Chapter 45

Reminiscences

In resecuing the gentle Yillah from the hands of the Islanders, a
design seemed accomplished. But what was now to be done? Here, in our
adventurous Chamois, was a damsel more lovely than the flushes of
morning; and for companions, whom had she but me and my comrades?
Besides, her bosom still throbbed with alarms, her fancies all roving
through mazes.

How subdue these dangerous imaginings? How gently dispel them?

But one way there was: to lead her thoughts toward me, as her friend
and preserver; and a better and wiser than Aleema the priest. Yet
could not this be effected but by still maintaining my assumption of
a divine origin in the blessed isle of Oroolia; and thus fostering in
her heart the mysterious interest, with which from the first she had
regarded me. But if punctilious reserve on the part of her deliverer
should teach her to regard him as some frigid stranger from the
Arctic Zone, what sympathy could she have for him? and hence, what
peace of mind, having no one else to cling to?

Now re-entering the tent, she again inquired where tarried Aleema.

"Think not of him, sweet Yillah," I cried. "Look on me. Am I not
white like yourself? Behold, though since quitting Oroolia the sun
has dyed my cheek, am I not even as you? Am I brown like the dusky
Aleema? They snatched you away from your isle in the sea, too early
for you to remember me there. But you have not been forgotten
by me, sweetest Yillah. Ha! ha! shook we not the palm-trees together,
and chased we not the rolling nuts down the glen? Did we not dive
into the grotto on the sea-shore, and come up together in the cool
cavern in the hill? In my home in Oroolia, dear Yillah, I have a lock
of your hair, ere yet it was golden: a little dark tress like a ring.
How your cheeks were then changing from olive to white. And when
shall I forget the hour, that I came upon you sleeping among the
flowers, with roses and lilies for cheeks. Still forgetful? Know you
not my voice? Those little spirits in your eyes have seen me before.
They mimic me now as they sport in their lakes. All the past a dim
blank? Think of the time when we ran up and down in our arbor, where
the green vines grew over the great ribs of the stranded whale. Oh
Yillah, little Yillah, has it all come to this? am I forever
forgotten? Yet over the wide watery world have I sought thee: from
isle to isle, from sea to sea. And now we part not. Aleema is gone.
My prow shall keep kissing the waves, till it kisses the beach at
Oroolia. Yillah, look up."

Sunk the ghost of Aleema: Sweet Yillah was mine!