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Nor was Viliamu her only suitor, for there was also Carl, the German half-caste, who was captain of a schooner, and wore trousers and a black sash, and owned valuable property in Savaloalo; Carl who called for her almost every Sunday in a buggy, and took her driving like a white lady, to Vailele or Vaitele or Utumapu; Carl of the ringing laugh, and jolly, smiling face, and tattooed girl-fish on his arm, who could sing, and do tricks with cards, and invent the funniest forfeits when they all played games, and yet, who at leave-time never failed to say with seriousness: “Oh, my pigeon, am I to love uselessly forever?”

Again and again was Evanitalina drawn to take Viliamu, and then to take Captain Carl, for Samuelu was always urging that a final decision be come to, knowing the folly of maids, and the lack and fewness of worthy men for husbands. But as she was on the brink, like a diver pausing before the plunge, her eyes would alight on O’olo, smolderingly regarding her from afar, and then her whole strength would turn to water, and not for anything would she have married Carl, though all Savalalo belonged to him, and all the ships of the sea; nor likewise would she have married Viliamu, even had he owned the explosion-water manufactory and been himself a Member of Parliament, for of her heart there was but one master, and that was the Tongan.

But, alas, there was no coming together, for O’olo in his despair had put himself beyond all intercourse with those of honor, becoming a terror and a scourge, and inhabiting the jail more frequently than Siosi’s roof-tree; and nightly, when he was free, he caroused with low companions, drinking gin, and cooking stolen pigs, and eating stolen taro, and saying in his infamy: “Why should I work for thirty-five cents a day when all the Tuamasanga is mine?”

Yet the rich food had no flavor in his mouth, and though the gin maddened his spirit, it could not drown his wretchedness, for deep within him, like a maggot in a bread-fruit, was the torment of love. Sometimes in prison he would lower his head like a cow, and run at the wall, exclaiming: “I will die, I will die!” And then he would fall, with his beautiful hair all matted with blood, and his beautiful body next to lifeless, though with his purpose unattained, owing to the thickness of his skull. Surely no person in hell was ever more unhappy than O’olo, and it is with grief one tells of him, for he was like a child, who, on being refused a mango throws away his banana in wilfulness–and with him, his banana was right conduct, and the respect of others, and the laws of God, leaving him nothing save an aching spirit.

Then the war came, with the Tuamasanga in an uproar from end to end, every young man being called to arms, and troops pouring in from Tutuila and the westward to join in the onslaught against Mataafa. The Taufusi people, as foreigners, were not liable to the levy except for two striplings by way of rent, both of whom were subscribed with unwillingness, though neither was O’olo. This Evanitalina learned with joy, for death was in the air and bloody fighting nigh at hand, and her tenderness for O’olo, lying secret in her bosom, like a red-hot coal, was fanned to the flame of agony. But no, he was fortunately in the lock-up, and it was reported he had said scornfully of the war: “A Tongan gentleman has no concern with the squabbles of dogs”; which, if insulting, was not without the balm of reassurance to Evanitalina, greatly dreading.

One drowsy afternoon, however, as she was sewing under the eaves, alone except for Polo, who had made a Mataafa soldier of the dog, and was pretending, victoriously, to cut the animal’s head off with a piece of wood, as so soon, in reality, would be happening to living men, pierced with wounds, and lying in their blood–one hot afternoon while nothing stirred except the flies, and even these buzzed sleepily, Evanitalina of a sudden was roused by the sound of steps, and looking up, beheld a warrior advancing towards the house. His face was blackened with charcoal, as is the custom, and about his hair was the scarlet scarf of the Government, and against his skin glistened a belt of cartridges; and his walk was fearless and proud, as befitted so handsome a man and one of such noble mien.