The Hawaiian chief took hold of his beloved one by the arm, and led her into the cavern.
Before they entered the silent place that was to be their tomb, they both looked over their shoulders into the light of their last sunset. Then they swiftly embraced; their lips met; they murmured “Aloha!” into each other’s very souls.
The knife flashed silently, then the same blade flashed again and went straight to the Hawaiian chief’s heart also.
Waylao, who stood on the shore watching the dipping bows of the schooner that came towards the isle, suddenly recovered her senses.
“Aiola! Aiola! Come to me!” she screamed. In the terror of the silence that answered her despairing cry she rushed up the shore into the cavern. Once inside, she stood bathed in the light of the setting sun streaming through that hollow doorway. The sight that met her eyes transfixed her with horror.
Even the sailors on the schooner’s deck heard that terrified shriek. Then she ran down to the shore and fell prostrate on to the sands.
Thus was Waylao saved from the sea and brought back to her native isle to die.
Such was the terrible story Waylao told Father O’Leary in my presence. I cannot describe the sorrow that shone in her eyes, as through the hours we listened. I recall how the priest held her in his arms as though she were his own erring daughter, and laid her trembling form on the mission couch. Though we could hear the wild songs and oaths of the very crew who had brought her on their ship from that leper isle, no one in the world knew the truth of the secret that Father O’Leary and I guarded in the mission-room.
For three days she lay there, in that little room that she had so often dusted for the kind priest.