“‘He does not need me now,’ she broke in angrily. ‘He has gotten all my words, and gives them to the Via tea-tea (white woman). He is a toke-toke, a thief!’
“Remember that Miss Dorey was undoubtedly the first white female Taaroa had ever seen, and that jealousy among women or men in Rapa Nui was unknown. They hated, like us, but jealousy they had no word for. And because I was amazed at her emotion, I said:
“‘I saw them hohoi (embrace).’
“Taaroa showed then the heat of this new flame on Easter Island. She gave a mocking laugh, repeated it, then choked, and burst into wailing. You could have told me that moment I knew nothing of the Maori, and I would not have denied it. I was struck dumb, and swallowed my drink. And as I poured another, and sat there in the old mission-house where Frère Eugène had gathered his flock years before, Taaroa began the love song of her race, written in the picture symbols on the wooden tablet I have in my house in Tahiti now. It is the Ate-a-renga-hokan iti poheraa. You know how it goes. I can hear Taaroa now:
“Ka tagi, Renga-a-manu—hakaopa;
Ohiu runarme a ita metua.
Ka ketu te nairo hihi—O te hoa!
Eaha ton tiena—e te hoa—e!
“Ta hi tiena ita have.
Horoa ita have.