One Sunday he dined me handsomely on eels stewed in white wine, tame duck, and codfish balls, and after the dance, in which his wife, Ghost Girl, Malicious Gossip, Water, and the host joined, we sat for some time singing “Malbrouck se va t’en guerre,” “La Carmagnole,” and other songs of France.  Stirred by the memories of home, these melodies awakened, Le Vergose remembered a countryman who lived nearby.

“There is a hermit who lives a thousand feet up the valley,” said he.  “We might take him half a litre of rum.  He is a Breton of Brest who has been here many years.  He eats nothing but bananas, for he lives in a banana grove, and he is able only to totter to the river for water.  He never moves from his little hut except to pick a few bananas.  He lives alone.  Hardly any one sees him from year to year.  I think he would be glad to have a visitor.”

A wet and slippery trail through the forest along the river bank led toward the hermit’s grove.  Toiling up it, sliding and clutching the boughs that overhung and almost obliterated it, we passed a small native house of straw, almost hidden by the trees, and were hailed by the voice of a woman.

“I hea? Where do you go?” The words were sharp, with a tone almost of anxiety, of fear.

“We go to see Hemeury Francois,” replied Le Vergose.

The woman who had spoken came half-way down the worn and dirty steps of her paepae.  She was old, but with an age more of bitter and devastating emotion than of years.  Her haggard face, drawn and seamed with cruel lines, showed still the traces of a beauty that had been hard and handsome rather than lovely.  She said nothing more, but stood watching our progress, her tall figure absolutely motionless in its dark tunic, her eyes curiously intent upon us.  I felt relief when the thick curtains of leaves shut us from her view.

“That is Mohuto,” said Le Vergose.  “She is a solitary, too.  All her people have died, and she has become hard and bitter.  That is a strange thing, for an islander.  But she was beautiful once.  Perhaps she broods upon that.”

We entered the banana-grove, an acre or two of huge plants, thirty feet high, so close together that the sun could not touch the soil.  The earth was dank and dark, almost a swamp, and the trees were like yellowish-green ghosts in the gloom.  Their great soft leaves shut out the sky, and from their limp edges there was a ceaseless drip of moisture.  A horde of mosquitos, black and small, emerged from the shadows, thousands upon thousands, and smote us upon every exposed part.  In a few minutes our faces were smeared with blood from their killing.  Curses in Breton, in Marquesan, and American rent the stillness.

In this dismal, noisome spot was a wretched hut built of purau saplings, as crude a dwelling as the shelter a trapper builds for a few days’ habitation.  It was ten feet long and four wide, shaky and rotten.  Inside it was like the lair of a wild beast, a bed of moldy leaves.  A line stretched just below the thatched roof held a few discolored newspapers.