"It is the law of our forefathers," the strange Hawaiian repeated. "Life for life. Bride for husband."
"For fifty years have I served faithfully," Kalaua said, "and now I may surely be honoured in the marriages of my family."
"Good," the other man answered. "You will see to the bride; and I for my part will take every care that the bridegroom is ready."
"Don't fear for me," Kalaua replied. "The daughters of the Hawaiians shrink not from their duty."
He rose, and walked across the room in the opposite direction from that of the door where I still sat crouching on the ground in my night-shirt, with my broken leg extended sideways in front of me. He went up to the wall and pushed aside a picture that hung from a nail near the ceiling before me. Behind it was a small brass knob. He took a little key from his pocket, which he fitted into the midst of the knob, and suddenly, with a spring a door opened. It was the door of a cupboard or small recess let into the wall, and in it I saw for the twinkling of an eye an apparition of something brilliantly red and yellow. I knew in a second what that thing was. It was the royal robe of sacred feathers that Kalaua had worn as his priest's costume when he solemnly dedicated me to the anger of Pélé.
Behind it, two horrible goggle eyes shone forth with lurid gleams into the blank room. I knew those too, they were the eyes of the mask—that grinning mask that Kalaua wore as the sign of his priestship.
Hideous, barbaric, staring things; but Kalaua regarded them with the utmost veneration.
"Everything is correct," he whispered, looking over the strange paraphernalia with a stern look of content and handling them reverently. "The wedding shall come off, then, duly as arranged. We know the place, the day, and the hour. I answer for the bride: you answer for the bridegroom. All is well. It is an auspicious marriage. May they live happily ever after!"
"Such is the prayer of all the Hawaiians," the stranger answered, with the air of a man who recites some liturgy.