The Dyak was not yet born who should rend her from him.
He fondled her hair and gently rubbed her cheek with his rough fingers.
The sudden sense of ownership of this fair woman was entrancing.

It almost bewildered him to find Iris nestling close, clinging to him in utter confidence and trust.
"But I knew, I knew," she murmured.

"You betrayed yourself so many times.

You wrote your secret to me, and, though you did not tell me, I found your dear words on the sands, and have treasured them next my heart." What girlish romance was this?
He held her away gingerly, just so far that he could look into her eyes.
"Oh, it is true, quite true," she cried, drawing the locket from her neck.

"Don't you recognize your own handwriting, or were you not certain, just then, that you really did love me ?" Dear, dear! How often would she repeat that wondrous phrase! Together they bent over the tiny slips of paper.