Waylao blushed again. It was not the blush of shame, but the warmth of vanity and the feverish effects of that potion, the wretched ecstasy of morphine and gin, as those handsome men fell at her feet and paid obeisance to her beauty. Did she dream? What was this wonderful worship that made her feel she was some heathen queen, as that crew of flushed faces whispered praise into her ears?
“Mebsoot! Mebsoot!” called the Marquesan girls. “Blessed be the great Mahomeys!” It was the one little bit of Indian language that they had learnt. Even the fine eyes of those abandoned native girls expressed wonder at seeing so white a woman in that hellish abode.
The drug began its work, Waylao’s brain became delirious. Gin, morphine and innocence mixed together had more enchantment in it than morphine, gin and downright wickedness! Abduh Allah suddenly shone before her eyes with such resplendent beauty that she lifted his hand and kissed it before them all. The pock-marked old marabouts nudged each other in the ribs and the younger villains exchanged glances. A treat was in store for them.
If Benbow, her father, had entered at that moment, that cavern would have experienced the greatest volcanic eruption of its history. Alas! Benbow was at sea or in some island seaport telling of his past experiences, how he had captured pretty girls in the blackbirding days, filled his hold up to the brim with that quivering cargo, battened them down and then, singing with his wild crew For Those in Peril on the Sea (his favourite hymn), put to sea.
Waylao quite forgot her father. Her mother’s old legendary creed was true after all. Was she not in some wonderful underworld, some heathen shadow-land? Were not goddesses and god-like men at her feet—worshipping her? Her very innocence, her strange, poetic brain, made beautiful creations of those abandoned native girls as they danced like faery shadows around her.
It may seem unbelievable, but Waylao, to the call of a host of impassioned pleadings, stood on the pae-pae and began to dance; but not as the others. Even those dissolute men gazed intensely, half sobered by the exquisite beauty, the rhythmical movements of her perfect figure. The winds crept in and stirred her bronzed tresses and their crown of vermilion forest flowers: she lifted her robe delicately and sang to her shadow in the lagoon at her feet. It was a unique sight, a new experience to all in that cave as she danced and chanted. What was that faint, ineffable glimmer that silently struck the still water? It was a pale light, a streak from heaven, moonlight piercing through a chink just overhead in the cavern’s rocky roof. That faint glimmer streamed upon her mass of entangled hair, and lit her eyes with some wild, half-etherealised light. As she danced on, it seemed the very poetry, the grace of her movements appealed to these better qualities which exist in the hearts of even the worst of men. As they watched the earnest expression of her face, the cavern hollows became silent, except for the twanging of bamboo flutes accompanying her wild melody. Those swarthy, bearded scoundrels stood like unto awestruck figures of carven stone, expressing artistic surprise. The devil in them was touched by the magic of beauty in its finest form—the girl’s innocence.
Waylao chanted on. The liquor fumes began to work to their full extent. With arms outspread, she danced along the pae-pae, her head close against the rocky roof. Nearer and nearer she glided, step by step, till with a cry she reached Abduh Allah’s side and swooned into his extended arms.
As soon as the breathless, staring crew recovered from their astonishment, the cavern echoed and re-echoed the encore: “Hasan! Kattar rheyrak!” (“Beautiful! Oh, thanks!”)
The four grey-bearded marabouts who were squatting on the mats of the dais opposite the pae-pae lifted their eyes and turbaned heads; so overcome were they with envious admiration that their pointed beards were level with the rugged roof as they once again gasped out in sombre syllables: “Allah! O Mohammed’s beard! Bless its growth!”
Suddenly realisation flashed through Waylao’s brain. She stared with fright on the swarthy crowd of uplifted faces around her. Ere the men had fathomed the meaning of her terror, she had broken away. Like one demented she swept by them and, eluding their clutching hands, fled out of that cavern, back to the sight of heaven and the moonlit seas.