The Breath of the Gods. Sidney McCall

In Japan we often thanks things just for being beautiful." She smiled up confidingly into his face. Her little hands, now lowered, flecked the rail like bits of white foam.

      "Then I should pray to you, my darling, for in all this world never was anything more beautiful."

      She made no effort to answer this, not even by her usual small, deprecating smile and shake of the head. The necessity of what she was to say, blotted from those first moments by visual beauty, now came heavily back to her. She steadied herself, turning slightly to see his face.

      "Pierre, trust me a little more. Give back that promise—the promise you won from my weakness. It holds me from my path like a thorn. Our cause will be better without it."

      Pierre started, and looked at the girl incredulously. "Have you let me lead you here deliberately to ask me such a thing?"

      "Do not admit anger to your thought, dear Pierre," she pleaded. "I must have said some time. I should have said to you long before this; but we have been so—happy."

      "Yes," said Pierre, doggedly. "We have been happy; and I intend that we shall be happier still. That promise is all I have to hold you by. I'd draw it tighter if I could."

      "You will not understand—you will not try to understand me," said the girl, in a despairing voice. "Such promise given is disrespect to my parents, particularly to my father. If you do not release, I must tell to him, of course. It will be bad for you and me. Can you not trust me? Oh, Pierre, for love's sake, release—!"

      "Release you!" he interrupted wildly. "This is my answer. It is for love's sake that I hold you, and will hold." He seized her in his arms, and held her with cruel strength. The night had come in fast. He did not care that the watchman by the tall, straight mast might see them. No one could hear the wind-driven, hurrying words. "This is my answer. I hold thus all you have given—and more. You are sincere, I believe, but mistaken. A weak yielding on my part would make your parents, and perhaps yourself, despise me. I keep what I have, I say, and I demand still more. You must be true to me, no matter what occurs!"

      "Pierre, Pierre, you trample on your own hope, though you will not see it! To release me generously is your own best way!"

      "You are the self-deceived," cried Pierre. "Pledge yourself irrevocably. Then only are we strong."

      In the western sky an orange strip of day remained. A single bird, black against the glow, flew screaming across it, beating curved wings in the wind. "He will not see at all," whispered Yuki, as if to the bird.

      "Oh, dearest, you cannot know in your calm, innocent heart the scourge of a love like mine! I hunger for you, I thirst! Sobbing, I dream of you, and I wake to new tears that you are still so far away. In pity, in mere mercy to human suffering, say that no other man shall marry you. Say this much at least, that if prejudice and war hold us apart awhile, you will be true to me until we can seek some new road to happiness!"

      "Do I not know—do I not know?" she shivered, in answer to the first part of his speech. "Every day my heart is torn to small pieces, all of different size and shape. I do not understand how in sleep they come together once more. You are not lonely in that human suffering."

      "Oh, you love me!" cried the man. "And on this voyage you love me as you had not done before! Is it not true?"

      "It is true," sobbed Yuki.

      "Mine is not love," said Pierre, again holding her fast; "it is hell—a raging hell of ecstasies! Oh, kiss me, Yuki; give me your lips before I die of joy! Now swear—swear—that no word but my own—no circumstance but death, can loose you from me!"

      "You torture like the old monks," she panted. "Oh, do not make me say!"

      "I command you, Yuki," he persisted, feeling new strength as she faltered. "It is my right. We belong to each other. Promise—promise—promise—nothing but death or my word to loose you!" He kissed her again and again, like a madman, pressing his lips down upon hers, catching her hands to kiss, devouring her eyes, cheeks, forehead, hair; while the girl, beaten down by the whirlwind, made no effort to resist.

      Pierre took the long white ivory pin from her hair, and split it, thrusting the smaller portion into his coat, and returning that, with the ornament still attached, to her hair.

      "I take this pledge, Yuki," he cried. "You have told me that it binds to the death a Japanese lover. We are bound. I hold you by a tangible bond. The next shall be a small, bright circle on this little hand. Give me the promise, Yuki—no need to struggle now. Give it me!"

      "Kwannon protect me," gasped the girl; "I promise!"

      A sudden vacuum fell. Pierre's breath was hard to recapture. He thought that Yuki had fainted, for her trembling had stopped. He shook one shoulder and bent down to gaze into her set, white face. Her eyes were wide open, and held two stars. She moved her lips now, and leaned far outward, gazing intently, as if watching the flight of an unseen thing.

      "Yuki, Yuki, what is it—what do you see?" he cried, in terror.

      "My soul! I think a small soul fled!" All at once she collapsed into unconsciousness. As Pierre lifted her, he shook springing tears away, and bit his quivering lips as he muttered—"I feel as if I tortured a child; but she does not realize our perils. Her fast promise is our only hope. Thank God that I could win it!"

CHAPTER SEVEN

       Table of Contents

      The nearness of land as yet invisible gave to the ship next morning that access of animation noted in the approach to Hawaii, and in the day-distant interval from the Golden Gate.

      Most of the passengers, scorning to notice a few rough waves, buzzed or moved in groups about the deck. Games were put away. Marine glasses and kodaks came into vogue. Gwendolen's bright eyes, with a pair equally alert and bright beside them, strained vision for the first land. The increase of motion, however slight, served to excuse Yuki's absence. Two persons only assigned a different reason—her roommate, Gwendolen, and her fiancé, Pierre Le Beau.

      Pierre had not breakfasted in the salon—a fact noted by Gwendolen. He came to the upper deck very late, and lacked his usual eager look. Gwendolen saw him instantly. Making some excuse to the group about her, she went to him, saying in her direct, disconcerting way—"What have you done to my Yuki-ko? She did not sleep all night, and I am sure she was crying! To cry is an unknown thing for Yuki."

      Pierre met her indignation with pathetic sweetness. He smiled. It was difficult to be harsh with Pierre. He looked past her to the shining water. "If Yuki did not speak of her feeling, should I, even though I knew?" he asked, with the extreme of gentleness.

      Gwendolen flushed under the implied rebuke. Her purpose, however, was not turned aside. "Yuki is a person whose confidence or whose love should not be forced. From what I know of you both, I believe you coaxed and persuaded her, last night, into some new pledge that her own heart shrank from giving. If this is true, allow me to tell you that you have made a fatal error, Pierre Marie Le Beau."

       Pierre wheeled to the sea. It was as well that she could not see his face. No longer gentle, it flared into a cruel anger. His sole answer was the slightest, most exasperating of shrugs.

      Gwendolen saw these signs of irritation, and cried to herself, "Halt." With a laugh that was quite successful for its kind she exclaimed, "Come, Pierre, we must not quarrel just because we both love Yuki. I know I seem rude, but I became Yuki's champion at school, and the habit clings. Forgive me for Yuki's sake."

      He took the slim, outstretched hand and kissed it, but allowed himself no further words. The girl felt baffled and uncomfortable. She recalled a saying of her father's, "Free speech is a luxury possible only to those whose opinions mean nothing." She felt herself herded with that undesirable class.

      "Well, I must get back to them," she cried, nodding in the direction of the group lately deserted. "I promised them I'd come back at once."