45. CHAPTER XLV.
In rescuing the gentle Yillah from the hands of the
Islanders, a design seemed accomplished. But what was
now to be done? Here, in our adventurous Chamois, was
a damsel more lovely than the flushes of morning; and for
companions, whom had she but me and my comrades? Besides,
her bosom still throbbed with alarms, her fancies all
roving through mazes.
How subdue these dangerous imaginings? How gently
dispel them?
But one way there was: to lead her thoughts toward
me, as her friend and preserver; and a better and wiser
than Aleema the priest. Yet could not this be effected but
by still maintaining my assumption of a divine origin in
the blessed isle of Oroolia; and thus fostering in her heart
the mysterious interest, with which from the first she had
regarded me. But if punctilious reserve on the part of
her deliverer should teach her to regard him as some frigid
stranger from the Arctic Zone, what sympathy could she
have for him? and hence, what peace of mind, having no
one else to cling to?
Now re-entering the tent, she again inquired where tarried
Aleema.
“Think not of him, sweet Yillah,” I cried. “Look on
me. Am I not white like yourself? Behold, though since
quitting Oroolia the sun has dyed my cheek, am I not even
as you? Am I brown like the dusky Aleema? They
snatched you away from your isle in the sea, too early for
you to remember me there. But you have not been forgotten
by me, sweetest Yillah. Ha! ha! shook we not the
palm-trees together, and chased we not the rolling nuts
down the glen? Did we not dive into the grotto on the
sea-shore, and come up together in the cool cavern in the
hill? In my home in Oroolia, dear Yillah, I have a lock
of your hair, ere yet it was golden: a little dark tress like
a ring. How your cheeks were then changing from olive to
white. And when shall I forget the hour, that I came
upon you sleeping among the flowers, with roses and lilies
for cheeks. Still forgetful? Know you not my voice?
Those little spirits in your eyes have seen me before. They
mimic me now as they sport in their lakes. All the past a
dim blank? Think of the time when we ran up and down
in our arbor, where the green vines grew over the great ribs
of the stranded whale. Oh Yillah, little Yillah, has it all
come to this? am I forever forgotten? Yet over the wide
watery world have I sought thee: from isle to isle, from
sea to sea. And now we part not. Aleema is gone. My
prow shall keep kissing the waves, till it kisses the beach at
Oroolia. Yillah, look up.”
Sunk the ghost of Aleema: Sweet Yillah was mine!
