Song of the Nightingale, the convict cook of the governor, gave me light on the man.

“I loved his woman, Piiheana (Climber of Trees Who Was Killed and Eaten), who was the mother of Mademoiselle N——­,” said Song of the Nightingale.  “One night he found me with her on his paepae.  He shot me; then he had me condemned as a robber, and I spent five years in the prison at Tai-o-hae.”

“And Climber of Trees Who Was Killed and Eaten?”

“He beat her till her bones were broken, and sent her from him.  Then he took Daughter of a Piece of Tattooing, to whom he left in his will thirty-five thousand francs.  It was she who brought up Mademoiselle.”

Mademoiselle herself walked daintily down to the road, where her horse was tied, and I was presented to her.  She gave me her hand with the air of a princess, her scarlet lips quivering into a faint smile and her smouldering, unsatisfied eyes sweeping my face.  With a, conciliating, yet imperious, air, she suggested that I ride over the hills with her.

Picking up her lace skirt and frilled petticoat, she vaulted into the man’s saddle without more ado, and took the heavy reins in her small gloved hands.  Her horse was scrubby, but she rode well, as do all Marquesans, her supple body following his least movement and her slim, silk-stockinged legs clinging as though she were riding bareback.  When the swollen river threatened to wet her varnished slippers, she perched herself on the saddle, feet and all, and made a dry ford.

Over the hills she led the way at a gallop, despite wretched trail and tripping bushes.  Down we went through the jungle, walled in by a hundred kinds of trees and ferns and vines.  Now and then we came into a cleared space, a native plantation, a hut surrounded by breadfruit-, mango- and cocoanut-, orange- and lime-trees.  No one called “Kaoho!” and Mademoiselle N——­ did not slacken her pace.  We swept into the jungle again without a word, my horse following her mount’s flying feet, and I ducking and dodging branches and noose-like vines.

In a marshy place, where patches of taro spread its magnificent leaves over the earth, we slowed to a walk.  The jungle tangle was all about us; a thousand bright flowers, scarlet, yellow, purple, crimson, splashed with color the masses of green; tall ferns uncurled their fronds; giant creepers coiled like snakes through the boughs, and the sluggish air was heavy with innumerable delicious scents.  I said to Mademoiselle N——­ that the beauty of the islands was like that of a fantastic dream, an Arabian Night’s tale.

“Yes?” she said, with a note of weariness and irony.  The feet of the horses made a sucking sound on the oozy ground.  “I am half white,” she said after a moment, and as the horses’ hoofs struck the rocky trail again, she whipped up her mount and we galloped up the slope.