She withdrew her hands, and clasped them together in mute despair. Her father exclaimed, "Heed him not. Great is the power of Pele. My daughter, you are her priestess; and, though you flung yourself from that shelving rock on which you stand, into the gulf below, Pele could save you." He was now in a state of frenzy. "She could and she would save you; prove to them her power."
"I will, I will," cried the unfortunate girl. "And I want her not to save me if she can. Toleho forsakes me, and I wish not for life."
Ere the outstretched hand of her lover could prevent it, she had turned and sprung down the precipice.
A yell of horror burst from the crowd, and there was a general rush toward the spot, so great, that for several minutes I could not approach it. Minutes of intense anxiety they were. I heard one voice exclaim, "He will perish—Toleho—the pride of Hawaiian chiefs."
"No," cried another, "he has almost reached the spot where she lies."
An interval of silence followed. The people evidently watched some critical event in breathless suspense. Then there was a shout of joy—Toleho and his loved one were both in safety. There was, as I afterward learned, a crag projecting from the wall-faced cliff over which the young priestess had flung herself; on that spot she had fallen, the elasticity of some shrubs and herbs with which it was covered preserving her from any serious injury. Toleho, with wonderful presence of mind and activity, had succeeded in descending to that place, and, by means of a kind of ropes flung to him from the summit, re-ascended, and, pale as death, but still firm and composed, had laid his almost senseless burden in the arms of her father.
The scene which followed would be difficult to describe. When, after some time, a flood of
tears had relieved the old khan, and enabled him to speak, he tried to express gratitude to the deliverer of his daughter, but could not say much. "Toleho," he cried, "you have saved her life. We can not forsake the gods to whom our ancestors have been priests for hundreds of years, to learn the religion of strangers who come from distant lands whence originate the winds, but can not Oani minister to Pele, and still be your wife?"
Here was a trying offer to my poor friend. Again Oani turned on him that bright smile, that beseeching look, which were hard to be withstood; but, though there were symptoms of yielding, of a violent internal struggle, he soon regained composure, and said, "It must not, can not be—it is forbidden here," holding up the book. "Farewell, Oani. Never will I forget you. I go to distant lands, but I will love you still. Keep this book: in it are the words of life. In our happy days, I was teaching you to read. Get some other teacher, and, for Toleho's sake, learn all this book teaches, and we may yet meet where there is no sorrow."
One embrace, and he darted away. I followed with difficulty, keeping by his side, as rapidly and silently he walked to the place where we had agreed to meet our companions.