“There, there!” said Devoe, falteringly.  “You know me, don’t you, Rayburn?”

“Oh yes,” I said, “I know you.  I know you.  I know you.  But the basket is empty.  The old men of the village and the young men, and both the dark maidens and the ones who are as fair as pearls walk back and forth and see its emptiness.  Will you kneel now, or must we have a scuffle?  It is not like you to make things go roughly and with bad form.  But the basket is waiting for your head.”

With that he went to pieces.  I had to catch him as he tried to scamper past me like a scared rabbit.  I stretched him out and got a foot on his chest, but he squirmed like a worm, although I appealed repeatedly to his sense of propriety and the duty he owed to himself as a gentleman not to make a row.

But at last he gave me the chance, and I swung the machete.

It was not hard work.  He flopped like a chicken during the six or seven blows that it took to sever his head; but finally he lay still, and I tied his head in my handkerchief.  The eyes opened and shut thrice while I walked a hundred yards.  I was red to my feet with the drip, but what did that matter?  With delight I felt under my hands the crisp touch of his short, thick, brown hair and close-trimmed beard.

I reached the house of the Greenes and dumped the head of Louis Devoe into the basket that still hung by the nail in the door-jamb.  I sat in a chair under the awning and waited.  The sun was within two hours of setting.  Chloe came out and looked surprised.

“Where have you been, Tommy?” she asked.  “You were gone when I came out.”

“Look in the basket,” I said, rising to my feet.  She looked, and gave a little scream—­of delight, I was pleased to note.

“Oh, Tommy!” she said.  “It was just what I wanted you to do.  It’s leaking a little, but that doesn’t matter.  Wasn’t I telling you?  It’s the little things that count.  And you remembered.”

Little things!  She held the ensanguined head of Louis Devoe in her white apron.  Tiny streams of red widened on her apron and dripped upon the floor.  Her face was bright and tender.

“Little things, indeed!” I thought again.  “The head-hunters are right.  These are the things that women like you to do for them.”

Chloe came close to me.  There was no one in sight.  She looked tip at me with sea-blue eyes that said things they had never said before.

“You think of me,” she said.  “You are the man I was describing.  You think of the little things, and they are what make the world worth living in.  The man for me must consider my little wishes, and make me happy in small ways.  He must bring me little red peaches in December if I wish for them, and then I will love him till June.  I will have no knight in armor slaying his rival or killing dragons for me.  You please me very well, Tommy.”

I stooped and kissed her.  Then a moisture broke out on my forehead, and I began to feel weak.  I saw the red stains vanish from Chloe’s apron, and the head of Louis Devoe turn to a brown, dried cocoanut.