“Beloved Sestra, do not fear: the shells and the gods will still moan on in the temple of the valley when we are far away and helpless on the great waters.”
How strange is human nature with all its habits and old faiths and long-nursed beliefs!
The next moment a flood of sympathy came to Sestrina’s heart—her jealousy of the gods had vanished—she felt a great wave of sorrow come to her soul in the thought of the poor shells moaning in the valley and she and he so far away!
“Hawahee, we shall be happy when we are out on the great water?”
“Sestra, we will; and see, already the hands of the gods are painting the colours of the sunset with gold and the warm blood of my desires; ’tis a sure sign that they will not be angry.”
Sestrina sprang into his arms, and then turned her head and saw a great flood of crimson and gold staining the vast storied window of the remote western skyline.
“Thanks to great Langi for this hour!” murmured Hawahee.
Then Sestrina went on with her cooking and the Hawaiian stole away into the shadows to pray before his shell oracles. After chanting his prayers into those deaf ears, he passed out of the temple and stole into the shadows and stood before Sestrina’s stone image.
Why did he gaze so solemnly, so silently on that form and face that represented all that was divine, all that was beautiful with innocence and immortal loveliness to his pagan imagination? What had happened that even a heathen’s eyes should fill with tears as he bent and knelt before the cold stone and gazed up into the wide-lidded eyelids? Why did he, for the first time, place his warm arms around the cold grace of that bloodless thing? Who can tell, who can whisper one word, one murmur that can explain the deep mysteries of the human soul’s aspirations for the loveliness which mortals call innocence and beauty and truth? Who? Why is the sweetest nectar, in the divinest vintage that was ever squeezed from creation’s mighty wine-press of toiling suns and stars, bitter to the soul’s taste, bringing nought to sad mortals but the despair of shattered dreams and disillusionment?
The soulful Hawaiian poet rose to his feet and placed his lips in sorrow against the grace of the cold bosom; he placed his warm fingers amongst the chill fingers of the shape’s outstretched hand and cried aloud—like a weeping child! He had placed a withered flower that had faded in the statue’s reality—in Sestrina’s hair—in the small, cold hand’s palm.