her, breathed the same air, I must speak or die; perhaps it will be both.
That is a power she has: she can bend one to her will, although she
often, involuntarily, wills things that are death to others. One MUST
care for her, you understand; it is natural, even when it is torture to
do so."

He put his hand on his side and moved as if in pain. I reached over and
felt his pulse, then took his hand and pressed it, saying: "I will be
your friend now, Madras, in so far as I can."

He looked up at me gratefully, and replied: "I know that--I know that.
It is more than I deserve."

Then he began to speak of his past. He told me of Hungerford's kindness
to him on the 'Dancing Kate', of his luckless days at Port Darwin, of his
search for his wife, his writing to her, and her refusal to see him. He
did not rail against her. He apologised for her, and reproached himself.
"She is most singular," he continued, "and different from most women.
She never said she loved me, and she never did, I know. Her father urged
her to marry me; he thought I was a good man."

Here he laughed a little bitterly. "But it was a bad day for her.
She never loved any one, I think, and she cannot understand what love
is, though many have cared for her. She is silent where herself is
concerned. I think there was some trouble--not love, I am sure of that
--which vexed her, and made her a little severe at times; something
connected with her life, or her father's life, in Samoa. One can only
guess, but white men take what are called native wives there very often
--and who can tell? Her father--but that is her secret! . . . While
I was right before the world, she was a good wife to me in her way. When