“But I see another mighty friend has opportunely reported,” said Umi, pleasantly, as he pointed toward the east. “As the moon is about to look over the hills, the torches may soon be extinguished, for the paths will be plainer without them.”
The divisions separated, and, dispensing with their torches, soon swarmed the several paths leading to Waipio. Each division was preceded some distance in its march by a party of scouts, with instructions to let no one pass to their front, lest he might be a messenger of warning.
The paths were rough and in places almost choked with undergrowth, and the advance was exceedingly laborious; but no word of complaint was heard, and about the middle of the forenoon the left division, and the last to arrive, reached the Waimea trail at a point leaving the entire force but a short march to Waipio. A brief halt was ordered, and the food and water brought by the women were served to their relatives, and to others if any remained.
Taking no thought of himself, Umi advised his attendants to eat if they could find food, declaring that he required nothing, and then threw himself under the shade of a tree for a few minutes of much-needed rest. A cool breeze fanned his heated face, on which the beard had as yet grown but lightly, and his heavy eyelids closed, dropping him gently into the land of shadows, where he bathed in cool waters and partook of food that was delicious—more delicious, it seemed, because it was served by Kulamea.
Something awoke him—he scarcely knew what—and his eyes caught the form of a woman as it vanished behind the tree under which he was lying. He smiled, and, partially rising, discovered on the ground beside him a calabash of poi, reduced with water to the consistency of thick gruel. His mouth and throat were parched, and, without stopping to learn who had provided it, he raised the vessel to his lips and drained it to the bottom. It was a goodly draught, and refreshed him greatly.
Holding the empty calabash in his hand, he began to examine it, at first carelessly, and then with greater interest, for it was not a common vessel. Nor was it the first time that he had seen it. It was the calabash he had carved with images of birds and flowers for Kulamea before he went to Waipio to become the son of a king.
He beckoned to Maukaleoleo, who was leaning against a tree a few paces distant, with his head among the branches. The giant smiled as he approached, as if divining the question Umi was about to ask.
“Did you see the person who left this calabash?” inquired Umi, exhibiting the vessel.
“I saw her,” replied the giant.
“Then it was left by a woman?”