she plucked away. "Poor Kokua," he said, again. "My poor child—my pretty. And I had thought all this while to spare you! Well, you shall know all. Then, at least, you will pity poor Keawe; then you will understand how much he loved you in the past—that he dared hell for your possession—and how much he loves you still (the poor condemned one), that he can yet call up a smile when he beholds you."
With that, he told her all, even from the beginning.
"You have done this for me?" she cried. "Ah, well, then what do I care!" and she clasped and wept upon him.
"Ah, child!" said Keawe, "and yet, when I consider of the fire of hell, I care a good deal!"
"Never tell me," said she, "no man can be lost because he loved Kokua, and no other fault. I tell you, Keawe, I shall save you with these hands, or perish in your company. What! you loved me and gave your soul, and you think I will not die to save you in return?"
"Ah, my dear, you might die a hundred times, and what difference would that make?" he cried, "except to leave me lonely till the time comes of my damnation? "
"You know nothing," said she. "I was educated in a school in Honolulu: I am no common
