There was a chorus of sounds from the cataract, the river, the wind, the trees, and the birds, a mighty music of elements of the earth and of life, rising and falling rhythmically, and inspiring, but nerve-racking.  Fragrance of the Jasmine seized my hand and held it.

“Let us go to a more peaceful spot, where I can tell you the story,” she said in my ear.  We passed the rough fort, broken-down and mossy, and moving carefully along the trail, clambering over rocks and tearing away twigs and broad leaves, we reached a dismantled and crumbling chalet.

We sat down upon its steps, and I removed my coat and was naked to my pareu in the afternoon zephyr.

“That fort,” said the princess, “was built by the French in the forties, when they were stealing my country.  From it they could command the gorge of Fautaua and that and other valleys.  This place was the last stronghold of the Tahitian warriors before the enemy overcame them, and erected the ramparts and the fort.  The last man to die fell by the river basin.  The band of heroes would have held out longer, but were betrayed by a Tahitian.  He led the French troops by night and by secret paths to a hill overlooking them, so that they were shot down from above.  The traitor lived to wear the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor and to spend pleasantly the gold the French Government gave him.  C’est la vie.”

We cast our eyes over the scene.  There was a forest of wild ginger, ferns, and dracasna all about.  Thousands of roses perfumed the air, and other flowers and strawberries, and feis, green or ripe-red, wondrous clusters of fruit, awaited man’s culling.  The stream purled about worn rocks, and we came to two gloomy pools, black from the reflection of their bowls, the water bubbling and surging from springs beneath.  It was deliciously cold, and we drank it from leaf cups.

“How about the time the French came here with the treasure?” I inquired.  “Have we time for that history?”

“Mais, oui!” said Noanoa Tiare.  “That is too good for you not to know.  You know that the French are excitable, n’est-ce pas?  B’en, a French officer, Major Marchand, put up the tricolor in some place called Fashoda in Africa, and the English objected.  There was some parleying between the two nations, and the information arrived in Tahiti that England was going to make war on France.  The French papers or the American papers said so, and every one was alarmed.

“‘The treacherous Anglais might strike at any moment,’ said the French, and they were afraid.  Then one night some one rode in from near Point Venus and reported to the Governor that two British frigates had been sighted.  Mon dieu! what to do?  There was only a French transport at Papeete, worth nothing for defense.  They tore the trimmings from that vessel and prepared to scuttle her.  The guns were rushed to Faere Hill for a last, desperate stand against odds.  They could die like Frenchmen!