“Where are you going?” said Père Orens.
“To Pekia, the High Place, to cook and eat,” said Great Sea Slug. Then for a space Père Orens remained silent, holding high the crucifix, and the chief heard from his pocket the voice of the small god speaking.
“Give to me that small piece of living meat,” said Père Orens then.
“Me mamai oe. If it is your pleasure, take it,” said Great Sea Slug. “It is a trifle. We have enough, and there is more in Motopu.”
With these words he placed his burden upon the shoulder of the priest, and heading his band again led them past the mission, over the river and to the High Place, where all night long the drums beat at the feasting.
But The Girl Who Lost Her Strength remained in the house of Père Orens, who cut her bonds, fed her, and nursed her to strength again. Baptized and instructed in the religion of her savior, she was secretly returned to her surviving relatives. There she lived to a good age, and died four years ago, grateful always to the God that had preserved her from the oven.
He who spoke was her son, and here at the kava bowl together were the men of Motopu and the men of Atuona, enemies no longer.
The voice of the Motopu man died away. A ringing came in my ears as when one puts a seashell to them and hears the drowsy murmur of the tides. My cigarette fell from my fingers. A sirocco blew upon me, hot, stifling. Kivi laughed, and dimly I heard his inquiry:
“Veavea? Is it hot?”
“E, mahanahana. I am very warm,” I struggled to reply.