they went by; and all persons
began with one accord to disengage themselves from their advances.

Depression fell upon their spirits. They would sit at night in their new
house, after a day's weariness, and not exchange one word, or the
silence would be broken by Kokua bursting suddenly into sobs. Sometimes
they would pray together; sometimes they would have the bottle out upon
the floor, and sit all evening watching how the shadow hovered in the
midst. At such times they would be afraid to go to rest. It was long ere
slumber came to them, and, if either dozed off, it would be to wake and
find the other silently weeping in the dark, or, perhaps, to wake alone,
the other having fled from the house and the neighbourhood of that
bottle, to pace under the bananas in the little garden, or to wander on
the beach by moonlight.

One night it was so when Kokua awoke. Keawe was gone. She felt in the
bed, and his place was cold. Then fear fell upon her, and she sat up in
bed. A little moonshine filtered through the shutters. The room was
bright, and she could spy that bottle on the floor. Outside it blew
high, the great trees of the avenue cried aloud, and the fallen leaves
rattled in the verandah. In the midst of this Kokua was aware of another
sound; whether of a beast or of a man she could scarce tell, but it was
as sad as death, and cut her to the soul. Softly she arose, set the door
ajar, and looked forth into the moonlit yard. There, under the bananas,
lay Keawe, his mouth in the dust, and as he lay he moaned.

It was Kokua's first thought to run forward and console him; her second
potently withheld her. Keawe had borne himself before his wife like a
brave man; it became her little in the hour of weakness to intrude upon
his shame. With the thought she drew back into the house.

"Heaven!" she thought, "how careless have I been--how weak! It is he,
not I, that stands in this eternal peril; it was he, not I, that took
the curse upon his soul. It is for my sake, and for the love of a
creature of so little worth and such poor help, that he now beholds so
close to him the flames of hell--ay, and smells the smoke of it, lying
without there in the wind and moonlight. Am I so dull of spirit that
never till now I have surmised my duty, or have I seen it before and
turned aside? But now, at least, I take up my soul in both the hands of
my affection; now I say farewell to the white steps of heaven and the
waiting faces of my friends