She was the first in the house; and while I was still without I saw a match flash and the lamplight kindle in the windows.  The station was a wonderful fine place, coral built, with quite a wide verandah, and the main room high and wide.  My chests and cases had been piled in, and made rather of a mess; and there, in the thick of the confusion, stood Uma by the table, awaiting me.  Her shadow went all the way up behind her into the hollow of the iron roof; she stood against it bright, the lamplight shining on her skin.  I stopped in the door, and she looked at me, not speaking, with eyes that were eager and yet daunted; then she touched herself on the bosom.

“Me — your wifie,” she said.  It had never taken me like that before; but the want of her took and shook all through me, like the wind in the luff of a sail.

I could not speak if I had wanted; and if I could, I would not.  I was ashamed to be so much moved about a native, ashamed of the marriage too, and the certificate she had treasured in her kilt; and I turned aside and made believe to rummage among my cases.  The first thing I lighted on was a case of gin, the only one that I had brought; and, partly for the girl’s sake, and partly for horror of the recollections of old Randall, took a sudden resolve.  I prized the lid off.  One by one I drew the bottles with a pocket corkscrew, and sent Uma out to pour the stuff from the verandah.

She came back after the last, and looked at me puzzled like.

“No good,” said I, for I was now a little better master of my tongue.  “Man he drink, he no good.”

She agreed with this, but kept considering.  “Why you bring him?” she asked presently.  “Suppose you no want drink, you no bring him, I think.”

“That’s all right,” said I.  “One time I want drink too much; now no want.  You see, I no savvy I get one little wifie.  Suppose I drink gin, my little wifie he ’fraid.”

To speak to her kindly was about more than I was fit for; I had made my vow I would never let on to weakness with a native, and I had nothing for it but to stop.

She stood looking gravely down at me where I sat by the open case.  “I think you good man,” she said.  And suddenly she had fallen before me on the floor.  “I belong you all-e-same pig!” she cried.

CHAPTER II.  THE BAN.

I came on the verandah just before the sun rose on the morrow.  My house was the last on the east; there was a cape of woods and cliffs behind that hid the sunrise.  To the west, a swift cold river ran down, and beyond was the green of the village, dotted with cocoa-palms and breadfruits and houses.  The shutters were some of them down and some open; I saw the mosquito bars still stretched, with shadows of people new-awakened sitting up inside; and all over the green others were stalking silent, wrapped in their many-coloured sleeping clothes like Bedouins in Bible pictures.  It was mortal still and solemn and chilly, and the light of the dawn on the lagoon was like the shining of a fire.