I’ll tell the world that would tempt me to bruise it;
I have but one soul to save.
“Hélas!” commented the priest, “I cannot understand one word of it. Doubtless it surpasses my poor lines in excellence. “I will multiply copies of this poem on my hectograph,” said Père Siméon, “and I will distribute them where they will do most good.”
“Captain Capriata will receive one?” I ventured, recalling that in the procession in honor of Joan of Arc’s anniversary the old Corsican skipper had fallen with the banner of the Maid of Orleans.
Père Siméon’s face glowed with zeal.
“I will name no names,” he said, “but Capriata is a good man and comes often to church now.”
For months, I had desired to ask a question of Père Siméon, since Lutz had told me that Robert Louis Stevenson had written about him. The trader had shown me his copy of “In the South Seas,” and had pointed out the error of the printer, who had made Stevenson’s “Father Simeon Delmas” “Father Simeon Delwar.”
“Père Siméon,” I said, “a writer about the islands mentions you in his book. He was here a long time ago in a little yacht, the Casco, and he says that he went with you from Hatiheu, to a native High Place, and that you named the trees and plants for him. You had a portfolio, he said, from which you read.”
The missionary stopped a moment, and plucked his beard, inquiringly.
“There have been many come here, in fifty years,” he said slowly, “yachtsmen and students. I do not recall the name Stevenson.”