Kanoa, dreading¹ another voyage in the schooner² and hating to be parted from Le Moan, hid himself amongst the trees of the canoe-builders.  
He was nothing to Le Moan. Though he had saved her from Rantan, he was less to her than the ground she trod on, the sea that washed the reef, the gulls³ that flew in the air; for these she at least felt, gazed at, followed with her eyes.
 
When she looked at Kanoa, her gaze passed through him as though he were clear as a rock pool. Not only did she not care for him but she did not know that he cared for her.
 
Worse than that, she cared for the sun-like Taori. This knowledge had come to Kanoa only the other day.
 
Sitting beneath a tree, Reason had stood before him and said, “Le Moan does not see you, neither does she see Poni nor Aioma, nor any of the others— Le Moan only sees Taori, her face turns to him always.”
 
As he lay now by the half-shaped logs waiting for the daylight that would take away the schooner, Reason sat with him telling him the same story, the sea helping⁵ in the tale and the night wind in the branches above.
 
It was night with Kanoa, black night, pierced by only one star—the fact that Taori was going away, if even for only a little time. The perfume of the cassi flowers came to him, and now, with the perfume, a far-away voice calling his name.
 
It was the voice of Poni. The men were going on board the schooner and Poni was collecting the crew.
 
Again and again came the call, and then the voice ceased and the night resumed its silence, broken only by the wash of the reef and the wind in the trees.
 
“They will think I have gone fishing,” said Kanoa to himself, “or that I have gone on a journey along the reef, or perhaps, that the sea has taken me, but I will not go with them. I will not leave this place that is warm with her footsteps, and on all of which her eyes have rested; the place, moreover, where she is.”
 
He closed his eyes and presently, being young and full of health, he fell asleep.
 
Dawn roused him.
 
He could see the light on the early morning sea. The sea grew luminous⁶ and the gulls were talking on the wind, the stars were gone, and the ghost of Distance stood in the northern sky blue and gauzy above the travelling sea that now showed the first sun rays level on the swell⁷.
 
Then Kanoa rose up and came towards the village beyond whose trees the day was burning.
 
A woman met him and asked where he had been.
 
“I have been fishing,” said Kanoa, “and fell asleep.” He came through the trees till the beach tending towards the break lay before him and the lagoon⁸. The schooner under all plane sail was moving up towards the village and turning in a great curve, but so far out that he could not distinguish the people on deck. He watched her as she came up into the wind and lay over on the port tack⁹. He watched her as she steered¹⁰, now, close-hauled and straight, for the Gates of Morning, and then he saw her meet the outer sea.
 
She was gone. Gone for a little time at least; gone and he was left behind, free in the place Le Moan had warmed with her feet, on every part of which her eyes had gazed, and where, moreover, she was living and breathing.
 
The women had parted with their new husbands the night before. There was no crowd to watch the vessel¹¹ go out, only Katafa, a few boys and a couple of women who were dragging in a short net which they had put out during the night, using the smaller of the schooner’s boats which Aioma had left behind. The women stood for a moment with their eyes sheltered against the sun, then they returned to their work whilst Katafa, leaving the beach, came on to the high coral and to the very point of rock where Aioma, standing¹², had seen the approach of the giant waves.
 
She had scarcely slept during the night. Taori was going away from her, nor far or for any time, but he was going beyond the reef. To the atoll dweller¹³ the reef is the boundary of the world—all beyond is undecided and vague and fraught¹⁴ with danger; the comparative peace of the lagoon waters gives the outer sea an appearance of menace which becomes fixed¹⁵ in the mind of the islander and even a short trip away from the harbour of refuge is a thing to be undertaken with precaution.
 
But she had said nothing that might disturb Dick’s mind on her account or spoil his pleasure or mar¹⁶ his manhood. Even had the business been visibly dangerous and had Dick chosen to face it, she would not have held out a hand to prevent him. This was a man’s business with which womenfolk had nothing to do. So she ate her heart out all the night and stood waving to him as the boat pushed off and watched the Kermadec leave the lagoon just as she was watching it now out on the sea, sails bellying¹⁷ to the wind and bow pointing north.
 
She watched it grow smaller, more gull⁴-like and more forlorn in the vast wastes of water and beneath the vast blue sky. On its deck Le Moan was watching Karolin and its sinking reef just as on the reef Katafa was watching the ship and its disappearing hull¹⁸, dreaming of wreck¹⁹, of disaster, of thirst for her beloved one, dreaming nothing o............