above the spray, and stept amid the smooth palm-trunks across the flower-fringed boulders, and leaped down to the gravel beach beside the pool:  and then again rose from the fern-grown rocks the beautiful vision of Ayacanora—­Where was she?  He had not thought of her till now.  How he had wronged her!  Let be; he had been punished, and the account was squared.  Perhaps she did not care for him any longer.  Who would care for a great blind ox like him, who must be fed and tended like a baby for the rest of his lazy life?  Tut!  How long his mother was away!  And he began playing again with his apples, and thought about nothing but them, and his climbs with Frank in the orchard years ago.

At last one of them slipt through his fingers, and fell on the floor.  He stooped and felt for it:  but he could not find it.  Vexatious!  He turned hastily to search in another direction, and struck his head sharply against the table.

Was it the pain, or the little disappointment? or was it the sense of his blindness brought home to him in that ludicrous commonplace way, and for that very reason all the more humiliating? or was it the sudden revulsion of overstrained nerves, produced by that slight shock?  Or had he become indeed a child once more?  I know not; but so it was, that he stamped on the floor with pettishness, and then checking himself, burst into a violent flood of tears.

A quick rustle passed him; the apple was replaced in his hand, and Ayacanora’s voice sobbed out: 

“There! there it is!  Do not weep!  Oh, do not weep!  I cannot bear it!  I will get you all you want!  Only let me fetch and carry for you, tend you, feed you, lead you, like your slave, your dog!  Say that I may be your slave!” and falling on her knees at his feet, she seized both his hands, and covered them with kisses.

“Yes!” she cried, “I will be your slave!  I must be!  You cannot help it!  You cannot escape from me now!  You cannot go to sea!  You cannot turn your back upon wretched me.  I have you safe now!  Safe!” and she clutched his hands triumphantly.  “Ah! and what a wretch I am, to rejoice in that! to taunt him with his blindness!  Oh, forgive me!  I am but a poor wild girl—­a wild Indian savage, you know:  but—­but—­” and she burst into tears.

A great spasm shook the body and soul of Amyas Leigh; he sat quite silent for a minute, and then said solemnly: 

“And is this still possible?  Then God have mercy upon me a sinner!”

Ayacanora looked up in his face inquiringly:  but before she could speak again, he had bent down, and lifting her as the lion lifts the lamb, pressed her to his bosom, and covered her face with kisses.

The door opened.  There was the rustle of a gown; Ayacanora sprang from him with a little cry, and stood, half-trembling, half-defiant, as if to say, “He is mine now; no one dare part him from me!”

“Who is it?” asked Amyas.

“Your mother.”