“Is the fish cooked, Sestra?”
“Yes, and I have cooked the yams and taro,” replied Sestrina.
She brushed her mass of shining tresses aside, and gazing in the Hawaiian’s face, swiftly dropped her eyes again.
For years they had dwelt in the solitude of that place as comrades, and only yesterday, for the first time, Hawahee had looked steadily at her and said: “Sestra, you are beautiful to gaze upon, the light of the stars still lingers in your eyes long after the dawn has come.”
He had often spoken to Sestrina in the semi-poetic style which is the fascinating characteristic of Hawaiian speech, but never before had Sestrina seen him look at her so. Her heart did not resent the tender meaning of that look. She, too, had felt the great heart-loneliness and the desire which comes to women when they feel the tiny fingers of unborn children twining about the bosom of their dreams.
“The gods and goddesses have been good to us, Sestra.”
“Indeed they have, O Hawahee,” replied Sestrina in those sweet sombre tones that had become habitual to her through years of isolated companionship with the Hawaiian chief.
Throwing a small piece of wood on the kitchen fire, where the cooking fish fizzled and splattered, Hawahee continued: “Ah, wahine, though you so often dream of one you love, and have brought tears to my eyes over your sorrow, remember that I am a lonely man, dwelling in lonelier sorrow. And, I say, that though I have promised the gods to quench the fire of mortal desire, I know ’tis no wish of the gods Kauhilo, Atua or merciful Pelé, that I should not gaze on the loveliness of woman.”
“How know you that I dream of others than Pelé, Kauhilo and Atua?” said Sestrina, as she gazed in wonder on the man who could read her secret dreams.
“Can I help the magic light that brightens my soul, this gift of the gods which enables me to see your innermost dreams? Can I stay the reflected light of thy beauty from stealing over my soul, or the pain and anguish of my quenched desires, O wahine?”