“Ah, wahine, I have come from my couch because I heard the hidden voices whispering echoes of your own dreams into my heart. Be brave and strong, Sestra, and desert not the gods. Pelé’s voice was deep with sorrow this night when I knelt before her.” Then Hawahee lifted his hand and said: “The shell-altars and the gods are speaking, listen!”
And as they both listened, they heard the night wind drifting the solemn chant-chimes of Atua, Kauhilo, and Pelé across the slopes. The voices sounded deep and solemn, and strangely in harmony with the low monotone of the seas that answered along the shore. Again they kissed, and again they heard the god-voices moan as the wind swept down the breadfruit valley. Hawahee, fanatic as he was, seemed to realise at that moment how he had toiled for years to create gods who would make his heart quake with fear when the fruits of happiness and desire were within his grasp. He turned his head and gazed in bitterness through the doorway. The next moment the light of remorse and fear leapt into his eyes. He had remembered all that the gods were supposed to have done for him, and for Sestrina.
“But for their mercy I might be lying under the palms, hidden from the winds of heaven beside Rohana, Steno, and their comrades in death,” he thought.
Sestrina noticed the swift change in the man’s manner. Then she too placed her hands to her ears as though she would attempt to shut out the moans of the shell-gods.
“Be faithful to the gods, O wahine.”
“I will!” replied Sestrina as the old pagan superstition swept back to her, bringing melancholy to her heart. For she had heard the praise of a strong man’s voice. She sat up and stared in an appealing way at Hawahee as she realised what her life had missed through the cruelty of the fates. The presence of the tall, handsome man thrilled her in a strange way, a thrill over which she seemed to have too little selfcontrol. She half hated herself as the winds swept through the open door of her chamber, and disturbed her tresses, making Hawahee turn his eyes from her form as though he dreaded the temptation of her presence.
“’Tis I who am the temptress, he is truly noble—I am weak,” she said to herself. “Ah, were it not for my memory of the past, and my thousand prayers to the great White God and the Virgin when Hawahee thinks I am praying to his gods, I would—”
Her reflections were suddenly broken short. Hawahee spoke, his voice sounding almost stern:
“Sestra, a light which does not belong to the olden gods shines in your eyes; why is this?”
“No! No!” said Sestrina as she gazed in fright at the man who could read her thoughts. The next moment, Hawahee’s voice had softened.