The dance was formal, slow, and melancholy.  Haabunai gave the order of it, shouting at the top of his voice.  The women, with blue and scarlet Chinese shawls of silk tied about their hips, moved stiffly, without interest or spontaneous spirit, as though constrained and indifferent.  Though the dances were licentious, they conveyed no meaning and expressed no emotion.  The men gestured by rote, appealing mutely to the spectators, so that one might fancy them orators whose voices failed to reach one.  There was no laughter, not even a smile.

“Give them another demijohn!” said the governor.

The juice of the grape dissolved melancholy.  When the last of it had flowed the dance was resumed.  The women began a spirited danse du ventre.  Their eyes now sparkled, their bodies were lithe and graceful.  McHenry rushed on to the lawn and taking his place among them copied their motions in antics that set them roaring with the hearty roars of the conquered at the asininity of the conquerors.  They tried to continue the dance, but could not for merriment.

One of the dancers advanced toward the veranda and in a ceremonious way kissed the governor upon the lips.  That young executive was much surprised, but returned the salute and squeezed her tiny waist.  All the company laughed at this, except Madame Bapp, who glared angrily and exclaimed, “Coquine!” which means hussy.

The Marquesans have no kisses in their native love-making, but smell one or rub noses, as do the Eskimo.  Whites, however, have taught kisses in all their variety.

The governor had the girl drink a glass of champagne.  She was perhaps sixteen years old, a charming girl, smiling, simple, and lovely.  Her skin, like that of all Marquesans, was olive, not brown like the Hawaiians’ or yellow like the Chinese, but like that of whites grown dark in the sun.  She had black, streaming hair, sloe eyes, and an arch expression.  Her manner was artlessly ingratiating, and her sweetness of disposition was not marked by hauteur.  When I noticed that her arm was tattoed, she slipped off her dress and sat naked to the waist to show all her adornment.

There was an inscription of three lines stretching from her shoulder to her wrist, the letters nearly an inch in length, crowded together in careless inartistry.  The legend was as follows: 

  “TAHIAKEANA TEIKIMOEATIPANIE PAHAKA AVII
   ANIPOENUIMATILAILI
   TETUATONOEINUHAPALIILII”

These were the names given her at birth, and tattooed in her childhood.  She was called, she said, Tahiakeana, Weaver of Mats.

Seeing her success among us and noting the champagne, her companions began to thrust forward on to the veranda to share her luck.  This angered the governor, who thought his dignity assailed.  At Bauda’s order, the gendarme and Song of the Nightingale dismissed the visitors, put McHenry to sleep under a tree, and escorted the new executive and me to Bauda’s home on the beach.