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He looked toward the settlement and saw a crowd of natives pushing a whaleboat into the water; looked again, and saw old Maka taking his place in the stern sheets and assisting a woman in beside him. The woman! It needed no second glance to tell him it was Madge. He had never counted on her coming off in company. Fool that he was, he had taken it for granted that she would be alone. Everything, in fact, turned on her being alone. Then, with a start, he remembered his own dinghy, and how it would betray him. He had made it fast on the schooner’s starboard quarter, near the little accommodation ladder. Going on his hands and knees, lest his head should be seen above the shallow rail, he unloosed the painter, worked the boat astern, and drew it in again to port. Then he crouched down in the alleyway and waited.

A few minutes later and the whaler was bumping against the schooner’s side. It might have been bumping against Gregory’s heart, so agonizing was the suspense as he lay breathless and cramped between the coffinlike width of house and rail.

“It was kind of you to bring me off, Maka,” said Madge.

The old Hawaiian laughed musically in denial. “No, no!” he cried.

“You must come below and see the captain,” said Madge.

Gregory was in a cold sweat of apprehension.

“Too much storm,” said Maka doubtfully. “I go home now, and put rocks on the church roof.”

“Five minutes won’t matter,” said Madge.

Again Gregory trembled.

“More better I go home quick,” said Maka. “No rocks, no roof!”

The boat shoved off, the crew striking up a song. Madge seemed to remain standing at the gangway where they had left her. Gregory felt by instinct that she was gazing at the Northern Light, and that as she gazed she sighed; that she was lost in reverie and was loath to go below.

He rose stiffly from his hiding place. Even as he did so it came over him that he was extraordinarily tired–so tired that he swayed as he stood and looked at her.

“Madge!” he said in almost a whisper. “Madge!”

She turned instantly, paling as she saw who confronted her.

“Greg!” she cried.

For a moment they stared at each other speechless. Then he leaped on the house and ran to her, she shrinking back from him as he tried to take her hands.

“You must not!” she cried, as he would have kissed her. “Greg, you must not! I’m married. It’s all different now.”

He tried to put his arms around her, but she pushed him fiercely back. Her eyes were flashing, and her bosom rose and fell.

“I’m Joe’s wife,” she said.

Then, from his face, she seemed to divine something.

“What have you done to Joe?” she cried. She would have passed him, but he stopped her.

“No, no!” he protested.

“Let me go, or I shall call him,” she broke out. “You sha’n’t insult me! You sha’n’t kiss me!”

He was kissing her even as he held her back, even as she fought and struggled with him–on the lips, on the neck, on her black, loosened hair, now tangling and flying in the wind. He was so weak that she soon got the better of him–so weak and dizzy that he did not guard himself as she struck him on the mouth with her little doubled-up fist.

He put his hand to his lip and found it bleeding. He showed her what she had done. She drew back, and regarded him with mingled pity and exultation.

“Now will you let me go?” she cried.

“Madge,” he returned, “Joe’s drunk in his berth. I made him drunk, Madge. I had to talk to you alone, and there was no other way.”

She was stung to the quick. Her husband’s shame was hers, and it was somehow plain that Horble had been at fault before. She never thought to doubt Greg’s word, though his callousness revolted her.