To O'Higgins—for all his sordid business he was not insensible to beauty—to O'Higgins she appeared to have entered the room with the light. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. “You are a miracle! God spares few from the Pestilence. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. ‘Eh bien, you are not like Leonardo. Gerald watched its approach with vague interest, which quickened when he saw that it was drawing up outside the very house out of which he had just stepped. Sheppard returned no answer. They either ran to see or ran for shelter. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe. The Kanaka— which means man—is a Sandwich Islander, with a Malayan base. He saw the flames burst from the windows, and perhaps in that maddening spectacle suffered torture equivalent to some of the crimes he had committed. We were two people with a craving.
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