But I am wandering from my story.  When we reached the group by the fireside, who had at first been unaware of our entrance, the chief’s wife gave a slight start, alarmed doubtless by my appearance.  She could never have seen, nor even dreamed of, such a spectacle as I must have presented, haggard, ragged, faint with hunger, and worn with fatigue as I was.  The chief motioned to me that I should kneel at his wife’s feet, and kiss her hand, but I merely bowed, not considering this a fit moment to protest otherwise against such sacrilegious mummeries.  But the woman—­her name I learned later was Ocyale—­did not take my attitude in bad part.  The startled expression of her face changed to a look of pity, and, with a movement of her hand, she directed Doto to bring a large golden cup from the table at the upper end of the room.  Into this cup she ladled some dark liquid from a bowl which was placed on a small three-legged stand, or dumb waiter, close to her side.  Next she spilt a little of the wine on the polished floor, with an appearance of gravity which I did not understand.  It appears that this spilling of wine is a drink offering to their idols.  She then offered me the cup, which I was about to taste, when I perceived that the liquor was indubitably alcoholic!

A total abstainer, I had, I am thankful to say, strength enough to resist the temptation thus adroitly thrust upon me.  Setting down the cup, I pointed to the badge of blue ribbon, which, though damp and colourless, remained faithful to my button-hole.  I also made signs I was hungry, and would be glad of something to eat.  My gestures, as far as the blue ribbon went, must have been thrown away, of course, but any one could understand that I was fainting from hunger.  The mistress of the house called to one of the spinning girls, who rose and went within the door opening from the platform at the upper end of the room.  She presently returned with an old woman, a housekeeper, as we would say, and obviously a faithful and familiar servant.  After some conversation, of which I was probably the topic, the old woman hobbled off, laughing.  She soon came back, bringing, to my extreme delight, a basket with cakes and goat cheese, and some cold pork in a dish.

I ought, perhaps, to say here that, in spite of the luxury of their appointments, and their extraordinary habit of “eating and drinking all day to the going down of the sun” (as one of their own poets says), these islanders are by no means good cooks.  I have tasted of more savoury meats, dressed in coverings of leaves on hot stones, in Maori pahs, or in New Caledonian villages, than among the comparatively civilized natives of the country where I now found myself.  Among the common people, especially, there was no notion of hanging or keeping meat.  Often have I seen a man kill a hog on the floor of his house, cut it up, toast it, as one may say, at the fire, and then offer the grilled and frequently under-done