“Silly Papalagi!” she murmured; then we heard the wild calls of our pursuers coming from somewhere up in the mountains. In a moment I had leapt again, this time landing safely in the real article. The way that girl paddled the canoe is something that pleases my memory to this day. She looked like some pretty enchantress as she sat there in front of me, her paddle cutting a line of fire as she dipped softly into the radiance of the moon’s white flame. So clear were those huddled waters from the distant mountains, that we could see ourselves sitting in the canoe as it sped across the dark depths. I felt a thrill of joy as we gently beached on the opposite shore. The girl leapt softly from the canoe; as for me, I upset the fragile craft and then scrambled knee-deep ashore. My little comrade was evidently taking no risks that night.
“Comer on!” she said.
It took me all my time to keep up with her as she raced down into the hollows and sped up the steep inclines. There seemed no ending to that forest, ere we rushed out from the shades of the breadfruits and I found myself in a large, cleared space that fronted a native village!
Even then I did not feel easy in my mind. But I was relieved when the girl told me that it was her own village. The hushed, huddled, bee-hive-shaped dens in the shade of the palms, through which the saluting moonlight fell, made a picturesque scene.
“Is it safe?” I said, as I stared at the rows of huts.
The little goddess-maid answered me by turning a somersault on the rara (village green) right in front of my eyes.
Then Fanga Loma, for that turned out to be her name, ran across the green patch and entered one of the larger huts.
“Supposing she’s a traitor?” I thought, as the girl disappeared.
But she was straight enough. In a few moments I heard sleepy mutterings, and then a loud jabbering commenced. In a few moments Fanga Loma’s parents, for such they were, had hastily arrayed themselves in their fig-leaves, so to speak, and had run out of the hut to see and welcome me! For a considerable time Fanga continued to jabber in her own tongue to her people. I could only guess the lies she was telling them as she pointed excitedly to me and then gabbled again. She was a clever little devil, for the pleased expression on the faces of her aged parents was a treat to see. I suppose she had to invent some kind of a tale. The village was a Christianized one, and had Fanga told the truth her parents would probably have been greatly incensed at finding that she visited the heathen Kai Tholos of the mountains. Though it was midnight, a festival was immediately given in my honour. From the innumerable grunts of pleasure and the attention which was lavished upon me, I gathered that I was supposed to have rescued Fanga Loma from some dire danger. As for Fanga, She gave me many fascinating glances of confidence, and seemed quite assured that I was not the kind to go back on her and tell the truth! She had evidently met white men before, and so knew what holy beggars they were!
Sleepy youths and women dodged about as they lit up the hanging coco-nut-oil lamps that are to be seen in all native villages. In a few moments they were all alight, and the breadfruit and banyan boughs looked like the branches of some fairy scene. I knew what was expected of me, and so I took up my position beneath the centre palm tree and, placing my violin to my chin, commenced to play. Possibly I looked like some wondrous heathen god pulling invisible strings—strings that guided the wonderful capers of those semi-heathen people. Up and down they jumped, the whole population bobbing like puppets as I fiddled away! The little kiddies awoke from their sleeping-mats and rushed out of the huts to see the fun. To see a white man playing a strange instrument under a palm by moonlight was something that made the kids stare in wonder. They looked like dusky cherubs as they crept on all-fours among the leafy banyan groves, and peered at me between the fern and palm-leaves in fright. Such demon-bright eyes they had! And when I whipped out the flute-like harmonics of Paganini’s “Witches’ Dance,” they all gave a shriek of terror, let the big palm-leaf drop, and vanished, as it were, into shadowland!