The officers and men of the Priscilla crowded around the girl. They were struck with her beauty, and the simple dignity of her manner and her carriage. The great black panther skin that fell from her left shoulder she wore with the majesty of a queen and with a naturalness that cast no reflection upon her modesty, though it revealed quite as much of her figure as it hid. William Stark, first officer of the Priscilla, caught his breath—never, he was positive, had God made a more lovely creature.
From the top of the cliff a shaggy man peered down upon the strange scene. He blinked his little eyes, scratched his matted head, and once he picked up a large stone that lay near him; but he did not hurl it upon those below, for he had heard the loud report of the rifles, seen the smoke belch from the muzzles, and witnessed the sudden and miraculous collapse of Thurg.
Burlinghame was speaking to Nadara.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Nadara,” replied the girl.
“Where do you live?”
Nadara jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward the cliff at her back. Burlinghame searched the rocky escarpment with his eyes, but saw no sign of another living being there.
“Where are your people?”
“Dead.”
“All of them?”
Nadara nodded affirmatively.
“How long have they been dead and what killed them?” continued Burlinghame.
“Almost a moon. The Great Nagoola killed them.”
In answer to other questions Nadara related all that had transpired since the night of the earthquake. Her description of the catastrophe convinced the Americans that a violent quake had recently occurred to shake the island to its foundations.
“Ask her about Waldo,” whispered Mr. Smith-Jones, himself dreading to put the question.
“We are looking for a young man,” said Burlinghame, “who was lost overboard from a steamer on the west coast of this island. We know that he reached the shore alive, for we have heard from him. Have you ever seen or heard of this stranger? His name is Waldo Emerson Smith-Jones—this gentleman is his father,” indicating Mr. Smith-Jones.
Nadara looked with wide eyes at John Alden Smith-Jones. So this man was Thandar’s father. She felt very sorry for him, for she knew that he loved Thandar—Thandar had often told her so. She did not know how to tell him—she shrank from causing another the anguish and misery that she had endured.
“Did you know of him?” asked Burlinghame.
Nadara nodded her head.
“Where is he?” cried Waldo’s father. “Where are the people with whom he lived here?”
Nadara came close to John Alden Smith-Jones. There was no fear in her innocent young heart for this man who was Thandar’s father—who loved Thandar—only a great compassion for him in the sorrow that she was about to inflict. Gently she took his hand in hers, raising her sad eyes to his.
“Where is he? Where is my boy?” whispered Mr. Smith-Jones.
“He is with his people, who were my people—the people of whom I have just told you,” replied Nadara softly—“He is dead.” And then she dropped her face upon the man’s hand and wept.
The shock staggered John Alden Smith-Jones. It seemed incredible—impossible—that Waldo could have lived through all that he must have lived through to perish at last but a few short weeks before succor reached him. For a moment he forgot the girl. It was her hot tears upon his hand that aroused him to a consciousness of the present.
“Why do you weep?” he cried almost roughly.
“For you,” she replied, “who loved him, too.”
“You loved Waldo?” asked the boy’s father.
Nadara nodded her tumbled mass of raven hair. John Alden Smith-Jones looked down upon the bent head of the sobbing girl in silence for several minutes. Many things were racing through his patrician brain. He was by training, environment and heredity narrow and Puritanical. He saw the meager apparel of the girl—he saw her nut brown skin; but he did not see her nakedness, for something in his heart told him that sweet virtue clothed her more effectually than could silks and satins without virtue. Gently he placed an arm about her, drawing her to him.
“My daughter,” he said, and pressed his lips to her forehead.
It was a solemn and sorrow-ridden party that boarded the Priscilla an hour later. Mrs. Smith-Jones had seen them coming. Some intuitive sense may have warned her of the sorrow that lay in store for her upon their return. At any rate she did not meet them at the rail as in the past, instead she retired to her cabin to await her husband there. When he joined her he brought with him a half-naked young woman. Mrs. Smith-Jones looked upon the girl with ill concealed horror.
Waldo’s mother met the shock of her husband’s news with much greater fortitude than he had expected. As a matter of fact she had been prepared for this from the first. She had never really believed that Waldo could survive for any considerable time far from the comforts and luxuries of his Boston home and the watchful care of herself.
“And who is this—ah—person?” she asked coldly at last, holding her pince-nez before her eyes as with elevated brows she cast a look of disapproval upon Nadara.
The girl, reading more in the older woman’s manner than her words, drew herself up proudly. Mr. Smith-Jones coughed and colored. He stepped to Nadara’s side, placing his arm about her shoulders.
“She loved Waldo,” he said simply.
“The brazen hussy!” exclaimed Mrs. Smith-Jones. “To dare to love a Smith-Jones!”
“Come, come, Louisa!” ejaculated her husband. “Remember that she too is suffering—do not add to her sorrow. She loved our boy, and he returned her love.”
“How
