s. She was his,--
Taka was his, the blossom that should cheer
The winter of his age. His springing step
Was stealthy as a tiger's, and the way
Was clear before him. Rightly was he named
The lightning; keen and cruel he would flash
Into this sky of love, death in his hand.
The path was strewn with little crimson flowers
Scarlet festooned the trees, or was it blood
That danced within his eyes? His thoughts were vague:
Death, mercy, love, but strongest was desire
Merely to see and satisfy his fear.
Sudden he saw them, and he hid his eyes
Before the sight, then strained to see again
Taka, her arms piled high with blossoms, stood,
An amber goddess of spring with flying hair
Beneath a flower-bent branch, whose leaves had caught
One of her sun-kissed curls. Malua watched her.
Laughing, she would have torn away the tress
And with the effort all the starry flowers
Drifted like snow across their bended heads,
But with a low cry he withheld her hand,
And standing where she needs must turn to see
His two arms o'er her slender shoulder laid,
With fingers little used to gentler arts
His timid touch unloosed her perfumed hair,
Too near--for aught but that her curving throat
Should be upturned to meet his sure caress,
And all the blossoms drifted thro' the air
And fell like blessings on their bended heads.

Uhila bore no more; his heart was great
With unshed tears; their beauty and their love
Touched like soft music on his injured soul
With infinite sadness and a hopeless calm.
He left them there and sought the forest shades
To search his heart. A great nobility
Slept in his native breast, and those pale drops
Of northern blood had taught him self-control
And might of mercy. To and fro he paced,
Learning his lesson. Taka, little moon
Sent by the gods to light his loneliness,
Was his no longer. He must twist his heart,
Wried with grim pain, to smiles of pleasantness.
Ah, it was great. Uhila should be great,
Giving her to Malua as a gift,
Showing Akau how he wished no more
To wed so young a maid, and then the tears
Broke from his eyes and burned his throbbing breast.
Homeward he turned, and all the sleepy birds
Twittered good-night--and almost was he glad.
In the cool green of evening, silent now
Save for their beating hearts, the lovers came
Back to the village. In the stranger's honor
The people made a feast. The air was filled
With busy sounds of preparation. Some
Brought driftwood for the fires, some gathered flowe