All that she said to me that night as we returned over the stilly waters of the lagoon to our companions, I cannot now remember; I only know that as she sat facing me, and I paddled slowly and dreamily along, I promised her, dully and mechanically, to tell Lucia that night that I loved her.

“And she and thee will be happy, very happy, Simi. Her heart went out to thee from the very first. And children will come to thee, and I shall see them grow—the boys strong and brave as thou art, and the girls fair and sweet as Lucia—and yet shalt thou have thy heart's desire, and be spoken of as a man who did a great deed... a great voyage... and all that hath been done by the three men of whom thou hast so often thought will be but as little compared with this voyage of thine. And she so loves thee, Simi; ah, she so loves thee.”

The soft murmur of her voice enthralled, took such possession of me mentally and physically, that I know not what I answered except that I said again and again, “Ay, I love her, I love her, and I shall tell her of my love, and that she, and she alone, is my heart's desire.”

How long we were in getting back to the island I cannot tell, but I do remember that it was quite dark, and both NiÂbon and myself were paddling vigorously when we heard Tepi's load hail of welcome, and a canoe shot up on the beach, and Lucia came towards me with outstretched hands.

“Jim, oh Jim! I thought you were never coming back,” she said.

I folded her in my arms and kissed her. “Lucia, dear, dear Lucia! Will you be my wife? For I love you,” and then, scarcely knowing what I was doing, I strained her almost savagely to my bosom, and kissed her upturned face again and again.

“Jim, dear, dear Jim,” and her soft arms were around my neck, “and I love you too! I have loved you almost from the day you first came to Taritai, and NiÂbon has told me that one day you would tell me that you loved me... that some day you would speak... Jim dearest, bend down; you are so tall, and I am so little; ah, Jim, I am so little, but my heart, dear, is so big with love for you, that I feel that I could take you in my arms, and kiss you as you now kiss me. Jim, dear, I never, never knew what love meant till now.”

A bright burst of flame illumined the beach, and NiÂbon with a torch in her hand was standing at the water's edge.

“The night is fair and good, and the wind is from the east. Let us away, dear friends.”

Her voice seemed to reach me as if from far, far away, though her dark face with the deep luminous eyes were so near, and, as she spoke, the boat, with Tepi and Tematau standing erect and waiting, grounded gently on the strand.

“Yes, yes, we shall sail to-night,” I cried exultantly, as I again pressed Lucia to my heart, and showered passionate kisses upon her lips, “we shall sail, Lucia my dearest; on, and on, and on, to the north-west, my beloved, till we come to our journey's end, and you and I shall never part again, no never, never, my dearest.”

“Ay, never, never shall ye two part again,” cried NiÂbon, casting down her torch; “man with the strong and daring hand, and woman with the fond and tender heart. Thy lives are forever linked together. Quick, give me thy hand, Lucia, my dove, my own, my own!” She sprang towards us, and took Lucia's hand in hers, and almost tore off her wedding ring, and then flung it far out into the lagoon.

“Sink, sink, thou ring of misery—thou golden circle which should have meant love and trust and happiness, but brought naught but hate and treachery and poison to her who wore it. Sink, accursed thing.”

“Oh, Jim, Jim!” and Lucia turned her streaming eyes to mine, “it was my wedding ring, and when he gave it to me, I think he loved me, wicked and cruel as he was afterwards. Oh, NiÂbon, NiÂbon!” In a moment NiÂbon's arms were around her. “My sweet, my sweet! thou art to me more than life,” she whispered, “I love thee so, Lucia. I love thee so that I would die for thee! Heed not the ring, for now thou hast beside thee a good man—true, brave, and strong—one whose love will forever shield thee. Come, my dearest, come with me to the boat.”

They went down the beach together, with arms around each other's waists, and their footsteps guided by the still-burning torch lying on the sand. I followed, and in another minute I had the tiller in my hand, and told Tepi to push off, as Tematau ran up the jib.

“How now for the passage?” I cried, as I slipped my arm around Lucia's waist, and her lips met mine, “how now for the passage, Tepi? Canst see? Canst see, Tematau?”

NiÂbon placed her hand on mine.

“Have no fear, Simi. The wind is fair and the passage through the reef is wide, and the ship on the right hand is a good guide. See, her masts stand out clear against the sky. And give me the tiller, for thou and Lucia are tired. So sleep—sleep till the dawn, and Tematau and Tepi and I shall keep watch through the night. How shall I steer?”

“North-west, north-west,” I muttered, as Lucia laid her cheek to mine, “north-west, but call me if the wind hauls to the northward.”

She bent oyer Lucia and touched her face softly.

“Sleep, dear one, sleep till dawn,” she said in a whisper, and then with a smile she turned to me.

“Simi, thou too art tired, and must sleep even as Lucia sleepeth now. See, her eyes are closed. How sweet and fair she is as she sleepeth! Ah, how sweet! So, let me touch thy face.” She pressed her soft hand on my brow, and then, with Lucia's head pillowed on my breast, I slept.