“Well,” she said, “the doctor will doubtless bring you to call some day.  I will send your horse to you.  Say good evening to the stranger, Rachael, and come home.”  She was one of the most hospitable women in the Caribbees, and this was the kinsman of her best friend, but she longed for power to exile him out of St. Kitts that night.

Hamilton lifted his hat, and Rachael followed her mother.  She was cold and frightened, and Levine’s white malignant face circled about her.

Her mother requested her support, and she almost carried the light figure to the house.  Mistress Fawcett sent a slave after Hamilton’s horse, then went to her room and wrote a note to Dr. Hamilton, asking him to call on the following day and to come alone.  The two women did not meet again that night.

But there is little privacy in the houses of St. Kitts and Nevis.  Either the upper part of almost every room is built of ornamental lattice-work, or the walls are set with numerous jalousies, that can be closed when a draught is undesirable but conduct the slightest sound.  Rachael’s room adjoined her mother’s.  She knew that the older woman was as uneasily awake as herself, though from vastly different manifestations of the same cause.  At four o’clock, when the guinea fowl were screeching like demons, and had awakened the roosters and the dogs to swell the infernal chorus of a West Indian morning, Rachael sat up in bed and laughed noiselessly.

“What a night!” she thought.  “And for what?  A man who companioned me for four hours as no other man had ever done? and who made me feel as if the world had turned to fire and light?  It may have been but a mood of my own, it is so long since I have talked with a man near to my own age—­and he is so near!—­and yet so real a man....  No one could call him handsome, for he looks like a flayed Carib, and I have met some of the handsomest men in Europe and not given them a thought.  Yet this man kept me beside him for four hours, and has me awake a whole night because he is not with me.  Has the discipline of these last years, then, gone for nothing?  Am I but an excitable West Indian after all, and shall I have corded hands before I am twenty-five?  It was a mistake to shut myself away from danger.  Had I been constantly meeting the young men of the Island and all strangers who have come here during the last two years, I should not be wild for this one—­even if he has something in him unlike other men—­and lie awake all night like the silly women who dream everlastingly of the lover to come.  I am a fool.”

She lit her candle and went into her mother’s room.  Mary Fawcett was sitting up in bed, her white hair hanging out of her nightcap.  It seemed to her that the end of the world had come, and she cursed human nature and the governors of the Island.