The night was a myriad of stars on a vast ebon canopy.  One could see only shadows in denser shadows, and the serene sure movements of the men as they lifted the whale-boat from Bauda’s shed and carried it lightly to the water were mysterious to me.  Their eyes saw where mine were blind.  Pere Victorien and I were seated in the boat, and they shoved off, breast-deep in the turmoil of the breakers, running alongside the bobbing craft until it was in the welter of foam and, then with a chorus, in unison, lifting themselves over the sides and seizing the oars before the boat could turn broadside to the shore.

“He-ee Nuka-hiva!” they sang in a soft monotone, while they pulled hard for the mouth of the bay.  The priest and I were fairly comfortable in the stern, the steersman perched behind us on the very edge of the combing, balancing himself to the rise and fall of the boat as an acrobat on a rope.  I laid my head on my bag and fell asleep before the sea had been reached.  The last sound in my ears was the voice of Pere Victorien reciting his rosary.

I awoke to find a breeze careening our sail and the Jeanne d’Arc rushing through a pale blue world—­pale blue water, pale blue sky, and, it seemed, pale blue air.  No single solid thing but the boat was to be seen in the indefinite immensity.  Sprawling on its bottom in every attitude of limp relaxation, the oarsmen lay asleep; only Pere Victorien was awake, his hands on the tiller and his eyes gazing toward the east.

“Bonjour!” said he.  “You have slept well.  Your angel guardian thinks well of you.  The dawn comes.”

I asked him if I might relieve him of tiller and sheet, and he, with an injunction to keep the sail full and far, unpocketed his breviary, and was instantly absorbed in its contents.

Our tack was toward the eastern distance, and no glimpse of land or cloud made us aught but solitary travelers in illimitable space.  The sun was beneath the deep, but in the hush of the pale light one felt the awe of its coming.  Slowly a faint glow began to gild a line that circled the farthest east.  Gold it was at first, like a segment of a marriage ring, then a bolt of copper shot from the level waters to the zenith and a thousand vivid colors were emptied upon the sky and the sea.  Roses were strewn on the glowing waste, rose and gold and purple curtained the horizon, and suddenly, without warning, abrupt as lightning, the sun beamed hot above the edge of the world.

The Marquesans stirred, their bodies stretched and their lungs expanded in the throes of returning consciousness.  Then one sat up and called loudly, “A titahi a atu! Another day!” The others rose, and immediately began to uncover the popoi bowl.  They had canned fish and bread, too, and ate steadily, without a word, for ten minutes.  The steersman, who had joined them, returned to the helm, and the priest and I enjoyed the bananas and canned beef with water from the jug, and cigarettes.