The captain of the canoe helped this dusky Venus to rise completely from the sea, and as she did not wish to return at once, he put his boat at her service for the exhilarating and risky sport of coasting the breakers; but putting far out to meet a wave of uncommon size, they were struck by a squall and blown so far that they found it easier to put in for shelter near the home of Lo-Lale than to return to Maui. The storm, the spray, the chilling gusts, compelled Kelea to sit close in the shelter of Kalamakua’s sturdy form. He levied on the scant draperies of his crew for cloth to keep her warm, and all the men dined scantily that she might be fed. It is not strange that a friendship was born on that voyage between the two people who had been so oddly introduced. Lo-Lale had never heard of John Alden and Myles Standish, principally, no doubt, because they had not been born, but it must be allowed in his behalf, or in hers, that he had never seen the damsel whom he was courting thus by proxy. When he did behold her he was vastly pleased, and as he appeared in all the paraphernalia of his rank and instituted in her honor a series of feasts and entertainments unparalleled in Oahu, the consent of Kelea to a speedy marriage was obtained, a courteous notice to that effect being sent to her relatives, who had mourned for her as lost in the storm. He built a temple and adorned it with a statue as a thank-offering for having blown so fair a bride to his domain. No prettier compliment could be paid to a wife, even by a white man.
For a time Kelea was content. Lo-Lale was a kind husband, and he was constantly studying to advance her happiness, but he was meditative and silent; he loved the woody solitudes, while she was fond of company, babble, sport, and especially of swimming and surf-riding. Presently it was noticed that she laughed less. She did not welcome Lo-Lale when he returned from his walks or his communings with Nature on the hills. The voice of the sea was calling her,—and the voice of Kalamakua. A separation had to come. It was without any spoken bitterness. The husband wished her well, bestowed on her some parting gifts, and sent her to the shore in a palanquin borne by four men and attended by a guard of three hundred, as became her station. Kalamakua was waiting on the beach,—Kalamakua, handsome, reckless, ardent. She never returned to Maui. Though Lo-Lale resumed his old, still way and kept his dignity and countenance before his people, his lament, that has been preserved by the treasurers of island traditions for more than four centuries, discovers a pang in his heart deeper than he could or would have voiced when he parted from his wife. The English version is by King Kalakaua:
“Farewell, my partner on the lowland plains,
On the waters of Pohakeo, above Kanehoa,
On the dark mountain spur of Mauna-una!
O, Lihue, she is gone!
Sniff the sweet scent of the grass,
The sweet scent of the wild vines
That are twisted by Waikoloa,
By the winds of Waiopua,