There was no light of mercy in that masterful gaze, as the girl hesitated, seeking to fathom the truth with her own poor, blinded eyes.
Her innocent glamour had created that thing that stood before her, clad in Oriental silken swathings, a coiled turban on its head. It represented the embodied god of her romantic dreams.
The deceit of that spittoon-like skull triumphed. He led her away into the shadows, just as the devil in Eden led happy Eve. But he took no risks—he held her tightly by the wrist, and repeatedly reassured the girl by tender pressures.
They were off to the Mohammedan mosque, the harem cavern by Temoria. It will be hard to piece together the scene in that hell of passion, and describe all that Waylao must have felt as she fell beneath that Nemesis—the hand of her own idolatry and the power of Islam.
The remorse and the tears and the sorrow which followed she confessed to Father O’Leary long after. But that is not to be written yet, and sometimes I wish that I may never tell it.
The memory of that girl’s story and her weeping voice now seems as far away as the stars which flashed in the vault over the windy tips of those bread-fruit trees by Tai-o-hae. I could almost tell Waylao’s thoughts as she crept by that man’s side, on to her fate. I will attempt to describe all that followed.
“Ta’ala [come], O Hassan Marah, ta’ala!” whispered that Calcutta cut-throat as he led the girl along the forest track. They had reached the sea. Between the tree trunks the waves were distinctly visible. It was a beautiful spot that surrounded that secret temple of Mohammed worshippers. As Waylao tripped beside the tempter her sandalled feet brushed the carpet of forest flowers. She was proud of those sandals. I must admit they looked well, fastened to her feet with red ribbon from the little Islamic carpet bag.
“Marah [wifey], I take thee to where thou shalt see many wonders; but remember that I love thee as man never loved maid before. Also, forget not that thou art now a child of Mohammed. Think not that whatever thou seest is anything else but what it is!” (I can imagine that he smiled grimly here at the thought of uttering so great a truth!)
Then he continued: “Remember, O child of beauty, that our humble mosque, which is but a symbol of the Almighty Prophet’s creed, is the Mecca of all our happiness; and all that happens therein is symbolical of all that happens.”