dark forest-depths of the primeval world. The air tingled with her
cry, softly imperious and seductive. Upon a mat, timing his rhythm
to the woman's song Kiloliana danced. It was unmistakable. Love
danced in all his movements, and, next, dancing with him on the mat,
was a woman whose heavy hips and generous breast gave the lie to her
disease-corroded face. It was a dance of the living dead, for in
their disintegrating bodies life still loved and longed. Ever the
woman whose sightless eyes ran scalding tears chanted her love-cry,
ever the dancers of love danced in the warm night, and ever the
calabashes went around till in all their brains were maggots
crawling of memory and desire. And with the woman on the mat danced
a slender maid whose face was beautiful and unmarred, but whose
twisted arms that rose and fell marked the disease's ravage. And
the two idiots, gibbering and mouthing strange noises, danced apart,
grotesque, fantastic, travestying love as they themselves had been
travestied by life.

But the woman's love-cry broke midway, the calabashes were lowered,
and the dancers ceased, as all gazed into the abyss above the sea,
where a rocket flared like a wan phantom through the moonlit air.

"It is the soldiers," said Koolau. "Tomorrow there will be
fighting. It is well to sleep and be prepared."

The lepers obeyed, crawling away to their lairs in the cliff, until
only Koolau remained, sitting motionless in the moonlight, his rifle
across his knees, as he gazed far down to the boats landing on the
beach.

The far head of Kalalau Valley had been well chosen as a refuge.