By the half-unhinged door stood an old man of venerable figure, his long beard still dark, though his hair was quite white.  He wore a soiled soutane down to the ankles of his rusty shoes, a sweaty, stained, smothering gown of black broadcloth, which rose and fell with his hurried respiration.  His eyes of deepest brown, large and lustrous, were the eyes of an old child, shining with simple enthusiasms and lit with a hundred memories of worthy accomplishments or efforts.

[Illustration:  Pere Simeon Delmas’ church at Tai-o-hae]

[Illustration:  Gathering the feis in the mountains]

Pere Victorien presented me, saying that I was a lover of the Marquesas, and specially interested in Joan of Arc.  Pere Simeon seized me by the hand and, drawing me toward him, gave me the accolade as if I were a reunited brother.  Then he presented me to a Marquesan man at his side, “Le chef de l’isle de Huapu,” who was waiting to escort him to that island that he might say mass and hear confession.  The chief was for leaving at once, and Pere Simeon lamented that he had no time in which to talk to me.

I said I had heard it bruited in my island of Hiva-oa that the celebration of the fete of Joan of Arc had been marked by extraordinary events indicating a special appreciation by the heavenly hosts.

Tears came into the eyes of the old priest.  He dismissed the chief at once, and after saying farewell to Pere Victorien, who was embarking immediately for his own island of Haitheu, Pere Simeon and I entered his study, a pitifully shabby room where rickety furniture, quaking floor, tattered wall-coverings, and cracked plates and goblets spelled the story of the passing of an institution once possessing grandeur and force.  Seated in the only two sound chairs, with wine and cigarettes before us, we took up the subject so dear to Pere Simeon’s heart.

“I am glad if you cannot be a Frenchman that at least you are not an Englishman,” he said fervently.  “God has punished England for the murder of Jeanne d’Arc.  That day at Rouen when they burned my beloved patroness ended England.  Now the English are but merchants, and they have a heretical church.

“You should have seen the honors we paid the Maid here. Mais, Monsieur, she has done much for these islands.  The natives love her.  She is a saint.  She should be canonized.  But the opposition will not down.  There is reason to believe that the devil, Satan himself, or at least important aides of his, are laboring against the doing of justice to the Maid.  She is powerful now, and doubtless has great influence with the Holy Virgin in Heaven, but as a true saint she would be invincible.”  The old priest’s eyes shone with his faith.

“You do not doubt her miraculous intercession?” I asked.

Pere Simeon lit another cigarette, watered his wine, and lifted from a shelf a sheaf of pamphlets.  They were hectographed, not printed from type, for he is the human printing-press of all this region, and all were in his clear and exquisite writing.  He held them and referred to them as he went on.