Tiura spoke in Tahitian and French, and I handed on his narrative.

“The eel in Tahiti, from what I hear, has seen better days,” commented the Queensland doctor.  “All over the world the primitive people endowed this humble form of animal—­the serpentine—­with a cunning and supernatural power surpassing that of the four-footed creatures.  I think it was because in the cradle of the human family there were so many hurts from the bites of snakes and sea-eels—­they couldn’t guard against them—­that man salved his wounds by crediting his enemy with devilish qualities.  That’s the probable origin of the garden of Eden myth.”

Again Tiura spoke of the Scorpion in the sky, and I knew he desired to talk of Pipiri Ma.  The other Tahitians were already under the roof on their backs, upon the soft bed of dried leaves gathered by them for all of us, but the long, lean physician listened with unabated interest.  He had run away for a change from the desert-like interior of his vast island, where he treated the ills of a large territory of sheep-herders, and to be on this mountain under such a benignant canopy, and to hear the folk-lore of the most fascinating race on earth, was to him worth foregoing sleep all night.

Tiura assumed a serious pose for the divulgement of secret lore.  His language became grandiose, as if he repeated verbatim a rune of his ancestors: 

“We Maoris lived at that time in the great peace of our long, quiet years.  No outside influence, no evil wind, troubled our dreams.  The men and women were hinuhinu, of high souls.  At the head of the valley, in a grove of breadfruit, lived Taua a Tiaroroa, his vahine Rehua, and their two children, whose bodies were as round as the breadfuit, and whose eyes were like the black borders of the pearl-shells of the Conquered atolls.  They were named Pipiri and Rehua iti, but were known as Pipiri Ma, the inseparables.  One night when the moon, Avae, was at the height of its brilliancy, Taua and Rehua trod the green path to the sea.  They lifted their canoe from its couch upon the grass, and with lighted torch of cocoanut-leaves glided toward the center of the lagoon.

“The woman stood motionless at the prow, and from her right hand issued the flames of their torch with a hissing sound—­the flames which fell later in smoky clouds along the shore.  A multitude of fish of strange form, fascinated by the blinding light, swam curiously about the canoe like butterflies.  Taua stopped padpling, and directed his twelve-pronged harpoon toward the biggest fish.  With a quick and powerful stroke the heavy harpoon shot like an arow from his hand and pierced the flashing scales.  Soon the baskets of purau-fiber were filled, and they took back the canoe to its resting-place, and returned to their house, again treading the emerald trail which shone bright under the flooding moon.  On the red-hot stones of the umu the fish grew golden, and sent forth a sweet odor which exceeded in deliciousness even the smell of monoi, the ointment of the oil of the cocoanut and crushed blossoms.  Pipiri Ma rolled upon their soft mats, and their eyes opened with thoughts of a bountiful meal.  They awaited with hearts of joy the moment when their mother would come to take them to the cook-house, the fare umu.