And at the end, facing him, stood Motauri--a different, a sadly different Motauri. A Motauri not in the least the joyous woodland faun in his attitude now. His proud crest was lowered, stripped of its wreath; his magnificent muscles drooped. He stood humbly, with chest collapsed, on shuffling feet, as became an inferior. He drew the back of his hand across his lips and eyed the white man furtively....
"That's better," grunted Gregson, and leaned back to set the bottle on the table amid a litter of odds and ends, books, papers, a revolver, a tarred tiller-rope with a roseknot. "Perhaps that'll loosen your tongue. First time I ever seen your breed hold off the stuff. But then, you're one of these independent lads, ain't you? Old chief stock, you call yourself. Plenty wild Kanaka, you.... Plenty bold, bad fella you--hey?"
"No, Mahrster," said Motauri, deprecating.
"And now you're going to tell me why you tried to sneak a boat at this hour o' night."
"You've said that a dozen times, and it's no better. It don't pass. Go fish? Go soak your black head! What are you up to, hey? Come now--tell."
Motauri made no answer, and the other controlled himself. Behind his dark mask the big trader was under the empire of some powerful emotion. His hands clenched and opened again, trembling a little. His face shone like wet leather. But it was in a tone oddly detached, musing, that he went on.
"You're smart. I don't say a Kanaka can't be smart when he wants to hide anything. He can. I ain't figgered you yet. And that's a mighty healthy thing for you, my boy, d'y' see? Because, if I could once make sure it was you I saw slipping away by the chapel hedge two nights ago, I'd--" A purplish haze suffused his cheek. "I'd dig the heart out of your carcass with my two hands," he ended, very quietly, and hit the table so that it jumped. "Was it?" he roared.
"Was it you that's been hanging around that white fella girl b'long missionary--that's dared lift your dog's eyes to her?"
He crouched like a beast, ferine--all the obscure and diabolic passion of him ready to spring.
The trader sat back again, plying his billowy silk handkerchief.
"The trouble with me--" he said, reflectively, "I can't believe my own eyes; that's the trouble with me. And how could I believe 'em?" he inquired, with almost a plaintive note. "Such things don't happen. They can't. Why--what kind of a man are you? Black, I believe--leastways brown. And she--_she_--