“If you meant falsely,” said the old man, “I think God would strike you dead.”

“He would!” cried Kokua.  “Be sure he would.  I could not be so treacherous — God would not suffer it.”

“Give me the four centimes and await me here,” said the old man.

Now, when Kokua stood alone in the street, her spirit died.  The wind roared in the trees, and it seemed to her the rushing of the flames of hell; the shadows tossed in the light of the street lamp, and they seemed to her the snatching hands of evil ones.  If she had had the strength, she must have run away, and if she had had the breath she must have screamed aloud; but, in truth, she could do neither, and stood and trembled in the avenue, like an affrighted child.

Then she saw the old man returning, and he had the bottle in his hand.

“I have done your bidding,” said he.  “I left your husband weeping like a child; to-night he will sleep easy.”  And he held the bottle forth.

“Before you give it me,” Kokua panted, “take the good with the evil - ask to be delivered from your cough.”

“I am an old man,” replied the other, “and too near the gate of the grave to take a favour from the devil.  But what is this?  Why do you not take the bottle?  Do you hesitate?”

“Not hesitate!” cried Kokua.  “I am only weak.  Give me a moment.  It is my hand resists, my flesh shrinks back from the accursed thing.  One moment only!”

The old man looked upon Kokua kindly.  “Poor child!” said he, “you fear; your soul misgives you.  Well, let me keep it.  I am old, and can never more be happy in this world, and as for the next — "

“Give it me!” gasped Kokua.  “There is your money.  Do you think I am so base as that?  Give me the bottle.”

“God bless you, child,” said the old man.

Kokua concealed the bottle under her holoku, said farewell to the old man, and walked off along the avenue, she cared not whither.  For all roads were now the same to her, and led equally to hell.  Sometimes she walked, and sometimes ran; sometimes she screamed out loud in the night, and sometimes lay by the wayside in the dust and wept.  All that she had heard of hell came back to her; she saw the flames blaze, and she smelt the smoke, and her flesh withered on the coals.

Near day she came to her mind again, and returned to the house.  It was even as the old man said — Keawe slumbered like a child.  Kokua stood and gazed upon his face.

“Now, my husband,” said she, “it is your turn to sleep.  When you wake it will be your turn to sing and laugh.  But for poor Kokua, alas! that meant no evil — for poor Kokua no more sleep, no more singing, no more delight, whether in earth or heaven.”

With that she lay down in the bed by his side, and her misery was so extreme that she fell in a deep slumber instantly.