Chapter Four Two days later, it was quite another Melusine who confronted a young lad on a sunny morning, at variance with her bleak mood. But you had better know the truth to start with. Well, one must hope, that was all. I'll stamp twice when we've done. And yet—I love you. To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. “I will tell you as much as this,” she continued. The heroism of two beach combers had saved all on board and their own manhood as well. This laugh and his looks alarmed her. The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray.
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