Forgotten were the stirring events of the day; he dreamed and dreamed in a paradise of his own, the beauty of the night recalling other such nights to him.
Once more he is mate of the rakish island schooner, lying lazily at anchor in some atoll lagoon, a bevy of flower-decked South Sea maidens dancing wildly on the maindeck to the soft tones of a guitar, the bright moon glistening on the swarthy faces of the Kanaka crew, seated round in squatting posture. The wild cries of the dancers are half-drowned in the deep boom of the distant surf and the rustling of the cocoa-palms rocked by the caressing breath of the steady-blowing zephyr.
Slowly the scene changes, the noise of wind and surf are hushed, the fairy dancers fade away, his luxurious hammock sinks to earth. He is alone, stretched at full length on the bare ground, a single blanket covering him; by his side is a trusty large-bore rifle, and at his feet a glowing camp-fire; whilst around him, blocking out all but the sky, there stretches a thick entanglement of mimosa thorn.
Suddenly the silence is broken.
A deep, echoing roar rises on the night, swells and ceases, then breaks forth again, evidently nearer. He clutches his weapon.
His quick ear notes the uneasy whinny of his horse and the restless movement of the cattle. The king of beasts is looking for his dinner.
As he listens, the guttural notes of his Kaffir boy under the waggon whisper anxiously:
"Hark, Baas! Lapa! lapa! (There! there!)"