The words died on his lips. Through the thunder of the surf came a single long-drawn note, clear and unearthly sweet.
“B flat,” I said, scarcely knowing that I spoke. Cartwright gave a wild laugh.
“You hear it? The voice from the reefs. Why doesn’t Lulukuila answer?”
Well, I can only tell you what happened next, and you may believe it or not. From below us there came another note, making a perfect octave. Never before or since have I heard anything so exquisite or so horrible. Then there was a hideous discord—and silence.
“Lulukuila!” Cartwright cried. “She is taking it from me—my only chance of happiness—”
And before we could stop him he was gone.
We tried to follow him, but the wind caught us again at the edge of the ridge. I’d have been over and lost if it hadn’t been for Simmons. I think I must have fainted from the shock of it. There’s a blank about there, though the rest of the night seemed centuries long.
The wind stopped at sunrise, and we made our way home along the ridge, looking down on a beach swept clean of every human mark, pavilion, grove, native huts and all. The house was still standing, but in a wreck of fallen branches and torn lianas. Scared servants and ashen-faced women and children came out to meet us, and began asking for their master. Simmons, granite faced as ever, did not answer them, but pushed on down to the beach.
Cartwright had come home ahead of us. He was lying on the shore, unscarred except for a faint streak of blue across one temple. He looked beautiful as some sleeping creature of the sea. The wreck of the piano was just above him. Simmons’ composure gave way when he saw that.
“You’ve broken the thing he loved, and you’ve killed him, too. I hope you’re satisfied at last!” he snarled, shaking his fist at the lagoon. I wondered if he was talking to Lulukuila. It was a terrifying outburst—from a man like Simmons.