“Ah, Papalagi, me now grow old and weak; me now belonger to fool time.”
“No, you don’t, great O Le Langi, high chief of handsome bearing, and mightiest poet of the South Seas,” said I.
My heart was truly sorry for the old savage man, and well I knew that such flattery was worth its weight in gold at such a melancholy hour.
Then I continued, as with an effort he drew his tattooed shoulders up to their full proportion and looked at the sky:
“O Le Langi, they still live, those whom you love. We all live again.”
“But I no cliston or popy mans” (christian or prayer-man), he responded in a mournful voice.
“Phew! O great O Le Langi! It matters not a tinker’s curse what you are so long as you remain as you are.”
For a moment the old chief looked about him, as though half in fright, then, seeing that we were unobserved, he leaned forward and said:
“You nicer man. You no think much of ole white-beard-Man-big-nose?”
“Who’s he?” said I.