Page:The Gates of Morning - Henry De Vere Stacpoole.pdf/297

 treachery towards his race; it had brought up visions of the Spanish ship, the brutal whale men, Carlin, Rantan, and the whole tribe of the papalagi, it was theirs and it had got to die.

Besides, it was going to give him the chance to set fire to things. He was still licking his chops over the firing of the green ship and the joy of incendiarism was about to be recaptured.

It was the last blaze up of youth in him. He called the village together and explained matters.

The ayat was accursed. His father, Amatu, had explained it all in a dream, commanding him, Aioma, to attend to this matter. The thing had to burn; if it did not burn worse would befall Karolin.

“Burn, burn, aripa, aripa!” cried the boys.

“Aripa!” shrieked the women, the men took tongue and the cry went up like the crackle of flame.

Katafa listened, loathing the schooner. The cry went up from her heart.

Dick stood dumb. Dumb as a man hesitating before cutting away the very last strand connecting him with his past. Dumb as a man about to renounce his race, though of his race and of the civilized world from whence he had sprung he knew nothing—nothing save the fact of the cannon-shot of the Portsey long years ago, the white-led Melanesians of Palm Tree, the ruffianism of Carlin and Rantan and the rage in his own breast for adventure that had nearly separated him forever from Katafa.

Then, suddenly, he joined in the shout.