n the little man's knife out of his belt and plunged it home
between his ribs, for a Chileno never forgives a blow with a fist.

*****

III.

"Are you going over to Halaliko to-night, Prout?" asked Sherard, walking
up to where his manager and Marie sat enjoying the cool of the evening.
He threw himself in a cane chair beside them and puffed away at his
cheroot, playing the while with the little Mercedes.

"Yes, I might as well go to-night and see how the Burtons have got on,"
and Prout arose and went to the stables.

Sherard remained chatting with Marie till Prout returned, and then,
raising his hat to her, bade them good-night."

"Don't let Burton entice you to Halaliko, Prout," he said with a laugh;
"he knows that your time here is nearly up."

Prout laughed too. "I don't think that Marie would like me to give up
Kalahua for Halaliko--would you, old girl?"

She shook her head and smiled. "No, indeed, Mr. Sherard. I am too happy
here to ever wish to leave."

*****

Whistling softly to himself, Prout rode along the palm-bordered winding
track. It was not often he was away from Marie, but he meant to take his
time this evening. It was nearly five miles to Burton's plantation at
Halaliko, and half an hour would finish his business there. He knew
that, as soon as he left, Marie would tell the native servant to go to
her bed in the coolie lines, and then she would herself retire; and when
he returned he would find her lying asleep with her baby beside her.

*****

To the right the road wound round a great jagged shoulder of rocky
cliff, and clung to it closely; for on the left there yawned a black
space, the valley of Maunahoehoe, and, as he rode, Prout could see the
glimmer of the natives' fires below--fires that, although they were but
distant a few hundred feet, seemed miles and miles away.

A slight sound that seemed to come from the face of the cliff above him
caused him to look upwards, and the next instant a heavy stone struck
him slantingly on the side of his head. Without a sound he fell to the
ground, staggered to his feet, and then, failing to recover himself,
vanished over the sloping side of the cliff into the valley beneath.

A shadowy, supple figure clambered down from the inky blackness of cliff
that overhung the road, and peered over the valley of Maunahoehoe. It
was Moreno, the Chilian.

"Better than a knife after all; Holy Virgin, he's gone now, and I
forgive him for all the blows