Back they came from their triumph, and landed on the shore here, within spear’s-throw from the paepae of Broken Plate.  Their people met them with drum-beating and with chanting, bringing rose-wood poles for carrying the meat.  The living girl was slung over the shoulder of the leader, still bound and weeping, and in single file heroes and their people marched up the trail past the Catholic mission.  Tohoaa, Great Sea Slug, chief of Atuona and grandfather of Flag, the gendarme, was foremost, and over his massive shoulder hung the Girl Who Had Lost Her Strength.

Then from the mission came Pere Orens, crucifix in hand.  Tall he stood in his garment of black, facing the Great Sea Slug, and lifting on high his hand with the crucifix in it.  Pere Orens had been made tapu by Great Sea Slug, to whom he had explained the wonders of the world, and given many presents.  To touch him was death, for Great Sea Slug had given him a feast and put upon him the white tapa, emblem of sacredness.

Powerful was the god of Pere Orens, and could work magic.  In his pocket he carried always a small god, that day and night said “Mika!  Mika!” and moved tiny arms around and around a plate of white metal.  This man stood now before the Great Sea Slug, and the chief paused, while his hungry people came closer that they might hear what befell.

“Where are you going?” said Pere Orens.

“To Pekia, the High Place, to cook and eat,” said Great Sea Slug.  Then for a space Pere Orens remained silent, holding high the crucifix, and the chief heard from his pocket the voice of the small god speaking.

“Give to me that small piece of living meat,” said Pere Orens then.

“Me mamai oe.  If it is your pleasure, take it,” said Great Sea Slug.  “It is a trifle.  We have enough, and there is more in Motopu.”

With these words he placed his burden upon the shoulder of the priest, and heading his band again led them past the mission, over the river and to the High Place, where all night long the drums beat at the feasting.

But The Girl Who Lost Her Strength remained in the house of Pere Orens, who cut her bonds, fed her, and nursed her to strength again.  Baptized and instructed in the religion of her savior, she was secretly returned to her surviving relatives.  There she lived to a good age, and died four years ago, grateful always to the God that had preserved her from the oven.

He who spoke was her son, and here at the kava bowl together were the men of Motopu and the men of Atuona, enemies no longer.

The voice of the Motopu man died away.  A ringing came in my ears as when one puts a seashell to them and hears the drowsy murmur of the tides.  My cigarette fell from my fingers.  A sirocco blew upon me, hot, stifling.  Kivi laughed, and dimly I heard his inquiry: 

“Veavea? Is it hot?”

“E, mahanahana.  I am very warm,” I struggled to reply.