Page:The Gates of Morning - Henry De Vere Stacpoole.pdf/279

 “Taori is dying because of Katafa—Katafa—Katafa,” cried the gull, and Le Moan following the bird with her eyes let her gaze sweep back to the deck where Taori was lying, half leaning, the sun upon his bare back where the vertabræ showed and the ribs.

And louder now came the breathing of the surf on the reef, heavy like the breathing of a weary man.

“All life is weary and full of labour,” sighed the surf, “and there is no more joy in the sun—and Taori is going to die because of Katafa.”

“Katafa,” creaked the cordage to the foam that went sighing aft.

The wind freshened and the main sheet tautened and the great sail bellied hard against the blue, the schooner lifting to the swell crushed into it with great sighs and long shudders like the sighing and shuddering of a dying man, and the atoll leaped larger to view, the palm trees standing clear of the water above the coral and the visible foam.

“The palm grows, the coral waxes, but man departs,” whispered the wind, repeating the old rede of the islands; and now the lagoon showed through the break and Le Moan, watching and knowing that there, should they enter that lagoon, Taori would find his last home beneath the palm trees, scarcely knew of the terrible battle raging in the darkness of her mind—knew only that she was all astray, helpless, useless, pulled this way and that between two opposing forces great as the powers of life and death; whilst louder now came the sound of the surf, louder and deeper and