For he had outraged their most sacred tradition—outraged it in the face of all protest. A rent garment, fluttering in the wind—that was the sign of death and of graves. Wherever a little graveyard lies, there will be found the poor wisps of cloth flapping sadly to keep away devils.
This Tobolaka did not know or, if he did know, scorned.
On another such occasion he had told his councillors that he had no respect for the "superstitions of the indigenous native," and had quoted a wise saying of Cicero, which was to the effect that precedents and traditions were made only to be broken.
Now he stood, ultra-magnificent, for a lokali sounding in the night had brought him news of his bride's progress.
It is true that there was a fly in the ointment of his self-esteem. His invitation, couched in the choicest American, to the missionaries had been rejected. Neither Baptist nor Church of England nor Jesuit would be party to what they, usually divergent in their views, were unanimous in regarding as a crime.
But the fact did not weigh heavily on Tobolaka. He was a resplendent figure in speckless white. Across his dress he wore the broad blue ribbon of an Order to which he was in no sense entitled.
In places of vantage, look-out men had been stationed, and Tobolaka waited with growing impatience for news of the canoe.
He sprang up from his throne as one of the watchers came pelting up the street.
"Lord," said the man, gasping for breath, "two war canoes have passed."
"Fool!" said Tobolaka. "What do I care for war canoes?