"I'll just tell you one thing. They still talk of it in the Marquesas.
It was the big hurricane of 1892. He did forty miles in forty-five
hours, and only he and one other landed on the land. And they were all
kanakas. He was the only white man; yet he out-endured and drowned the
last kanaka of them--"

"I thought you said there was one other?" Paula interrupted.

"She was a woman," Dick answered. "He drowned the last kanaka."

"And the woman was then a white woman?" Paula insisted.

Graham looked quickly at her, and although she had asked the question
of her husband, her head turned to the turn of his head, so that he
found her eyes meeting his straightly and squarely in interrogation.
Graham held her gaze with equal straightness as he answered: "She was
a kanaka."

"A queen, if you please," Dick took up. "A queen out of the ancient
chief stock. She was Queen of Huahoa."

"Was it the chief stock that enabled her to out-endure the native
men?" Paula asked. "Or did you help her?"

"I rather think we helped each other toward the end," Graham replied.
"We were both out of our heads for short spells and long spells.
Sometimes it was one, sometimes the other, that was all in. We made
the land at sunset--that is, a wall of iron coast, with the surf
bursting sky-high. She took hold of me and clawed me in the water to