At this, the old Crab swelled its breast out with bravery through its knowledge that the Sword-fish was stealthily waiting round the corner, and said:
“Don’t you talk like that to me, you ungrateful wretch, when I’ve come all this way to pay you a friendly visit.” Then, losing its temper, the Crab gave a knowing wink, and said: “I know all about you; you are at your old tricks again—whose poor wife have you got in your house now, I wonder?”
With its eyes ablaze with rage at hearing such a suggestion from a cowardly old crab, and in its knowledge that truth was spoken, the Cuttle-fish gave a running dash, and knocked the Crab over. This act was just what the Sword-fish was waiting for, for as the Cuttle-fish rushed out of the cave so as to reach the Crab, he, too, gave a dash forward and so impaled the Cuttle-fish on his mighty sword! In a moment the Crab had recovered its feet, delighted at the success of its ruse. For Tissemao kissed its ugly face as it embraced her, and told of all it had done on her behalf. It was then that the Crab said:
“Come on! Come on!”
Then it escorted her along the wide floor of the deep ocean till she reached the shore. Then it said, “Never listen to the flattery of cuttle-fishes again, for you see that, but for an ugly old sword-fish and a brave person like me, you might have got out of your depth for ever. Now then, go away, silly girl!”
On hearing the Crab’s advice, Tissemao at once stepped out of the ocean water, and saw the beautiful sun, and thereupon made up her mind to be satisfied with the world she knew. In a moment she had rushed off into the forest, and back again to her native village. Her mother was delighted to see her again. They had all thought she was drowned, or dead somewhere in the forest, for though she knew it not, she had been away for three days! And, to this day, the people of those isles to the north-west always feel kindly toward old crabs, and look upon the big sword-fish as a valiant warrior.
Such was the simple heathen fairy story which was told to me by my little comrade the Marquesan youth, Palao, who, as the reader will recall, was a member of my retinue when I paid a visit to the aged, discarded Queen Vakamoa, she who had once been the unlawfully-wedded wife of Old Martin Smith of New South Wales.
A few days after leaving the village where my little friend Palao lived, I secured lodgings at the primitive inn near Tai-o-hae beach. I recall that I stayed at that rum-stricken hostel for only a few days. The fact is, that an extraordinary old madman dwelt in the room next to mine. Just as I laid my weary head down and thanked Providence in my blessed anticipation of a well-earned month’s rest, the old man went raving mad. Why Ranjo, my host, put up with him was a complete mystery. Up and down the room he would tramp, never ceasing, till he had wakened me for the night, as he called out in a most solemn voice:
“Suffered under Pontius Pilate. O the quick and the dead! the quick and the dead!”