Little by little Crystal and her father gravitated towards the opening through which the old chief had disappeared, and by which he was soon to return with the one for whom we had undertaken our journey. Hand in hand they stood together with their eyes fixed on that opening. I placed the torch so that its fitful glare fell upon their now pale faces, and retired into the shadows, where I stood leaning upon the arm of the lever to watch this reunion between husband and wife, between mother and daughter.
The two stood silent and motionless. I saw, by the uncertain light which revealed their faces, that their feelings were too deep for speech; I saw by the nervous clasp of their hands that their suspense was great.
But it came to an end. Grey made a sudden movement and bent his head forward. I knew his ear had caught the sound of approaching footsteps. In another moment Te Makawawa issued from the darkness, and, standing aside, folded his arms and remained with his chin on his breast. By the brief glance I caught of his features I saw that his expression was even more troubled and perplexed than before.
Presently in the opening of the tunnel appeared one whom at first glance I took to be a Maori woman of high rank. She was clothed in a rich silky kaitaka, her feet were sandalled, her bare left arm and breast glistened through the masses of dark hair which fell loose about her. As she stood there a moment between the dim light and the darkness, like a tall Maori chieftainess, a leaping flame of the torch showed her face more clearly. It was like the pale face of a madonna, sweet, tender, and good. The high brow, the magnetic-looking eyes, with delicately pencilled eyebrows, gave a look of tremendous artistic and concentrative power to the face; and this power seemed only equalled by the pervading tenderness of her expression. I saw at a glance that this “woman with the stars in her eyes” must without doubt be the remarkable creator of that remarkable work in the marble cave above.
But Dreamer Grey had taken a step towards her and stood gazing at the woman who, it was slowly dawning on him, must be his wife. She drew near to him, at first hesitatingly; then, without passion, but with a ring of great tenderness in her voice, she cried: “My husband!” and, placing her arms about his neck, laid her cheek upon his. Held in each other’s arms, they remained silent for a moment, while, in the shadow near by, Crystal stood watching them with I know not what emotions in her heart, what dawn of joy upon her face.
At last a little cry escaped her: “Mother!”
It came like a note of pathetic music, like the last beat of a long-sustained chord before it is resolved, and all is plain to the listener. Te Makawawa raised his head. A tremor shook some depth of my matter-of-fact being, which had never been touched before. Husband and wife who had found each other lifted their faces at the word, and their eyes met. Grey disengaged one arm, and, stretching it out towards Crystal, said in a voice unsteady with emotion:
“It is our daughter!”
Slowly, and as if she did not understand, the mother turned her face towards the white figure standing near by. In the half light she scanned Crystal’s features. Then she started, giving a quick interjection in the Maori tongue. The hand which had rested on Grey’s neck slid down and clutched his arm. “My daughter? hush! our daughter is dead, dear. Te Makawawa!” she gasped hoarsely, speaking again in his own tongue, “the light! the light! quick!”
Why was she so eager? She knew, or thought she knew, that her child was dead, and yet she was gazing at Crystal’s face like one struck dumb with astonishment.