Her blue eyes darkened, but there was no fear in them.
“But the people have come to feel we are their friends,” she protested. “Some of them love us. Surely they will not harm us.”
By this time they had reached the hut. He put her gently into a camp-chair before the door, and flung himself upon the white sand at her feet.
“A trading-ship touched on the other side of the island yesterday,” he told her.
“And paid for five hundred pounds’ worth of sandalwood with a barrel of rum, I suppose,” she commented.
“They were a little more generous this time,” he replied grimly. “They left several barrels.”
“No wonder then,” she said, “that the people are mad to-day.”
“They also left,” he continued, “in the mind of the old chief the impression that we missionaries are responsible for the drought.”
“Oh, too bad!” she exclaimed softly.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Old Namakei informed me just now that if another moon passes without rain the island will have no more of our God or of us.”