skies where the first deep blue

of the tropic day was stealing.

“Are you quite alone, Wahine?” said the Hawaiian, who had sadly watched

Sestrina’s terrified gaze on that dreadful sight of his fellows.

For a moment the girl looked steadily into the man’s eyes, then replied,

“I am quite alone; the crew were all washed away last night.”

It was then that the tall Hawaiian stood erect with bowed head, as

though lowered before the girl’s eyes in some shame, and said, “Wahine,

we got kilia (leprosy), and this ship was taking us to the leper

settlement, Molokai.” Saying this to the girl, the tall,

melancholy-looking man seemed relieved. He raised his head and said

softly, in the biblical style of the Hawaiians who have learnt their

English from the missionaries, “And Wahine, who art thou?”

Sestrina was speechless. She could not reply, for in her despair and

horror she forgot who she was. “Lepers!” was the only word that escaped

from her lips when the great mist left her brain, and once more the

_Belle Isle’s_ deck became a solid something being beaten by the chaotic

waters of an infinite sea. She had suddenly turned, as though she were

about to flee from that terrible presence, a scourge that made the

living dead still stand in the light of the sun, that they might watch

their bodies dissolve before the ravages, the canker of a loathsome

pollution, a malignant scourge that made its victims bless the blindness

of their afflicted eyes as the third stage arrived, the stage when they

could no longer see their disease-eaten limbs, the polluted flesh, and

the peeping, whitened bones of their own unburied skeletons. Where could

Sestrina fly to? Where? Already a faint odour from the pestilence of

those swaying, moaning lepers came floating to her nostrils. What had

she done that she should be cast away on a world of waters, alone on a

living tomb where the dead clamoured in their shrouds, put forth bony

fingers, and with half-blind eyes sought with pathetic indecision to

locate her whereabouts, as they appealed for water and food! Food for

the dead! Nourishment to sustain the loathsome body in that hellish

purgatory where men hated and feared men, where pain and misery came as

a blessing divine to stay memories of past love and homes, the anguished

thoughts that haunt the living grave! “Food! wai (water!)” they cried.

Such is the love of life in mortals who have once dwelt alive under the

sun!

The intermittent sounds, the beseeching mumblings of their parched,

almost fleshless lips, told Sestrina of their hunger and thirst. The

language they wailed was unintelligible to her, but the appeal of the

shrivelled outstretched hands and the stare in the bulged glassy eyes

spoke in that language which is intelligible to all mortals who dwell

under the sun. The horror that had partially paralysed Sestrina’s senses

vanished. She was a woman. The slumbering instincts of divine

motherhood, the sympathy and self-denial which springs into the hearts

of most women when they are put to the supreme test by some

heart-rending catastrophe, or when despairing men appeal, awoke in her

soul. The inscrutable will of Providence, that so often stabs the heart

with one hand and with the other soothes with sweetest balm, had given

Sestrina the divine faculty which enables one to forget one’s own sorrow

when in the presence of a greater grief. And so Sestrina’s fragile form

was enabled to bear the weight of grief at that moment in her life,

grief of a nature which was surely about the cruellest that the fates

could devise. Her desire to flee from the presence of those afflicted

men was swept away by a flood of sympathy and a feverish desire to help

to alleviate their sufferings. She looked into the eyes of the tall,

almost dignified-looking, handsome Hawaiian who stood before her. No

sign of the scourge was visible on his countenance. Seeing the girl’s

hasty glance at his face and over his form, and divining the reason why

she had stared so, he at once pulled up the sleeve of his native jerkin,

and, pointing to his arm, just under the muscles by the shoulder, said,

“See, Wahine?”

A small bluish patch, not larger than a penny piece, was visible. The

Hawaiian’s earnest, simple manner and the thought that he was still

strong and possibly a doughty protector if trouble came, acted like

magic on Sestrina’s stricken nerves.

“Come on!” she said.

The next moment she had dodged the green seas that were leaping over the

side, and had entered the silent cuddy. The Hawaiian had followed her.

Grasping the iron posts in the cuddy to save herself from falling, for

the schooner was still rolling very heavily, she opened the small

lockers and brought forth tinned meats, tinned fruits, bread, jam, and

all the table delicacies she could lay her hands on. She looked up,

sorrow and surprise in her eyes as the Hawaiian stood devouring a lump

of the bread. Yes, so great was his hunger.

“Come on!” she said.

Then she ran out on deck. Seeing the lepers huddled by the starboard

scupper, all clinging to the bolts and ropes as they swayed on their

knees in their helplessness, she held the food up and beckoned the tall

Hawaiian to take it to them. In a moment Hawahee, for such was the tall

Hawaiian’s name, approached his stricken comrades and gave them bread.

“Here, quick!” said Sestrina, as she saw him trying to burst the lid of

one of the tins of meat open. She had handed him a strong ship’s

clasp-knife. In a second he had wrenched the lid off. As the lepers

crawled about the deck, picking up the scattered crumbs and bits,

Sestrina could hear them murmuring, “O Jesu, Maki, kola, se moaa Langi.”

She knew that they were thanking her and the gods of their own creed and

her own Saviour.

Such was Sestrina’s experience on the _Belle Isle_ when the crew were

washed overboard. Daylight and the bright tropic sun shining over the

ocean eased her first terrors. Strange as it may seem, the sight of the

stricken lepers, and her knowledge that she could help them, made her

accept the tragical position with a strange feeling of calmful fear and

happiness. The Hawaiian, Hawahee, had an intellectual countenance, and

his manner was reserved and gentle. Sestrina thanked God on her knees

when she discovered that he had the scourge only in its first stage, and

very slight. She trembled when she thought of what her position would

have been had she found herself alone on those tropic seas with stricken

lepers who were nearly all in an advanced stage. Four of them were quite

blind, the rest were able to walk about and help Hawahee put things

ship-shape on board as the days went by. Hawahee spoke little to her,

but his sad demeanour, and the little he did say when he spoke to her,

convinced Sestrina that he was a true friend.

Two or three days after she had rescued the lepers from the fetid hold,

they nearly all showed signs of improvement. Even the four blind men

would stand out on deck and bathe in the hot sunlight. It was a terrible

sight, though. Sestrina would turn her eyes away as they put forth their

withered, almost fleshless hands and chanted strange prayers to the

skies. On the fourth night after the typhoon, one of the blind lepers

rushed out of the forecastle and jumped overboard. Sestrina and Hawahee,

who were standing aft by the cuddy with an oil-lamp, sorting out tinned

fruits that they had found in the lazaretto, heard a cry and at once

rushed forward. The swell was still heavy, causing the schooner to roll

at times in an alarming way. As Hawahee and Sestrina stared over the

side they heard the cry again, a faint cry like the wail of a child, but

they could see nothing. Then the moon, which had been concealed by a

wrack of cloud, seemingly floated into the blue space and sent a great

silver radiance over the waters.

“Look! there he is!” cried Sestrina, as she pointed away towards the

rolling, glassy waters.

True enough, as Hawahee and the three stronger lepers, Lupo, Rohana, and

Steno, stared over the side they could see their comrade’s struggling

form. For a moment the moon once more disappeared behind a dark cloud,

and the sad watchers on the wrecked _Belle Isle_ only heard a faint cry

as they stared into the darkness. Then a long shaft of moonlight fell

slantwise, down to where they had seen the struggling form, and touched

the waters. And as Sestrina watched, it seemed to her that a door in

Heaven had suddenly been opened by the Hand of divine sympathy. They saw

the dying man’s hands toss for the last time from his watery grave, as

though in some pathetic appeal to the heavens. Though the seas still

rolled on and the tangled ropes and torn sails flapped aloft and the

schooner’s deck creaked and moaned to the eternal roll, it seemed that a

great silence followed that last sad moment. Hawahee sighed and

Sestrina’s form trembled as she stood there, her hair outstreaming to

the wind. Yet they both knew that their dead comrade had at last found

rest and peace.

Sestrina’s brain became strangely etherealised through sorrow. Grief had

the effect of strengthening her mind. Even Hawahee gazed on the lonely

girl in calm admiration as she ran about attending his stricken comrades

with unremitting solicitude.

“Here are pillows and blankets,” she said, as she handed Hawahee all the

bedclothes she had found in the cuddy’s cabins.

“Aloah, Wahine,” murmured the Hawaiian, as he bowed and took them from

the girl’s arms and at once went forward to make comfortable beds for

his leper fellows. For the Hawaiian also was a good man, his heart full

of tenderness and religious sorrow for those who suffered around him.

Sestrina would sit in the cuddy alone by night, unable to sleep as the

schooner rolled helpless on the tropic seas. A dim, dream-like

kaleidoscopic glimpse of Royal Clensy sitting in some room in far-away

Honolulu, awaiting her presence, would flash through her brain. Her

feelings at such moments were wonderfully intense; her past, her life

itself and future hopes seemed to be suddenly crystallised into one

magic diamond-flash of the mind as she saw the shadowy form and face of

her awaiting lover. Her soul, winged by the mystery of the

unexplainable, crossed those tropic seas and went wandering amongst

strange people in strange places, searching to find the one who would

think she had forgotten him. Then the boundless reality of the

surrounding ocean would return and bring the darkest despair to her

heart.

In a few days the swell of the ocean had subsided enough to make it

possible to walk about the _Belle Isle_ without holding on to the

fixtures. It was then that Hawahee set about clearing the deck of the

wreckage, fallen spars and tackle, etc. The Hawaiian had been a sailor,

and so he knew that it would be wise to get the fallen spars of the

mainmast and the débris of the foremast overboard so as to ease the

schooner’s list. The clearance, by the help of Rohana and Lupo and

Steno, was accomplished in one day. Then Hawahee made Lupo take the

helm, so that he could attempt to keep the vessel’s head before the

swell; but the way of the schooner was not sufficient, and so she

drifted broadside. A few nights after that it came on to blow again.

Things began to look serious. Sestrina asked the Hawaiian to stay aft

with her in the cuddy. The thundering seas had once more begun to lift

the schooner as though it were a tiny boat. The seas swept right over

her deck as she drifted away, away into the vast unknown regions of the

Pacific Ocean.

Seeing that nothing could be done to bring the _Belle Isle_ under

control, Hawahee told the lepers to keep in the forecastle. Then he

looked kindly at Sestrina, and said, “Wahine, for your sake I will stay

aft.”

“Yes, do stay here with me!” cried Sestrina in dread as the darkness

came over the seas and the thundering seas crashed intermittently

against the schooner. It was a terrible night. The cargo shifted in the

hold, making the _Belle Isle_ take a worse list than ever. It was almost

impossible to keep a footing on deck without holding on to something.

Hawahee fell on his knees in the cuddy and prayed first to the great

White God, and then to his own gods. It all seemed like some terrible

nightmare to Sestrina as she lay in an exhausted state on the cuddy’s

settee, her sleepless eyes watching the Hawaiian on his knees appealing

to his gods with deep religious fervour. So often did Sestrina feel the

mountainous waters bear down on the wreck and lift it up on the

travelling hills, that she knew exactly when to expect the crash and

shiver of the schooner as the seas struck her.

“Where are we going to, where?” moaned Sestrina.

The Hawaiian, who had risen to his feet, gazed on the girl with

melancholy eyes, and then shook his head. He well knew that the _Belle

Isle_ was drifting far away from the track of the trading vessels, away

into the unknown seas.

Daylight came. Sestrina had lashed herself to the cuddy’s table and,

with her head on it, had fallen into a subconscious state. She thanked

her Maker on her knees when she woke and peered through the porthole.

She saw the dim eastern horizon slowly brighten from grey to saffron and

deep orange. Then she watched the crimson streaks burst out of the

glowing dawn’s first magnificent thrill, dawn’s first splendid pang as

the birth of the sunrise flooded the eastern skyline with a wealth of

golden and crimson splendour.

“O Langi, O le sao va moana,” said Hawahee, as he gazed on the rosy

eternity of the east. Then, folding his hands across his breast, he

prayed in his native tongue. And still the _Belle Isle_ drifted on,

drifting like some frightened conscious thing as the everlasting seas

charged her helplessness. She was loaded with timber, and so, as far as

sinking was concerned, they were safe.

“We shall not sink; Langi (heaven) is good to us,” murmured Hawahee as

he walked softly into the cuddy after examining the _Belle Isle’s_

cargo.

When the seas had calmed down, Sestrina and Hawahee stood on deck and

scanned the horizon to see if land or a sail was in sight.

“Fear not, Wahine, Langi and your great White God are with us.” So spake

Hawahee as, with his hand arched over his eyes, he carefully scanned the

boundless skylines. Sestrina did not gaze across the seas, but she

scanned Hawahee’s face, and knew by its expression and by his eyes that

no sail was in sight. And still Sestrina hoped on. And did Hawahee hope

on? No! It was only for the girl’s sake that he would wish to sight a

sail on those solitary tropic seas. He well knew that should a passing

vessel come to rescue him and his comrades, the crew would, on

discovering that they were lepers, flee from the _Belle Isle_ in terror.

And so it was for Sestrina’s sake only that he watched the skylines with

hope.

The _Belle Isle_ had been drifting exactly twelve days when something

happened that lessened the tenor of their position. Hawahee was staring

seaward. The wild splendour of sunset’s burnished light along the

western horizon had subdued the brilliance of the tropic day, so that

the skyline to the south-west was visible to the ocean’s apparent

remotest rim. Hawahee suddenly startled Sestrina by shouting, “Look,

Wahine!”

Sestrina stared over the side, her hair blowing wildly about her

shoulders as the steady breeze slashed her form.

“What is it? quick, tell me,” she said as she still gazed eagerly, her

hand arched over her eyes as she stared and stared. Again Hawahee

pointed to the south-west. It was then that Sestrina caught the first

glimpse of a bluish blotch that looked like a tiny cloud on the remote

skyline. It was land! The Haytian girl’s pulses leapt with joy. She

burst into tears, so intense was her delight in the thought that she

would see the solid earth again and the faces of men and women, with

happy eyes, beings who enjoyed the air they breathed in the glorious

thrill of healthy life. Such were the half-formed thoughts that swept

through Sestrina’s excited mind. But why did a shadow creep over

Hawahee’s face? Why did he fear the sight of strong, health-loving men

who thanked God for the health and liberty which they shared in common

with the insects of the air. Ah, why? Hawahee and his comrades well knew

that they were loathsome outcasts of creation. He knew that, were there

civilised men on the isle (for such was the land towards which the

schooner was fast drifting), he and his comrades would be captured and

chained like felons so that they could be safely re-shipped and sent

away to the terrible lazaretto, the dread Leper Isle—Molokai.

As Hawahee watched, the shadow passed from his face; his eyes

re-brightened. There was yet hope for him and his comrades. It was quite

possible that the isle they saw was one of the hundreds of uninhabited

isles of the South Pacific Ocean. Hawahee did not fear the savages who

might inhabit such an isle. He knew that they would be quite ignorant of

the contagious nature of the scourge from which he and his companions

suffered. Sestrina heard him give a sigh of relief as he stood there and

watched. She guessed not why he sighed so. Sestrina was only an

inexperienced girl after all. In the first thrill of excitement and hope

over sighting that little blue blotch on the skyline, she had wondered

if it might not be the shores of Hawaii—Honolulu! Poor Sestrina!

Ere the eastern stars had begun to bespangle the heavens, Hawahee lifted

his hands and murmured a hasty prayer to Kuahilo and the great Hawaiian

goddess Pelé. For he had distinctly made out a lonely isle. There it

was, far away to the south-west, the foams of the beating seas that

swept over its coral reefs distinctly visible. He was saved! The hands

of wrathful men would not grip him and his comrades and place gyves on

their limbs. He would yet enjoy the freedom of the hills before the

pollution of his mortal tenement made him cry to God out of the greatest

sorrow that can well come to men in this world. And, as the Hawaiian

reflected, he beckoned to Sestrina.

“Yes, Hawahee?” she said timidly, as she gazed up into his handsome face

in wonder, watching his eyes from some dread of her own mind. The fact

is, that she knew not whether the proximity of the isle was a blessing

to Hawahee, or whether he would attempt to alter the course of the

schooner so that he and his comrades could risk the horrors of the ocean

rather than fall into the hands of their fellow-men again.

To the girl’s delight, he looked kindly upon her, and said, “Go thou, my

child, into the cuddy, and bring unto me all those old ropes that we

have stored in readiness for such a pass as this.”

The ocean swell was still heavy, so heavy that it often lifted the

schooner up on her beam ends. Hawahee knew that if the _Belle Isle_

struck the reefs of that far-away isle’s shore and so became solid with

the land, the seas would dash over her and sweep them all away.

“Wahine, keep near me,” he said, as he ran about, making hasty

preparations for the coming shock. All the while Hawahee was making

these preparations, the stricken lepers were standing by the bulwark

side, beating their hands and chanting in a strange way. Two of the

blind men seemed to be demented, for they began to jump about and dance

in a grotesque manner on the deck.

“Rohana, Steno and Lupo!” called Hawahee.

In a moment the three men stood by his side.

“Go thou to the helm and do your best to keep the ship’s course so that

she might run ashore on the low sands of the isle, where the waters do

not send up such cataracts of spray, see?”

Saying this, he pointed to the far-away isle. And there, true enough,

Rohana and Sestrina stared and saw that one part of the shore was quite

visible, even the palms just inland in clear relief, because no showers

of flying spray dimmed the atmosphere. The _Belle Isle_ was so near the

land that they could plainly see the white lines of the rolling surfs as

the big ocean swell rolled up the shores, caught the barrier reefs, and

rebounded in mighty showers that glittered in the dusk. Then a pale

radiance swept right across the Pacific Ocean and dispelled the deeper

night shadows.

“’Tis good; the moon is up. Langi has sent light for us,” murmured

Hawahee, as he stared seaward, where the swollen moonrise looked like a

big haggard face peering in some anxiety over the horizon of the hot

tropic night sea. The lepers had already constructed a large raft,

making it out of the wooden gratings and the doors of the galley and the

cuddy. By the side of this raft stood the more helpless lepers waiting

to be lashed on to it so that they would not be washed away when the

final crash came. It was strange how those afflicted men clung to each

other and went to an infinite amount of trouble to help their more

helpless fellows. But still, they did go to the trouble, and it must be

supposed that the love of men for one another is a greater virtue in

sorrow than in the flush of perfect joy and health.

“All is ready, Wahine; do not fear,” whispered Hawahee as he approached

Sestrina, and then crept back into the shadows to watch. The wonder and

mystery of it all almost drowned Sestrina’s fears as she stared over the

bulwark. She saw the lonely isle, distant palm-clad hills, and all the

silvered waves tumbling, as though silently, in the moonlight as they

broke over the shore reefs and sent up glimmering fountains of spray.

Rohana, who had black shaggy hair, and looked like some handsome wild

man, crept near the girl and stared over the side as Hawahee stood in

prayer in the shadows.

“Listen, Wahine!” he said. And as Rohana inclined his head, Sestrina

inclined her head also. They could both distinctly hear the far-off boom

and low monotone made by the big white-ridged combers as they met the

shore of the isle and rebounded on the outer reefs. It was then that

Hawahee approached Sestrina again.

“Keep near me, Wahine,” he said, as he put on an old glove (he had found

it in the cuddy), so that he might grip hold of Sestrina without fear of

the contagion of the leprosy reaching her. Hawahee’s eyes were full of

tenderness as he gazed on the lonely girl as she stood there, hope

shining in her eyes, her unkempt mass of hair streaming out to the wind.

Hawahee saw that she did not realise the approaching danger. It was a

picture full of beauty and tragedy as she stood there. The fluttering

dishevelment of her torn dress and the dark rings formed by worry round

her eyes, the lines of sorrow on her brow, intensified the girl’s

beauty, and touched the Hawaiian’s heart. Sestrina heard him sigh.

“Don’t move,” said Hawahee; “keep quite near me, Sestra,” for so he had

called her since she had told him her name that day.

As they stood on deck, the moon, low on the horizon, was just behind

them. They could distinctly see the shore’s outline and the showers of

foam rise and curl, and disappear in the gloom.

“Hark!” said Sestrina; and as she and Hawahee listened they distinctly

heard the sea winds moan as they swept through the rows of shore palms.

“_Aue! Lo mao sapola!_” said Hawahee, as he beckoned to Rohana and Lupo.

The next moment the lepers had rushed to the raft. Then the crash came.

The _Belle Isle_ had struck broadside on the reefs in rather deep water.

In a second the great seas came ramping over the side like huge monsters

with slashing mains, crashed on deck and then leapt right over to the

port side. The lepers had just managed to cling on to the raft when it

was washed away over the side, going with ease over the rail, which was

level with the seas. Sestrina, who had expected the schooner to run

softly on the beach and so allow them all to paddle safely ashore, or at

least go in the schooner’s broken boat, gave a scream in her fright as

the seas crashed on board. The terrific tumult, the swaying and moaning

and snapping of the spars, and the chaotic ramping of the foaming waters

around her, made Sestrina think that a typhoon had struck the _Belle

Isle_ without the slightest warning. The next minute Hawahee had

clutched the frightened girl in his arms. A tremendous swell wave struck

the _Belle Isle_—they were both washed away.

“Have no fear, Wahine,” said Hawahee, as he recovered his breath, and

held the girl’s head above the water, placing one arm under her body.

“Let go, quick, Wahine!” he gasped, as Sestrina in her terror gripped

his swimming arm. Again they were engulfed, a sea passing right over

their heads. Sestrina thought her last moment had come. She gave a

despairing cry as she came to the surface, and then prepared to go under

again. It seemed to her that Hawahee had let go his hold as a great wave

engulfed them, and she fell down, down, into the blackness of the ocean.

Her consciousness began to fade. She felt herself being slowly dragged

along. She imagined that she was at the bottom of the Pacific and that

some dark, terrible, silent form was dragging her along, and at the same

time placing soft arms round her throat in an attempt to strangle her.

Sestrina’s delight can be imagined when she opened her eyes and

discovered Hawahee frantically pulling her up the wave-ridden beach. She

was saved! Sestrina, who had swallowed a deal of sea-water, immediately

lost consciousness. Hawahee lifted her in his arms and carried her up

the beach. In a few moments he had gathered a heap of the dry, soft,

drift seaweed scattered about the higher shore, and had placed her on a

soft couch under the palms. For a long time he rubbed her hands and did

all he could to revive the insensible girl.

“O Kuahilo! O Pelé!” he cried as he appealed to his old gods, and then

stared again on the girl’s pallid face that looked pathetically

beautiful lying there upturned, just visible in the moonlight which

streamed through the palms.

In his despair he unloosed her bodice. “Ora li Jesu!” he cried, as be

appealed to the new God of the mission-rooms, and softly rubbed away at

the girl’s bosom, just above the heart. Just as he was thinking that

Sestrina had succumbed to her long submersion in the water, she opened

her eyes. In his delight, Hawahee rose from his knees, and lifting his

hands towards the sky, mumbled some strange chant-like prayer to his

heathen deities. For, as is often the case with the Hawaiians who have

been converted to Christianity, Hawahee in his sorrow and great joy had

instinctively fallen back to the older faith, had appealed to the gods

of his childhood. With infinite care and tenderness Hawahee pulled the

folds of the girl’s bodice together again and arranged her clothing.

Sestrina’s wakeful brain noticed these things, and she looked into

Hawahee’s face and smiled.

“All is well; you are safe, Wahine,” he muttered. Then he left her and

hurried down to the beach to see how it fared with his comrades. No

sooner was he out of sight than Sestrina sat up and stared around her.

Her brain was the swift-seeing, imaginative kind. As she looked towards

the distant moonlit seas and heard the palms sighing over her head, a

cruel flash of intense realisation came to her.

“’Tis an isle where no one lives. I am cast away, lost for ever. I will

never see him or those I love again. Royal! come to me! Claircine, dear

old Claircine, where are you?” In the bitterness of her thoughts her

mind reverted to Père Chaco. “O Père Chaco, what have I done that this

should happen to me? ‘As we sow, so shall we reap,’ you said to me. O

Père Chaco, have mercy on me! What have I sown?” And as the miserable

girl wailed and reflected, she stared over her shoulder in fright at the

seas as they rushed up the beach. Then a great weariness came to her

brain. In the misery and confusion of her senses she began to think that

she was haunting the realms of some nightmare from which she must soon

awaken. But the terrors of reality soon presented themselves to her. For

she looked along the shore and saw a tall figure dragging helpless

bodies out of reach of the waves. It was Hawahee doing his best to save

his comrades from the ocean. Out of the nine lepers only five were

saved—Rohana, Lupo, Steno, and two blind men. Hawahee had found them

huddled on the shore, quite exhausted. He had swiftly dragged them

higher up the beach and placed them in a comfortable spot in the thick

grass and fern by the shore’s sheltering palms. The bodies which

Sestrina had seen Hawahee dragging from the sea were dead. In a few

moments the Hawaiian had placed them in a silent spot by the high reefs

ready for burial. Then he came back to Sestrina’s side.

“Wahine, you have sorrow on your face, and there is nothing to grieve

over now if you have true faith in your White God, the same as I have in

my country’s gods.” So spoke Hawahee, but for all his kind words and

great mental effort to cheer Sestrina, he was weak and ill and, giving

way to his sorrow, prostrated himself on the shore and wept.

“I will be brave since you have been so good and brave yourself,”

whispered Sestrina, as she gazed on the bowed head of the strange

semi-savage man beside her. Hawahee at once recovered his composure. He

hung his head like a big child for a moment as though he felt shame that

Sestrina should have seen his tears.

“See, I do not worry, Hawahee,” said Sestrina, as she smiled, and then,

taking a comb from her pocket, she began to comb the tangled folds of

her damp tresses.

“Ah, wahine, thou art brave and deserve a better fate than this,”

murmured Hawahee as, with his chin resting on his hand, he watched the

girl. And still Sestrina combed away at her shining tresses, as they

fell like a magical glossy tent over her shoulders, while she sang an

old Haytian melody.

Neither Hawahee or Sestrina remembered the moment when sleep lulled

their exhausted mind and body to rest. They must have slept two or three

hours, for when Sestrina opened her eyes the stars had begun to take

flight. The terrors of the night had been too cruel to make her think

she had awakened from a dream. In a moment she had realised everything.

She even gazed calmly upward and tried to see the birds that sang so

weirdly sweet in the palms overhead. Dawn was stealing over the ocean.

For a moment she stared at the ocean skyline. Out beyond the just

visible reefs lay the wreck of the _Belle Isle_. The hull lay right

over, the broken masts and spars pointed or leaning shoreward. In the

calm waters that were surrounded by reefs, she saw two floating dark

forms. She saw the ghastly death-stricken face of one of the forms as

the head bobbed about, the body turning round and round to the slight

swell of the water that heaved against the barrier reef beyond.

“Come away, wahine. I will place the dead to rest.”

It was Hawahee who spoke. He had suddenly awakened and found Sestrina

standing beside him, staring at the dead bodies of the lepers. They had

drifted in during the night.

“Come on, Sestra,” said the man. His voice was full of tenderness. The

weeping girl followed him up the beach. In a few minutes they found a

comfortable spot under the shades of the thick groves of breadfruit

trees. “Here will do, wahine,” said Hawahee, as he looked up at the

beautiful trees that spread their wealth of yellowing fruit amongst the

rich glossy leaves. It was a beautiful spot. Even the bright-plumaged

birds that haunted them seemed to welcome those sad strangers from the

seas. “Chir-rip! cheer-up!” they seemed to say, as Hawahee and Sestrina

gazed up at the fruit-loaded boughs that hung over them, so green and

bright in the infinite loveliness of Dame Nature’s unostentatious

hospitality.

“Here is food, wahine, and there is drink,” said Hawahee, as he gazed

first on the yellowing breadfruit and then at the tall palms, on which

hung tawny clusters of ripening coco-nuts.

“Wait, wahine, till I return,” said the Hawaiian. In a few moments he

returned with a great armful of soft seaweed and moss. “Lie there and

rest,” he said to Sestrina. Then the Hawaiian went down to the beach

and, wading out to the deep water, dragged the bodies of the two dead

lepers ashore. In a few moments he had dug a deep hole in the soft sand

where the waters rolled up the beach by the promontory. When he had

placed the bodies in the hollow he got several large lumps of coral rock

and dropped them over the spot, so that when the tides were high the

waters would not wash the sands away. Then he bathed himself in the cool

sea water. After that he gathered fruits and coco-nut and took them to

the lepers, but they took no notice of him, being fast asleep,

exhausted. Hawahee was delighted when he found a large slope whereon

grew wild _feis_ (bananas). Gathering the luscious fruit, he hastened

back to Sestrina, and told her to eat and drink. The shipwrecked girl

felt greatly revived when she had eaten the wild _feis_ and had drunk

refreshing coco-nut milk. As the sun climbed high in the heaven and

blazed over the tropic seas and the innumerable birds of the isle

shrieked and sang, Sestrina felt less depressed. It was only when she

followed Hawahee across the valley and caught sight of the huddled forms

of the poor lepers, that her mind became darkened again. Lupo and Rohana

stirred in their slumber, and then suddenly sat up.

“Aloah, wahine,” they murmured, as they caught sight of the girl, and

smiled.

Sestrina nodded, and wondered why the stricken men should look so

cheerful in such a pass. She could not realise how thankful the lepers

felt to their gods in having the freedom of that little island world

before them.

“Come away,” said Hawahee. Then he led Sestrina back to the shelter

beneath the breadfruits. “You lie down here and rest, Sestra, and I will

watch over you,” he said, as he gazed sorrowfully on the girl’s haggard

face. Though Sestrina did not feel like sleeping, she did as the man

bade her. Lying down on the soft moss couch that he had prepared, she

soon fell asleep. While she lay there Hawahee sat by her side in deep

meditation, making plans as to the best thing to do.

“If there is no one on this isle to interfere with us, we can easily

build a dwelling-place under these trees,” he thought. Then he too fell

asleep. The sun was sinking when Sestrina awoke. The dismal mutterings

of the cockatoos in the boughs around swiftly called her to her senses.

She felt so wretched and lonely that she touched Hawahee, who still lay

fast asleep beside her, on the arm. In a moment he sat up, and, rubbing

his eyes, stared in sorrow on the girl.

“Let us go and see how big this isle is, and find out if we are quite

alone here, wahine,” he said. Hawahee’s suggestion that they should

explore the isle together pleased Sestrina.

“Perhaps, after all, there are other human beings here,” she thought.

When they had reached the top of the hill, which was the highest

elevation of the isle, they scanned the shore lines and saw that they

were indeed alone, no sign of human habitation anywhere. It was a small

isle, not more than a mile across, and two miles in length. Sestrina

could not help but gaze in admiration on the loveliness of the scene

around her. All along the shores stood clusters of feathery-leafed palms

that leaned over small lagoons that shone like mirrors in the shadowy

distances. Tiny waves, creeping in from the ocean’s calm expanse, ran up

the silvery sands, tossed their snowy arms and faded. On all the higher

slopes, about fifty yards inland, stood the picturesque breadfruit

trees. And when the hot, soft sea wind drifted inland and touched their

heights, the rich, dark green leaves stirred and revealed the paler hues

underneath as they were softly blown aside. As Sestrina and Hawahee

stood up there and scanned the dim blue horizons, they felt the vast

loneliness of the Pacific enter their hearts. To the left, far beyond

the promontory, north of the island, lay the wreck of the _Belle Isle_.

The sight of the torn sails and rigging, which was still flapping softly

in the breeze, intensified the loneliness of the surroundings.

“Wait, Sestra, let us be sure,” said Hawahee, then he climbed the

nearest breadfruit tree.

For a long time he stood up in the leafy heights clinging to the boughs,

scanning the isle, and staring out to sea. Then he climbed down, and

standing by Sestrina, said: “We are safe, and there is no other land in

sight.”

In one sad mental flash Sestrina realised her terrible position to the

full. She realised that the greater the solitude of the isle the greater

security it afforded the hunted lepers.

Hawahee noticed the despairing look on Sestrina’s face; and swiftly

divining her thoughts, said: “Wahine, a ship may pass some day, and

then, believe me, ’tis we can hide, my comrades and I. And those who

come and rescue you will not know that we are here, savvy, wahine?”

“Yes, I understand what you mean,” murmured Sestrina as she stared out

to sea, and let her eyes roam over the vast solitude of waters. Tears

dimmed her yearning gaze. She instinctively knew that it might be

months, even years before a ship sighted the isle and sent men ashore to

search.

Seeing the girl’s grief, Hawahee gazed mournfully upon her and said:

“Have no fear, Sestra, I will be a friend to thee.”

Then they both walked back to the sheltered spot which Hawahee had

chosen by the shore.

The next day, Hawahee and his comrades, Rohana, Lupo, and Steno, made

many journeys over the reefs, and then swam out to the wreck of the

_Belle Isle_.

The sea had calmed down, and only a few waves dashed against the seaward

hulk as the swell came in. In a very little while they had fashioned a

substantial raft from the wreckage on the shore. And all day long they

worked feverishly as they salvaged cases of tin meats, fruits and

biscuits, and all the useful commodities that they could get hold of

before the _Belle Isle_ broke up. Two or three hours before the tropic

sun dropped, Hawahee and his comrades searched the shore for a suitable

spot, and then decided to build a dwelling by the caves, not far from

the place where they had been washed ashore. And so they at once

extemporised a rough dwelling for themselves. And while the stronger

lepers were busy, Hawahee walked inland, and chose a shady place, about

one hundred yards inland, for Sestrina’s home.

“’Tis a lovely spot, Sestra,” said Hawahee as he put in the first posts,

and gazed on the sheltering palms and the sylvan beauty of the valley

which ran half way down the centre of the isle. This valley had rugged

sides and caves which showed that the isle was of volcanic formation.

Between the spot which Hawahee had chosen for Sestrina’s home, and the

dwelling place of the lepers was a wide hollow in which grew huge cacti

and prickly pear. Hawahee had carefully chosen this spot so that the

girl should be quite apart from the lepers. “Is it not a lovely spot,

wahine?” said he.

“Yes, it is,” murmured Sestrina as she sighed, yet trying hard to appear

enthusiastic over the rich loveliness of the tropical flowers, and palms

and breadfruits that surrounded her new home.

In about a week, they were all settled in their rough habitations, and

as comfortable as could be under the circumstances, Sestrina’s abode was

all which could be desired, for Hawahee had fashioned a soft bed of

fern, seaweed and scented moss. He had fashioned a door to her

habitation out of the cuddy’s door of the _Belle Isle_. He had made

strong hinges out of the twisted sennet so that the door could swing and

be closed just as Sestrina desired. A few yards from the Haytian girl’s

homestead stood Hawahee’s dwelling.

“’Tis best, Sestra, that I should dwell near to you,” said he, as

Sestrina became quite industrious, and kept arriving by the busy

Hawaiian, her arms full of stiff grass and weed that he was thatching

his roof with. He had thatched her dwelling very carefully. Hawahee knew

that a strong thatch was necessary, for typhoons and heavy rains often

swept those sailless seas.

Sestrina would often lie sleepless by night in her primitive chamber and

weep. She would listen to the voices of the night, the winds sighing in

the palms, and in strange fancies imagine that Royal Clensy’s spirit

called to her. Sometimes the rustling of the leaves would bring back

memories of the grape-vine that grew below her chamber’s window at

Port-au-Prince. The haunting idea that her English lover might think

that she had made no attempt to get to Honolulu brought great distress

to her.

“Ah, if he only knew the truth, I could bear all this,” she moaned as

the great tropic starry nights of sleepless memory divided the hot, blue

tropic days, and brought intense loneliness to her heart. In her sorrow

she reverted to the pure religion of her childhood, and reaped much

consolation therefrom. It was quite possible that the Hawaiian, Hawahee,

had inspired her to seek comfort in prayer. For Hawahee was a fanatic in

his devotion to his heathen gods. For though he had been converted to

the Christian faith, he had greater faith in the deities of the olden

times. Like many of the native lepers, he had become very devout through

the sure knowledge that his days were numbered. He would kneel under the

palms and sometimes pray to the sunset, singing weird, sweet melodies as

he still remained on his knees. Sestrina would sit by him on these

occasions, her hand under her chin, watching him like some wondering,

wide-eyed child.

One evening as the sunset swept ineffable hues across the great storied

remote window of Hawahee’s vast heathen cathedral—the western sea sky

line—Sestrina opened her eyes in unbounded astonishment. “What’s that?”

she cried as he put his arm forth, and muttered weird words to an image

which he held in his hand.

“’Tis a vassal of the great goddess, Pelé!” replied Hawahee, as he held

the image close to Sestrina’s horrified looking eyes—she was staring on

the ivory idol which the aged, dying Chinaman on the _Belle Isle_ had

worshipped so fervently!

The sight of that heathenish relic, and of Hawahee’s reverent attitude

before its wonderfully carved little face, strangely impressed the

Haytian girl’s mind. A weird, uncanny kind of atmosphere seemed to fall

over her life, filling her mind with superstitious thoughts. The

strange, long-necked birds that perched at dawn on the palms by her

little homestead, no longer sang cheerful notes, but muttered dismal

chants that made her frightened—of she knew not what! But in a day or

two she regained the cheerful confidence that had so helped her in her

castaway loneliness, and once more sang as she toiled over her primitive

domestic duties.

One day, Hawahee suddenly approached Sestrina, and said, “Wahine, do not

roam about the isle unless I am near you.” He looked troubled as he

placed his hand to his brow, undecided as to how to continue.

Sestrina wondered why he should fear for her since they were castaways

on an uninhabited isle. “Is there a sail in sight?” she said, a great

hope springing into her heart.

“No, wahine,” murmured Hawahee, still gazing intently at the girl’s

face, an expression in his eyes as though his heart wished to say

something which his lips dare not express.

Then he said: “My comrades are not as I am; they have forgotten the

virtues of the great goddess Pelé, and of Kauhilo, and Atua of Langi,

and so, ’tis best that you should keep from their path.”

Sestrina, who had seldom seen the lepers, because the sight of their

afflicted forms made her feel miserable, gazed in wonder up at Hawahee’s

face. The five lepers were, to her, poor helpless, cursed, pathetic

beings, who calmly awaited the second death of their mortal existence.

Though they dwelt within five hundred yards of her homestead, she had

spoken only twice to them as they sat in the wattled shelter, and as the

two blind lepers gazed with pathetic indecision towards her, a great

wave of pain and sympathy had come to her heart.

Then Lupo, Rohana, and Steno had fallen on their knees, and, with their

hands lifted, had gazed upon her as though she were some goddess. And as

they wailed and wailed in their strange but musical tongue she imagined

they were thanking her for her timely rescue of them all from the _Belle

Isle’s_ stifling hold.

“They look upon me as their benefactress; perhaps in the delirium of

their fevered illness, they really think I am some heathen goddess?” she

thought as Rohana and Lupo continued to wail, and crawling a little

nearer, pointed to her shining tresses, murmured, “Aloah! wahine, makoa,

maikai!” Then the lepers had placed their hands to their swollen mouths,

making signs as they blew kisses to her, and cried “Maika! maikai!”

(thank you). For she had taken a flower from the folds of her hair, and

had thrown it towards them. Seeing the flower lying on the silver sands,

Lupo, Rohana and Steno had rushed forward, had started struggling in a

frantic way to secure the fading blossom. When Lupo placed the blossom

to his lips, the others had crowded round him, had sought to place their

lips against the faded petals. Such had been Sestrina’s experiences with

the lepers during three months of isolation on that Pacific isle. When

Hawahee stood before Sestrina and gave her the second warning, she still

remained ignorant of the meaning of it all.

Three nights after, Sestrina was suddenly awakened by hearing a distant

hubbub that sounded as though men were singing rollicking songs. “What

can it mean?” she thought as she leaped from her couch. Her heart

thumped as she listened and wondered. “’Tis a ship arrived off the isle,

and the sailors are ashore, singing!”

“Keep near me,” said a stern voice, as she rushed from her dwelling to

ascertain if her surmises were true. It was Hawahee who had spoken.

Sestrina gazed at him, and was alarmed at the expression of his eyes.

“’Tis Lupo, Rohana and the rest, they have been out to the wreck, and

found barrels of devil-water (rum); they are demented, wahine.”

“Rum! demented!” replied Sestrina as her heart sank within her. No ship

at all, but rum and demented! What did Hawahee mean? The girl did not

realise the serious import of the Hawaian’s remarks. She had no familiar

knowledge of men, and the demoralising influence of drink on their

natures. And so she dreamed not of her danger, she, a lonely woman, on

that solitary isle.

During the lepers stay on the isle their health had improved. The

abundance of shell fish, the fruit and tinned meats, saved from the

wreck, had renovated their wasted frames. Lupo and Rohana had even made

flesh, and so their smouldering passions had burst into flame again!

Indeed, but a day or two before, Rohana and Lupo had crept round the

shore, and spied Sestrina bathing in a lagoon.

They had watched, and then hastened back to their comrades and cried in

this wise: “Oh makaia, le sola!” and then the three stronger men had

crept back into the jungle on the shore, and had watched. That same

night they had talked about what they had seen, till even the blind

lepers had listened in ecstasy as their comrades spoke of the girl’s

beauty, the glory of her wet tresses as they sparkled in the warm

sunlight.

Hawahee, who knew these things, attempted to calm Sestrina’s fears by

saying, “Do not be alarmed by the singing of my brothers, I will protect

you.”

And then she had gone back into her hut, and had lain sleepless, weeping

bitterly, for her hopes had been cruelly dispelled. The next night she

was awakened again by hearing a wild song. Again she jumped from her

bed, and went outside, but this time she trembled in the thought of some

nameless fear. As she stood under the palms by her lonely homestead

doorway, she saw a great red glow on the sky over the sea.

“’Tis the wreck on fire,” said Hawahee as he stood beside her. For he

was ever wakeful.

“Why have they set the ship on fire?” said Sestrina as she stood

watching the sparks and the lurid smoke go skyward.

“They are mad with drink, and care only for themselves while the

devil-gods and te rom (rum) revel in their souls,” said Hawahee in a

bitter voice. Then he told Sestrina that they had fired the wreck so

that no passing vessel could sight it, and wonder if any of its late

crew were castaways on the isle.

Next day, Sestrina, thinking that all was well since the lepers had

burnt the wreck, and so destroyed the rum, crept down to the lagoon by

her homestead, wherein she bathed every morning. This lagoon was far

away from that part of the isle where Lupo and the rest dwelt. Letting

her hair down, she walked into the cool, shallow depths, and paddled

about. She behaved like a child. Lifting her torn skirt, which she had

patched up with pieces of the red table-cloth of the _Belle Isle_ cuddy,

she splashed about in the sparkling water and threw pebbles at the

green-winged parrots that perched on the palms that leaned over the

lagoon. Suddenly she stood perfectly still; she had observed a movement

in the thick jungle fern which grew a little way up the shore. She

stared again, and saw two burning eyes staring between the dark green

leaves. She gave a startled cry and let her dress drop—it was Lupo who

had spied upon her. Seeing her terror he stepped out of the jungle,

lifting his hands in an appealing manner.

Sestrina immediately felt ashamed of her fright. Noticing that he had

calmed the girl’s evident fear of him, Lupo moved towards her. As he

approached her she fancied she saw a terrible look in his eyes. The

instinct of womanhood made her realise—she knew not what. In a flash she

recalled all that Hawahee had said.

The next second Lupo had fallen on his knees, and with his hands lifted

in some appeal, said: “Aloah, wero, kawa, ma Pelé,” as he greedily drank

in the beauty of her face and form. He plucked a flower from the bush,

and held it towards the girl.

“No! no!” said Sestrina as she shook her head to intimate that neither

his gift nor his presence was required. In a moment Lupo’s manner had

changed. He glanced hastily around, then rose and staggered towards her.

Sestrina, on seeing the wild look in the leper’s eyes, fled.

Returning to her primitive homestead with a flushed face, and the

sea-water still sparkling on her tresses, she arrived before Hawahee in

a breathless state.

“Wahine, what is the matter?” he said as he stared at her.

“Nothing, only I felt frightened at seeing Lupo come out of the jungle

whilst I bathed.”

“Have I not warned thee to keep near to me, and not wander about the

isle, wahine?”

“Yes, I know,” gasped Sestrina, her breath still laboured through

running so fast.

“Hawahee, what do the lepers want with me?” she said quietly in sudden

wonder over all she had experienced.

The tall, handsome Hawaiian gazed steadily into the childlike, wide-open

eyes, and seeing that the girl was innocent in heart and soul, made no

reply to her query, but said: “Wahine, I shall be angry if you stray

from here again. Mind that you keep on this side of the valley, and

bathe no more at present.”

“I will do as you wish,” replied Sestrina, who put Hawahee’s fears down

to some dread in his mind that she might be contaminated by the terrible

scourge.

That same night Hawahee came across the slope and sat by Sestrina’s

homestead, telling her many of his own sorrows, and how it was he had

become incarcerated down in the hold of the _Belle Isle_. It was a sad

story that Sestrina listened to as the Hawaiian spoke on, telling her

many things about the horrors of leprosy on his native isles. Maybe he

did not wish Sestrina to think too ill of his comrades, the lepers on

the isle, whose sad lot was cast on the unknown waters with his own. And

be it known that of all the races of mankind, the Hawaiians are the most

sympathetic and lovable towards each other in sorrow or illness, their

hearts being endowed with a love passing the love of woman. Indeed, many

Hawaiians have been known to risk the contagion of leprosy in their

efforts to hide their relatives, wives, children, lovers and comrades,

from the relentless hands of the leper-hunters, who were ever on the

look-out for the victims of the hideous scourge.

Sestrina’s eyes filled with tears as the sad man sat before her and told

her of the terrors of Molokai, the leper isle, the sufferings of the

banished victims and of the heroic priest and martyr, Damien, and the

few Catholic missionaries who devoted their days and sacrificed their

lives for the sake of the stricken lepers.

“And how did you know all these things about the terrible isle where

poor lepers are banished to, since you yourself escaped and fled

successfully from the leper-hunters?”

Then Hawahee told Sestrina that he had once been a resident on Molokai

in the capacity of a missionary at Kalawao, and it was there that he had

contracted the complaint, as well as becoming only too familiar with the

horror of the dreadful lazaretto. Sitting there smoking by the lonely

girl, he continued his story, and told how the Hawaiian officials hired

brutal men to hunt and deliver up all men who showed the least sign of

the dreaded plague, so that they could be banished to the lazaretto on

Molokai.

From all that Hawahee said, it appeared that even the unafflicted were

in danger of being captured by the merciless hunters and sent away to

the dreaded isle. For leprosy develops slowly, the first symptom being

extremely faint, taking months, and even years, before becoming

externally evident. Consequently the brutal hunters, who sought to

secure the reward offered by the authorities, were only too eager to

pronounce the slightest bruise as evidence of incipient leprosy.

“Since your leprosy is hardly to be seen now, how is it that the

authorities knew anything about it, Hawahee?” said Sestrina.

“Ah, wahine, it must have been noticed when I was bathing in the lagoons

by my home. You must know, wahine, that there are always half-caste men

on my isle willing to sacrifice the lives of others for the sake of

getting the reward which is paid by the great council chiefs, and so I

too was betrayed. And when the leper-hunters did come one night through

the forest with masks over their faces, for they do not wish their faces

seen since my people would kill such perfidious betrayers were they to

recognise them, I did escape into the mountains by Kaulea. For a long,

long time I did roam homeless alone, then I met more lepers who were

hiding from the hunters in the mountains. We were all near to dying of

hunger when we at last sighted a schooner lying just off the shore by

the feet of the mountains near Sakaboa. With much stealth we did manage

to secure a large canoe so that we could paddle by night out to the

ship. It was by the mercy of Atua and Kuahilo that the night was dark

and hid our forms as we stole on board and crept down into the ship’s

hold. Next day the ship sailed. We were near to death when we did find

ourselves anchored off the South American coast, where we were

discovered by the crew and recaptured. Then the white papalagis tied our

legs and hands in thongs and placed as on a ship’s hulk off the coast,

as men unclean. For many weeks we were prisoners, awaiting to be

retransported back to Hawaii so that we might be sent to Molokai. Then

one night some men did come and place our limbs in chains. And when we

were helpless and could not move more than enough for our feet to move

slowly one before the other, we were taken round the coast to Acapulco.

There we found a boat awaiting our arrival, and we were at once taken

out to a schooner, which we knew was to take us back to Hawaii, and to

Molokai and death.” Saying the foregoing, the Hawaiian sighed, then,

looking sorrowfully into Sestrina’s face, he added: “It was the _Belle

Isle_, wahine, which we were taken to and imprisoned down in the hold;

and, to thy great sorrow, thou knowest the rest.” Relighting his

cigarette by the embers of the small cooking fire, Hawahee placed his

hand meditatively to his chin and continued: “I tell thee, wahine, I

would sooner meet the gods in death than risk capture by the merciless

papalagi or my own countryman and be banished to the lazaretto. True

enough, the ‘kaukas’ (doctors) are good to the stricken, and kind men

make coffins by night for the dying, but still, ’tis more than a living

death. Still, in my dreams, I do often see the skeletons of the dead

lepers walking and crawling by night along the craggy beach and under

the dark pandanus and palms by Kalawao.”

As Hawahee spoke on and Sestrina listened, the ocean’s monotone,

resounding on the reefs below, seemed to moan in sympathy with all he

told her.

“Ah, wahine, thou knowest not the sorrow of my people,” he murmured;

then he once more lapsed into pidgin English, which he usually did when

speaking under the stress of deep emotion. “Sestra, when I was once a

helper of the afflicted on Molokai, I did often see some beautiful

wahine with flying hair and starry eyes, running along the beach by

moonlight, wringing her hands, as she cried and answered the moaning

voice of the winds in the palms that sighed to her dying ears, like to

the dead laughter and the memories of lost children, lovers and husband;

I know not which. Then she would jump into the sea. And the waves,

closing over her head, did bring the peace of Atua, Pelé, and the great

White God, whichever may be the most merciful.”

Such were the incidents connected with Hawahee’s history, and which he

deigned to tell Sestrina that night and the next night as she sat by the

kitchen cooking-fire of her solitary home on their lone isle of the vast

Pacific. And often, when Hawahee had crossed the hollow and entered his

hut for sleep, the imaginative castaway girl would lie in her own

chamber and fancy she could hear the dead laughter of children and the

calling voices of the dying lepers, shrieking and calling somewhere out

in the wind swept palms, that sighed fitfully on the valley’s ridge by

her homestead. In these dreams Sestrina fully realised that, to the

lepers at least, her lonely desert isle was a haven of refuge, an oasis

in the desert of their life’s misery. For not in all the world was

sorrow so heart-rending, so hideous and intense as on Molokai. Yes,

notwithstanding that missionaries devoted their days as ministering

angels to the stricken exiles, and that the heroic martyr-priest Damien,

the lepers’ Christ, and Father Albert the good dwelt in their midst. For

who can stay the dead from dreaming in their living tombs, or from

leaping from the grave to run along the dark, beetling crags of the

moonlit beach, listening to the memories of the wind swept palms and

calling to the skies for mercy?

CHAPTER II

AFTER Sestrina’s experience with Lupo by the lagoon, everything went

along quietly for a week, during which time she and Hawahee busied

themselves by making their dwellings as comfortable as possible.

Sestrina gathered stiff grasses for the thatching of their kitchen roof,

which Hawahee was building so that they could have their meals in each

other’s company. It was only through Sestrina’s insistent appeals that

Hawahee agreed to this arrangement. Though Hawahee had discovered, to

his great joy, that the small leper patch on his arm had dried and

seemed to be healing, he still feared the girl’s close presence, and

demanded her not to touch him. Sestrina, happy in his society, worked

feverishly to help him improve their rough homes. She found that the

work distracted her thoughts from those longings and memories which

often came and filled her heart with anguish when she dwelt upon them.

Hawahee, too, did his best to comfort her. He often sang weird,

beautiful Hawaiian melodies to her and played on a bamboo flute which he

had fashioned as they sat in the shade of the lovely breadfruit that

grew on the valley’s side, just by their dwelling. Sestrina’s heart went

out to him as he piped away or sang in the shadows. At other times he

would tell her wonderful legends connected with the lore of his native

isle. Sestrina’s eyes would open wide, as, with his eyes bright with the

light of belief, he told her of the splendour and wonders of Atua,

Kuahilo, Tangalora, and Pelé, the gods and goddesses of his childhood’s

creed. Sestrina discovered that he was a native of Lahaina, and had been

a chief of the village where he dwelt till he had become converted to

Christianity.

“And do you not believe in the God of my creed?” said Sestrina, as she

thought of his devotion to the little ivory idol and his continuous

prayers to his heathen deities.

“I believe in all the gods of the heavens, wahine,” he had replied. And

then he had told the Haytian girl how he had once been a teacher in the

mission-rooms at Kailo, a fact which explained why Hawahee spoke a

mixture of pidgin and biblical English. “I play on flute, nice hymns

once,” he said; then he took his cleverly improvised flute from the

folds of his tappa-robe and played many melodies that were familiar to

Sestrina. He had already constructed a flute for Sestrina, making it out

of a slender bamboo stem, placing a broad blade of stiff grass in the

mouthpiece for a reed. “Thou hast a perfect ear, wahine,” he had said

when Sestrina astonished him by her perfect rendering of one of his

pagan melodies. Indeed, it was wonderful the headway Sestrina made with

her flute-playing as she sat alone under the breadfruits and practised

so as to distract her thoughts. Hawahee’s delight was unbounded to find

that Sestrina liked his heathen melodies. He had looked sideways at the

girl with a kind, yet artful, glance, and had said: “Thou playest well,

and ’tis well for thee to pray to the great White God, but better still

to turn thy head away and give praise unto the glory of Atua, Pelé and

Kuahilo—eh?”

Withal, Hawahee was a noble-souled, clean-minded man, and, like many of

his type, possessed the great virtue of truly believing all that he

professed to believe. Hawahee possessed the deep instincts of a pagan

fanatic combined with the pagan’s poetic sympathy with the beauties of

nature. No leaf dropped, no flower danced in the sunlight, no bird sang,

but Hawahee’s visualising imagination saw or heard it as some symbol of

human joy or sorrow, some natural living representation of the thousand

and one fancies that haunted his mind. Consequently nature was, to him,

some mysterious pageant of the deep thoughts of his gods blossoming in

multitudinous hues, or winging the sky as birds, or singing happily and

sometimes moaning angrily in the starlit, solemn big-trunked breadfruit

trees.

As Sestrina sat listening by night to his fascinating, poetic speech

that sparkled with spontaneous similes, she came under the influence of

his poetic, deeply-religious personality. This influence was a blessing

in disguise, for that too helped her forget the anguish and despair that

came when she thought of Royal Clensy of the great world, of her father,

Claircine and all she had left behind in the world that was fast

becoming a misty past to her sorrowing mind.

As the days passed Hawahee would sit by Sestrina with a troubled

expression on his face. “Like me, he sorrows over the memories of the

past,” thought Sestrina as she sat opposite him, watching him moodily

toil over the beautiful basket-weaving which he was so proficient in.

Then the castaway girl’s handsome comrade would rise, and saying,

“Wahine, I will go and scan the seas for a sail,” would walk across the

valley to see his leper comrades.

And why did Hawahee seek his stricken brothers? It was for the special

purpose of remonstrating with them, chiding them for their evil desires.

“Thou hast deserted thy goddess Pelé, and Atua of Langi,” he would say

as he stood before the stricken men while they sat huddled by their

wattle hut by the moaning, everlasting seas.

Lupo, Rohana, Steno and the two blind men would hang their heads in

shame and ask forgiveness.

“Ora loa Jesu,” sighed Rohana as he knelt in prayer before Hawahee,

asking the Christian God to help him fight against his sinful desires.

“’Tis well that you pray,” said Hawahee sternly, as he reminded them how

they had broken their sacred oaths. For they, too, had embraced

Christianity when first afflicted with the scourge, and at the same time

had secretly sworn to be faithful to the goddess Pelé and the god

Kuahilo, and so banish all desires of the flesh.

“’Tis te rom (rum) that did fire our bodies and the meats from the

wreck,” murmured Lupo.

Then Steno had sighed in a melancholy voice in this wise:

“But beautiful is she who dwelleth near our sorrow, she hath eyes and

beauty that must have been made by the great White God when He first

sighed the stars and made the soft whiteness of the sea-dawns.”

“Surely her mouth was made from the rosy flush of the first sunrise that

startled the great dark on the deep seas,” murmured Rohana as Steno’s

words fired his soul with bright thoughts over Sestrina’s beauty.

“And when she passed by us, O Hawahee, chief of Lahaina, we could scent

the odours of the first flowers on the mountain-side, made when the

White God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and formed trees, and birds to

wing the blue Langi,” said the two blind lepers as they mumbled and

sighed and moved their sightless heads thither and thither as they

imagined Sestrina’s loveliness and longed-for sight.

Then Lupo, who had nursed jealousy in his breast that Hawahee should

claim the girl’s companionship, hung his head and promised Hawahee never

to attempt to approach Sestrina again. And Lupo meant what he said. But,

alas! for the weakness of mortals, once more the lepers fell before the

compelling strength of their desires. Hawahee did not know they still

possessed two barrels of rum, which they had hidden in the caves just by

their dwelling.

And so Sestrina, two nights after the lepers had given their promise not

to approach her, was suddenly awakened again. Some one had thrown a

stone; she sat up and trembled in her fright; then some more pebbles

were thrown. She heard them go “tap, tap!” on the wooden walls of her

homestead.

“What can it be? Surely not Hawahee?” she thought, as she sprang from

her couch and ran towards the door. Pushing the old sail-cloth curtain

aside, she peered out into the night. The moon was high over the sea,

sending its silver radiance on the shore palms as the dark-fingered

leaves softly stirred to the warm breeze. “It must have been the fall of

a coco-nut,” she thought as she turned round and gazed up at the tall

coco-palm that sheltered her humble roof. Then she stared into the

shadows, and again looked seaward, where the tumbling silvered waves

seemed beating silently as they curled over the shore reefs. “Aue! Aue!”

she cried, as in her fright she dodged back—“pat, pat!” two more pebbles

had been thrown! With difficulty she suppressed the instinctive feminine

desire to scream for help—three figures had crept out of the bamboo

thicket, across the hollow, right opposite her door! Sestrina stood like

some beautiful chiselled statue with flying hair as she saw the dark

figures commence to crawl down the small slope, making straight for her

dwelling. For a moment the girl felt strangely calm. “It is the

lepers—and they want me!” she murmured, as in a flash she realised the

truth. As the figures passed by the huge prickly-backed cacti—that

resembled sleeping monsters breathing in moonlight—she distinctly

recognised Rohana, Steno and Lupo, and knew that the two hesitating

forms that crept behind were the blind lepers. Lupo was the foremost;

she saw his burning eyes stare at her through the moonlit gloom. Just

behind Rohana crawled Steno, and he, with the two blind lepers, was

lifting skeleton-like arms as though in terrible appeal as they each

stayed a moment on the slope. Sestrina stood perfectly still by her door

as the soft night wind touched her hair and sent it in ripples over her

face and shoulders. As Rohana lifted his head up to stare over Lupo’s

shoulder, he rolled his bulging, nearly blind eyes to locate Sestrina.

He could hear his comrades whispering about the girl’s loveliness. The

sounds of their whispering voices brought Sestrina to her senses.

Running a few steps forward, she cried:

“Stop!”

On seeing the girl’s determined attitude, as she stood with one hand

uplifted, Lupo, Rohana and Steno ceased to move. Then they lifted their

hands in appeal and at the same time whispered as loud as they dared—for

they knew that Hawahee slept near—impassioned words over her beauty.

“Are you hungry, brothers?” whispered Sestrina, as she leaned forward,

caught a few words and fancied the lepers appealed for food.

The lepers made no reply. Then Rohana rose to his feet, and, looking

over Lupo’s shoulder, said, in his own tongue, words which, translated,

would be as follows:

“O wahine, give us but one touch from thy lips, one embrace, and we will

never come again, but will take our sorrowing hearts in prayer to the

great White God of yours, and thank Him and thee also for thy divine

mercy towards hungry, sorrowing, yet sinful men.”

Though Sestrina did not understand, there was that light in their eyes

which spoke louder than words. A great fear clutched at her heart. She

turned to rush back into her homestead. In one bound Lupo had reached

her side, his comrades just behind him. The leper had clasped her in his

arms and was endeavouring to press hot kisses on her shoulders and face.

Rohana, who stood just by and had noticed the soft whiteness of her

arms, fell down on his knees, and in the delirium of the terrible

passion that maddened his better self, began to wail out words of appeal

and love for her ears.

Sestrina’s frightened scream echoed over the silent hills of the isle.

Even the roosting parrots rose in a fluttering, shrieking shower and

flapped and muttered in the moonlit sky at being disturbed by humanity

in the sylvan peace of their tropic world.

Hawahee, who had awakened with a start at hearing the girl’s cry, jumped

from his bed-mat. Rushing towards Sestrina’s hut, he found her

struggling in Lupo’s grasp as Rohana stood by and Steno and the two

blind lepers groped in their madness to touch the girl’s flesh. In a

moment Hawahee had knocked Lupo and Rohana down. Then he seized hold of

Sestrina and carried her fainting form into her chamber.

“Thank Pelé, Kuahilo, and the great White God that I was in time,” he

murmured, as Sestrina opened her eyes and said:

“Do not hurt them. They tried to kiss me; they have gone mad!”

Next day Hawahee went over to the lepers’ dwelling. Gazing upon the

stricken men with flashing eyes, he said, “Betrayers of innocence!

Faithless to the gods and to thine own souls, Pelé, Kuahilo and Atua of

Langi will leave your bodies everlastingly in the dust.”

Saying such things as these to the lepers, they hung their heads in

shame. And though Hawahee’s wrath was righteous and came from the depths

of his noble soul, he, too, was a man and so secretly felt a deep

compassion for his weaker fellows. But still keeping up an appearance of

anger, he ordered the lepers to pack up at once and go away, and make

another dwelling for themselves on the other side of the isle. Then he

straightway went into the hollows next to where they slept, and seeing

the half-empty barrel of rum, turned it upside down and let the hot

fluid run away into the sands.

“Loa, va naki” (go at once from here), he said.

The stricken men at once began to pack their belongings—a few old

clothes and trinkets saved from the wreck—and were soon prepared to

depart.

“Wahine, Sestra!” called Hawahee. As Sestrina, who had stood close by in

the shade of the bamboos, appeared, the erring men dropped their eyes,

and the blind ones wailed.

“Come thou too,” said Hawahee as he looked at the girl.

In a moment Sestrina followed the men as they started off with their

belongings. When they all arrived at the other side of the isle, they

found a large hollow by the shore, close to the palm-sheltered lagoons.

“This spot is even better than the place which you have left,” said

Hawahee.

On the slopes around stood coco-palms and flamboyant trees, the ground

being exquisitely carpeted with clusters of hibiscus and other rich

patterns of tropical flowers that were shaded by the beautiful pulus

(tree ferns).

When the banished lepers had placed their humble chattels in the large

cavern, Hawahee and Sestrina did their best to make them as comfortable

as possible. Then the handsome Hawaiian looked sternly upon the abject

men, and warned them never to come to the other side of the isle.

“Should you do so, you come to die,” he said, and the note in his voice

sounded ominous. Then he promised to come on the morrow and bring the

few chattels which they had been obliged to leave behind. “Brothers, my

love, notwithstanding your sins, is true and deep for you,” he said, and

saying this, he put forth his hand and muttered: “Ora loi Jesu, aloah, O

gods of Langi!” and on hearing these words, the lepers, like obedient

children, followed him down to the shore. Falling on their trembling

knees in the soft sands, they did as Hawahee bade—fervently prayed to

Kuahilo, Atua and the goddess Pelé, their faces turned towards the

sunset, which was the fiery portal of Pelé’s dwelling.

Sestrina, who stood a little way off, under the palms up the shore,

heard the pathetic mumblings as they prayed in their native language,

appealing to the gods, asking help so that they might conquer their

sinful desires. She saw them lift their fleshless hands and stricken

faces as they helped guide the hands of their blind comrades, as each

turned towards the light of the seaward sunset.

Sestrina felt sorry as she saw that sight; she turned her eyes away from

the shore and wept.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

PART III

CHAPTER I

_What greater wonder can the fates have planned

Than this lone isle’s green palms and coral bars?

That I—lost on a vast untravelled sea—

Might stand astonished staring at the stars!_

EIGHT years had passed since the winds had drifted Sestrina and the

lepers into the vast solitude of that isle in the Pacific Ocean. Even on

that lonely island world, Time’s flight had wrought wondrous changes.

On the elevation, just above the shore reefs by the lagoons, stood five

lumps of coral stone which had been fashioned so as to resemble crosses.

It was the tiny necropolis where the lepers, Lupo, Rohana, Steno and

their two blind comrades lay asleep with all their mortal desires and

sins in the dust under the waving palms.

The years had changed Sestrina from a slim maid into the fully developed

beauty of womanhood. The hot tropical suns had tanned her body into a

deeper olive hue. Clad in the carefully woven raiment of tropical tappa

and silky fibres, she looked as wildly beautiful as the rich tropical

loveliness of the isle itself. Deferred hope and the agony of years, all

that she had suffered during her castaway life on the isle, had written

the poetry of sorrow on her brow. Her full dark eyes had become

mournful-looking, but shone with a deeper light than they had done in

her girlhood. In all the time that had passed since she had first set

foot on that desert isle, only one schooner had appeared on the horizon,

bringing a great hope to her heart. The cleverly weaved red and green

tappa-cloth signal-flag, made by Hawahee’s hands, and which still flew

on top of the dead palm that stood out on the promontory’s edge, had

streamed to the breezes, calling to the skylines—in vain! The schooner’s

sails had faded away, leaving a deeper loneliness in Sestrina’s heart.

She had watched it tacking, creeping along the dim blue skyline till the

sails faded into the sunset’s glow, taking her dreams and passionate

yearnings out to the great world that she but dimly remembered.

Time had completely metamorphosed her memory of the past. Her

childhood’s knowledge of the great world of men and women had been

slowly transmuted into a tiny isle set in surrounding, infinite seas, a

universe of stars, a lonely tropic sun, dim horizons, and Hawahee’s

melancholy eyes. Her Bible, and the books of life that she read, were

the moods of the winds, the seas and changing seasons. She saw her

passions blossom in the fiery crimson of the flamboyant trees, her

purest thoughts in the delicate spiritual flowers of gossamer whiteness;

her soul’s longing shone in the earnest stars, and her vanity in the

mirroring blue lagoons. All the great wonder, terror and mystery of the

unknown came to her on the voice of the winds when the ramping storms

and typhoons swept those sailless seas. Nature’s multitudinous twinings,

leafy arms of green and dark-branched broodings, made the grand æolian

harp that played to the wind’s shifting fingers, filling her soul with

religious fervour. The stars shining by night through those sombre

boughs were, to her, the glittering thoughts of the mighty dark-branched

brain of some heathen god. But dawn brought the eternal rose of beauty

in the radiant birth of the sunrise as she sat on the shore reefs,

piping on her flute while the flowers danced and the birds sang those

long, long thoughts that floated in the haunting mists of her mind. Her

sorrow, all the anguish and tears of years, had imparadised the skyline

of her memory, shining like an everlasting rainbow by virtue of the

sunlight of her days of pale resignation.

Sestrina had become a pagan! Yet—though her life had been slowly

transmuted into a conscious dreaming of the vast mystery of the

universe—she was still full of sweetness and light as she went about her

domestic duties. As she stood by the shore palms, she glanced with

satisfaction down at the heap of shellfish in her hand-woven basket.

Then she walked up the soft silvery sands till she came to her

homestead, a thatched hut which stood in the shades of the valley’s high

breadfruit trees and palms.

“Sestra!” said a man’s voice as she lifted a calabash and poured water

into the big shell-pot wherein she had placed the fish, and which was

hanging over the small domestic hearth-fire.

It was Hawahee who spoke. The hand of time had also toiled on his brow,

leaving faint lines and all the poetry of grief which ennobles the human

countenance. Through living on fresh shellfish, and through constant

bathings in the ocean that encircled his home, he had stayed the ravages

of the terrible scourge with which he was afflicted. He was still young

and handsome.

“Is the fish cooked, Sestra?”

“Yes, and I have cooked the yams and taro,” replied Sestrina.

She brushed her mass of shining tresses aside, and gazing in the

Hawaiian’s face, swiftly dropped her eyes again.

For years they had dwelt in the solitude of that place as comrades, and

only yesterday, for the first time, Hawahee had looked steadily at her

and said: “Sestra, you are beautiful to gaze upon, the light of the

stars still lingers in your eyes long after the dawn has come.”

He had often spoken to Sestrina in the semi-poetic style which is the

fascinating characteristic of Hawaiian speech, but never before had

Sestrina seen him look at her so. Her heart did not resent the tender

meaning of that look. She, too, had felt the great heart-loneliness and

the desire which comes to women when they feel the tiny fingers of

unborn children twining about the bosom of their dreams.

“The gods and goddesses have been good to us, Sestra.”

“Indeed they have, O Hawahee,” replied Sestrina in those sweet sombre

tones that had become habitual to her through years of isolated

companionship with the Hawaiian chief.

Throwing a small piece of wood on the kitchen fire, where the cooking

fish fizzled and splattered, Hawahee continued: “Ah, wahine, though you

so often dream of one you love, and have brought tears to my eyes over

your sorrow, remember that I am a lonely man, dwelling in lonelier

sorrow. And, I say, that though I have promised the gods to quench the

fire of mortal desire, I know ’tis no wish of the gods Kauhilo, Atua or

merciful Pelé, that I should not gaze on the loveliness of woman.”

“How know you that I dream of others than Pelé, Kauhilo and Atua?” said

Sestrina, as she gazed in wonder on the man who could read her secret

dreams.

“Can I help the magic light that brightens my soul, this gift of the

gods which enables me to see your innermost dreams? Can I stay the

reflected light of thy beauty from stealing over my soul, or the pain

and anguish of my quenched desires, O wahine?”

Sestrina listened with bowed head, and blushed deeply. She well knew the

sorrow of the man’s thoughts; and was not vanity a part of her

birthright? Only that morning had she stared on her image in the lagoon

and sighed as her wind-blown tresses rippled over the graceful beauty of

her form and about her faultless face.

Seeing Sestrina’s downcast eyes the Hawaiian sighed and said: “Wahine,

sister mine, feel not unkindly towards me; I am thy friend. Long ago I

would have died, but for the thought of your loneliness should I, too,

sleep on in the grave under the palms.”

Sestrina heard the deep note of sorrow in Hawahee’s voice, and wiped her

eyes, for up to that day he had always spoken as a dear brother to her.

And a strange thing had happened the night before as she dreamed in her

chamber and heard the starlit waves wailing on the beach below. For, had

she not leapt from her couch in wonder when she saw Hawahee asleep and

dreaming as he held her shadowy form in his arms—though he was in his

own hut under the breadfruits by the slopes of the valley, two hundred

yards away!

Hawahee was unaware that Sestrina also had suddenly become endowed with

the magic-flash which enabled him to read the deep dreams of the

solitary woman who stood before him.

Taking a crumpled flower from the folds of her hair, Sestrina placed it

tenderly against her lips and then handed it to Hawahee.

“Aloah, beloved, Mikai!” had replied the Hawaiian castaway as he took

the gift and sadly smiled. For he had spent many long twilight hours in

the island’s solitude telling Sestrina the poetic customs of his people.

And one custom was, that the Hawaiian maids gave crumpled flowers that

had adorned their hair in sleep to the one whom their hearts secretly

sorrowed over.

“’Tis sweet to feel the light and warmth of the living day, therefore I

am thankful for the gifts of the gods of the heiaus (sacred temples).”

Then they sat down opposite each other and ate their breakfast in

silence. The blue tropic day had risen in all the virgin splendour of

its new birth, and was scattering golden sunlight through the sheltering

palms as they sat there.

“Sestra! Sestra!” chuckled old Rohana. Then the aged, grey-striped,

blue-winged cockatoo stared sideways from its perch at Hawahee, who was

solemnly munching away, and croaked, “O Atua! O Pelé!”

“Be quiet, Rohana!” said Sestrina as she gazed fondly at the

wise-looking cockatoo which they had tamed and made their close

companion, calling it Rohana since its eyes so strangely reminded them

of the dead leper.

“The winds blow steadily from the sunrise, wahine, and so the heiaus

(temples) music moans for us,” said Hawahee in a solemn voice. As he

rose from his squatting mat, Sestrina also rose, and, inclining her

form, she listened to the musical murmurs that floated from the temple.

“Let us go and give thanks to the gods ere the sun is high,” said

Hawahee as he brushed the crumbs from his tappa-robe that so admirably

suited his tall, handsome figure. Then they both went away down the

slope that led into the lovely valley of breadfruits. Sestrina, with

bowed head, followed close behind her masterful, but kind, companion.

In a few moments they stood before the wonderful temple which Hawahee

had fashioned after infinite toil during the long lonely years. The

temple had been made out of the natural structure of the big cavern and

its high rocky walls in the valley’s side. The dimly lit, hollow chamber

was about fifteen feet high, and the altar side was composed of

wonderfully arranged shells of multitudinous shapes and sizes, all

having been placed in rows and spiral columns that rose to the roofless

edifice, for the sun by day and the stars at night were the sacred

lights that shone through the branched heights of that temple’s roof.

These shells, many of enormous dimensions, had been arranged with

delicate care in such a way, that when the winds blew from the

south-east, and came sweeping down the valley, they blew into the pearly

convolutions of each shell, which responded with a musical murmur. It

was not a disordered, unharmonious sound which the shells gave forth

when the sea winds blew, but a perfect, harmonious, plaintive chant-like

chime. And it was this weird, mournful chime which came to Hawahee’s and

Sestrina’s ears as they crept under the tall breadfruit trees, so that

they might kneel in prayer before the altar of the shell-gods!

It was a grand, masterly fashioned work, a temple of the highest art

attainable by mortal man. With the infinite patience of religious

fervour, and a deep insight and belief in the divine omnipotence of his

pagan gods, Hawahee had scraped and cut, through years of toil, three of

the larger shells till they resembled the faces of the goddess Pelé and

the gods Kauhilo and Atua. With no other tool than a broken ship’s

clasp-knife, which he had found on the _Belle Isle_, Hawahee had slowly

cut holes and chiselled perfect brows, leaving the wide pearly

convolution of each shell’s entrance for a mouth. The broad shoulders,

bust and limbs of giant proportions had been cut from boulders of coral

stone, each limb being fixed by indistinguishable joints of red clay.

The whole was a wondrous work of art. Each shell-face and boulder had

been exalted from insensate stone into an object of marvellous

allegorical, sombre, awesome beauty. The pearl flush of the lips and the

wrinkled brows expressed, in sculptural silence, something of the terror

and majesty of the unknown powers of the universe! For, Hawahee had

achieved the highest artistic result: through infinite toil he had

managed to imbue, endow each form with god-like attributes. And lo, each

face was an exact representation of the wonderful picture which his

poetic imagination, his inward vision shaped when he knelt in religious

fervour to the starlit dark and his pagan gods. But, withal, there was

something more than chiselled, symbolical beauty in Hawahee’s sculptural

work. This humble castaway child of Art who created his own deities, had

endowed their lips with the grand orchestral harmony of the ocean’s cry

in a thousand thousand caverns: for when the winds blew, each wonderful

shell-mouth of the gods and goddess moaned a deep bass note which was in

perfect harmony with the shrill murmurings and musical clamour of the

wonderful altar’s smaller shells!

The goddess Pelé, who stood in the centre—Kauhilo on the right and Atua

on the left side—was seven feet in height and possessed four arms, the

extreme right arm being outstretched, the perfect tapering fingers

gripping the yellowish, ivory idol that had been the symbol of the dead

Chinaman’s religion. Kauhilo, who gazed with an eternal sidelong glance

from his brilliant stone eyes at Pelé, had a human skull poised on his

right shoulder. Atua had four arms, three outstretched and one inclined

in marvellous sculptural beauty as it rested on Pelé’s shoulder, while

the pearl-white eyes gazed with immutable grief into the leafy shadows

of the banyan beyond the altar’s portals. Incredible as it may seem,

Hawahee had with infinite patience and genius constructed a marvellous

æolian organ of shells, whereon the winds not only played a cunning,

sweet-murmuring cadence, but rendered a sombre, beautiful Hawaiian hymn.

Some of the shells weighed a hundredweight; and glittering in the

sunlight that shone down through the palms over the temple, they looked

like mysterious pipes of some cathedral organ of nature’s construction,

rows upon rows of small shells gradually increasing to larger rosy

shells, each row arranged so that it gave forth the required note when

the winds swept down the valley.

The first idea that had inspired Hawahee to make this wonderful

instrument, came from his memory of the great Atua priests of his native

isles. These priests would artfully place large empty shells on the

shores by the tribal villages so that when the storms blew, the shells

moaned to the listening, superstitious chiefs hidden up the shores. So

did the priests invest their persons with a mighty significance and

prove to the chiefs that they were the chosen of Atua, Tangalora, Pelé

and Kauhilo.

It had taken years to select the one shell from thousands that would,

when placed just so, give forth the exact note required. Sestrina had

helped Hawahee in the building of this wonderful temple and altar. She,

too, had roamed round the shores of that lonely Pacific isle gathering

thousands and thousands of seashells, and had shared Hawahee’s

enthusiasm as one by one the perfect shell was discovered. Under the

influence of the Hawaiian’s fanaticism, Sestrina had developed deep

faith in the virtue of the shell’s Lydian strains. “The great White God,

and the older gods, will know the love I have given to this work, and

will hear the winds of heaven singing sweetly to their ears,” said

Hawahee.

Sestrina had gazed in wonder as the handsome, dignified fanatic toiled

through the years over his marvellous work of love. And so, she too had

developed a reverence for the stars and the voice of that mighty

lyrist—the wind of heaven—and had felt the deep soul-thrilling thoughts

that come to those who kneel before the materialised shapes of their

imagination, those objects which faintly represent the solemnity of

their innermost faith.

When Hawahee and Sestrina entered the temple, they at once knelt before

Atua, Pelé and Kauhilo. Then, as the winds swept along the valley and

the goddess Pelé’s tongueless shell-lips moaned a rich Lydian note to

the deeper mouths of the gods, they too lifted their voices and took

part in that wondrous choir.

Sestrina trembled. For the first time for years she found her thoughts

straying from the solemnity of the occasion. And why? She distinctly

heard Hawahee extemporising unusual words—words of his own language,

words that appealed with fervour to the gods to help him stay the desire

of the body.

When they once more rose to their feet and stole forth into the broad

light of the tropic day, Sestrina’s head was bowed, and many conflicting

thoughts haunted her mind. As they left those sacred portals, the whole

isle, the seas, the universe itself, hymned forth an echo of the

deep-voiced anthem which they had just heard. The choruses of the

feathered lyrists of the trees were pregnant with meaning. As Hawahee’s

majestic form stalked along, Sestrina stayed her running feet. With

finger to her lips she stood listening to the music of the palm groves:

for, as they moaned to her ears, she half fancied that phantom sea-caves

existed somewhere up in their green, foamy heights. Crimson-winged

lories and sulphur-crested cockatoos wheeled over her head as she once

more hurried after Hawahee. She stared up at the sky, and as the flocks

of birds whirled away, they looked like clusters of wind-blown leaves of

many hues glittering in the sunlight—as though the tropical flowers of

that island world had taken wing!

“The gods are happy this day,” said Hawahee as he, too, loitered, and

Sestrina gazed shoreward with enraptured eyes. She had come to love the

poetry of the distant seas and all the brooding loveliness of nature’s

handiwork around her. Day by day she had stood upon those little shores

watching the infinite expanse of ocean as the tiny waves of the calm

seas crept up to her feet. Those waves seemed her children: with strange

delight she watched them run up the shore to her feet, and with sorrow

saw them toss their foamy heads, as though in despair, ere they crept

back to the homeless deep again. And again, at night she would stand on

the shore by the dark ocean and the imaged stars, staring with such

reverence as one might feel when kneeling in prayer in some mighty

cathedral. She had inherited the imagination and superstition of her

fanatic father in diviner tone. Consequently she had been easily

influenced by the grandeur of Hawahee’s solemn faith.

Even as they reached the heights by the valley she bowed her head in

reverence as the winds swept inland and the murmuring music of the

shells was wafted to her ears.

“Sestra, the music is deep-voiced to-day, and so ‘twill be well to visit

our brothers,” said Hawahee.

Saying this, he and Sestrina turned their footsteps and walked up to the

palm-sheltered spot where Lupo, Steno, Rohana and the rest lay buried.

Each one of the lepers had died with Hawahee’s blessing to soothe their

souls. For when they were at last stricken deep by the ravages of the

terrible scourge, they had crept up to Hawahee’s and Sestrina’s

dwellings and begged forgiveness—forgiveness which had at once been

given. Lupo had been the first to go. He had stood on the shore wringing

his hands as the clear light of death and the infinite came to his soul

in place of the dark of his stricken, blind eyes. Sestrina had at once

run down the shore, and had whispered soothing words into his ears,

telling him there was nothing to forgive, that she was his dear, erring

sister. And when the dying man had turned his face first to the dim

horizon and then to the right and left, ere he located Sestrina, he had

fallen on his knees and wept like a child. Sestrina’s kind words and

wishes for his soul had greatly comforted him as he knelt upon the shore

wrapped in the shroud of death, ready for his soul’s last hurry to the

stars. Rohana, the last to go, had shaken his fist at the sky and cursed

the gods!—ere he fell a huddled heap on the sands. Steno and his two

blind comrades had moaned awhile, and had then fallen asleep like

children with tired heads. And so, Hawahee and Sestrina’s heart felt sad

enough as they knelt by the graves of their dead comrades and prayed.

Then they quickly passed back by the reefs on their way home and parted,

each going to their self-allotted tasks—Sestrina to her domestic duties

and Hawahee to his mat-weaving.

As soon as she had finished her day’s toil, she went down to the beach,

and jumping in her canoe paddled out beyond the reefs. Hawahee had made

that small craft. His delight had ever been to do all in his power to

make the castaway girl as happy as possible.

As Sestrina paddled along, she turned the small prow shoreward again,

and hugged the reefs. Then she stopped, and placing her paddle in the

canoe took her flute from the folds of her robe and started to play the

weird sweet melodies which Hawahee had taught her. Her eyes brightened

as she played on, for the winds in the palms that sheltered the blue

lagoons sighed a deep effective accompaniment to her sylvan music. The

light of reality faded, and her mind became wrapped in a robe of

mystery. She became one with the sea, the winds and the tropical

loveliness around her. Her unerring clock, the travelling sun, had

already stooped to set its golden seal on the brow of the departing day.

She ceased to pipe her songs as she looked seaward and watched the

melancholy eyes of day on the western sea horizon, touching the ocean

with ineffable splendour ere departing into the sleeping lake of all the

years since the birth of Time. She came near to tears as she watched the

first shadows fall and saw the great flocks of birds come speeding

through the distant horizon. On, on they came in their migrating flight,

looking like fleets of swiftly paddled sky-canoes. She looked up and saw

their curling wings hasten over the isle, and could hear their faint

dismal mutterings ere they faded to the southward, leaving a deeper

loneliness behind. It was such sights that awakened the pagan mystery of

her soul and made her a natural child of the universe. Even as she

watched the birds fade away, she recommenced her flute-playing and

paddled close to the shores to seek mysterious company. For Hawahee had

told her many strange legends, and one said: “The souls of the dead

Hawaiian men and women live in the shapes of birds and sing tender

melodies for the ears of those they loved when in mortal shape, and wail

in bitterness to the ears of those who wronged them when they roamed as

mortals on the earth.”

And so, as Sestrina laid her paddle in her canoe and piped her flute,

and heard the soft, Lydian music of the wind amongst the leaves, and

mutterings of cockatoos, she fancied the dead lepers spoke to her. Then,

as the shadows deepened to the westward, she saw shadowy tresses toss as

the winds stirred the dark-fingered palm leaves, revealing to her

watching eyes, visionary faces of beautiful women who gazed in silent

sorrow upon her. Where had she seen those faces before?—dim, remembered

faces of those who had watched over her in her childhood. Ere the stars

came over the seas, she swiftly paddled to the shore.

“I’m feeling strangely sad to-night. What has happened to me that I

should fear the wrath of Atua, Kauhilo and kind Pelé?” she murmured, as

she lay down on her soft couch for the night.

Then she heard Rohana shout, “Atua Hawee! Hawaee! O Pelé!” and knew that

Hawahee was placing ripe corn into the cockatoo’s cage ere he retired to

bed in his homestead just across the slope.

“I am safe, for he sleeps!” she whispered, as though in fright, to

herself. Then she crept from her couch, and kneeling by the old

photograph of Père Chaco, that hung on the wooden wall, she forgot the

shell-gods and prayed feverently to the great, merciful God of her

childhood.