Lovaina had left me on the deck of the Fetia Taiao, as Captain Pincher said that it would be an hour or two before he sailed.  His crew was having a few extra upaupas in the Cocoanut House.  I sat on the rail with Vava’s dumb-show uppermost in my mind, and a strong desire came to me to see the grave of David, and the tombstone erected by his frenzied kinsman.  I strolled up the Broom road to the Annexe, and past Madame Fanny’s restaurant to the garden of the Banque de l’Indo-Chine, and continued westward to the cemetery.

It was a lonely spot, that acre of God in these South Seas, for the resting-place of one who had been so alive as that young American.  The hours of our last wassail, the bowl of velvet, and my waking by the Pool of Psyche with the mahu and the Dummy beside me, were painted on my brain.

“There, but for the grace of God, goes John Wesley,” said the exhorter when he saw a murderer on the way to the gallows.

Some such dismal thought assailed me as the lofty exotic cypress in the center of the Golgotha met my eye; the tree of the dead over all the world.  I halted to view the expanse of mausoleums and foliage.  The rich had built small houses or pagodas to roof their loved from the torrential rains, and, from my distance, only these buildings and the trees could be seen; but as I was about to cross the road to enter the gate, a figure approached.  I drew back, for, of all men, it was Llewellyn.  He seemed to walk an accustomed course, observing none of the surroundings, and with his head down, and his stick touching the ground like the staff of a blind man.  He turned in the entrance and moved up the winding path until he came to a grave.  There he stood a few seconds irresolutely, and then stooped beside the white stone.  He leaned over, and appeared to read the inscription.  Instantly he turned, and started almost to run, but halted after a few paces, and returned to the stone.  I saw him put his hand to his forehead, cover his eyes, and then he took off his hat and dropped upon his knees, and bent nearly to the rounded earth.  When he stood up again, he kept the hat in his left hand, and, his cane tapping hard upon the soil, came through the gate, and passed me, unseeing.  There was a look of terror on his face that affected me deeply.

I crossed the road behind him, and walked swiftly to the grave.  My time was short.  There I perceived that the tombstone had just been raised, for the tools of the cemetery keeper were near by.  On a plain, white slab of marble was the name, Morton David, and the date; and below these, an inscription: 

Vengeance Is Mine
I Will Repay.

This was what had frozen that look upon the face of Llewellyn.  The tupaupa that should haunt him was this inscription.  The old uncle who had loved the dead man had well left it to God.

I hurried away and back to the schooner.  Lovaina was sitting in her shabby surrey under the flamboyants, the Dummy at the horse’s head.  Lying Bill was giving orders for raising his bow anchor, and the loosening of the shore lines.  McHenry and Lieutenant L’Hermier des Plantes shouted to me to come aboard.  Lovaina hugged me to her capacious bosom, the Dummy stroked my back a moment, and I was off for the cannibal isles.