“But I do not wish to leave you. Should I be taken from this isle, and know that you were left here alone, to die, I should never be happy again.”
The Hawaiian maid, who had crept up whilst her lover was speaking, heard all that Waylao said, and was deeply touched. But they both quickly responded as though with one voice: “We must not allow you to sacrifice your life for our sake; we are sure to die, then it will be you who will be left here alone.” Without saying another word, the chief went out to the palm-tree that grew on the most distant point of the promontory, climbed the highest tree and fixed old Mrs Matafa’s knitted shawl on the topmost bough. There it waved, flying to the breeze of that silent sea, the token of Mrs Matafa’s kindness, flapping violently as its knitted folds called to the illimitable sky-lines for help.
Waylao was too wretched to resist the wishes of the lepers. She knew that the terrors of death were upon the beautiful Hawaiian maid Aiola, for only the night before she had heard the maid say, as she clung to the chief: “We must die! We must die, O Le Haiwa-oe! Promise that I am dead ere mine eyes are dull!” And the chief promised.
“Beloved,” he said, “your eyes are still beautiful.” But as he gazed his heart was stricken with anguish. For the terrible sight was there before his gaze: the maid’s eyes were bulged and shining like glass in consequence of the terrible scourge.
They made Waylao sleep alone. “You will surely catch the leprosy if you sleep near us,” they said. So as the wind blew through the coco-palms all night, and the waves tossed up the shore, Waylao tossed sleeplessly. She could hear the Hawaiian girl moaning through the night in her sleep: “O my beloved, kill me! Kill me! My eyes! My eyes!”
Next day, when Waylao thought she was unobserved, she crept out to the edge of the promontory. There was no wind. The sea was like a mighty sheet of glass. Only one or two waves, at long intervals, crept in from the swell, to break sparkling on the sun-lit sand.
In a few seconds she had tied a large bit of rock coral on to the string that she held secretly in her hand. This string she tied again to her waist, then, with a prayer on her lips, she dived noiselessly into the deep, clear water—and disappeared in the depths.
The Hawaiian chief by the merest chance saw Waylao’s head disappear beneath the calm surface. He rushed out to the promontory’s edge and tried to locate the spot where the girl had sunk. As the ripples widened, he peered below the glassy surface and distinctly saw Waylao’s figure as it lay on the sandy bottom. Her uplifted face and swaying limbs were as visible as though she were lying encased in a mirror. Even the lump of coral that she had tied to her waist was visible; he saw her dying efforts to dislodge the string from her body. In a moment he had dived, clutched the girl and brought her to the surface—coral and all. “Waylao, you would leave us alone to sorrow over your death. Have we not sorrowed enough?”
So did he speak as Waylao opened her eyes and gazed into those of her rescuer.
“Forgive me, I longed to die,” she cried, as Aiola, the Hawaiian girl, opened her bodice to chafe her breast.