s been out in the night--?"

He whirled around and the maddened, jealous rage and hate rose up in his
soul like scum on a dark pool.

"With a nigger!" he screamed.

All his strength was behind the tiller-rope. It slashed Motauri over the
face so that the red welt seemed to spurt. As he lifted his arm to
repeat, with a strangled cry Motauri leapt upon him and the rest was
fury. They fought baresark, interlocked and silent, spinning from side
to side of the room. Gregson had the weight and the thews and the
cunning. He kept the other's clutch away from his throat and maneuvred
toward the table. As they reeled against it, he put forth a mighty
effort, tore off Motauri and hurled him away for an instant--long enough
to grab the revolver.

"_Nigger_--I said!"

But in the very gasp he choked. The weapon raised for a chopping,
pointblank shot, dropped over his shoulder. He rocked, pressing at his
heart, frowned heavily once, and fell crashing forward....

* * * * *

"Hokoolele! Hokoolele--! Up and make haste!"

Miss Matilda lifted her face from her hands.

"Let us hurry while there is time," urged Motauri, thickly. "No one has
seen or heard us yet. His boat-shed is open. We are safe!"

"Go away from me!" said Miss Matilda.

"What do you say?" he stammered. "Come. Nobody will stop us. Nobody will
know anything, about us--"

She fended him off with a gesture of instinctive loathing....

"Please go--"

"But you cannot stay here! It would be a very evil thing for you if you
were found in this house. It must never be known you were here at all."

"Don't touch me!" That seemed the only important thing.

"Hokoolele--what of the golden chain of love between us? Come with me
now!"

"I was mad. I was blind. It is judgment!"

He regarded her sorrowfully, but sternly too.

"You mean you do not want me any more?"

"No--!" she moaned, in the stupor of horror and despair. And then the
brown man, the native, whose blood had been roused by every agency that
can stir wild blood to frenzy--by love and shame, by drink, by battle
and triumph--then Motauri, the high chief, struck unerringly to the
heart of the matter and made his swift decision by his own primitive
lights. Recovering her shawl he wrapped it about her tightly, caught her
up once more willy-nilly in his arms and bore her away from that
sinister place by force....

She was lying on a bench in the veranda of her father's house a