By evening, when the travelers had washed away the encrusting salt, warmed and dried their apparel at an outdoor fire, filled nature’s vacuum at the generous table of their hostess, while they were sitting in the short gloaming of the tropics, enjoying the delicious content that waits on rest after toil, Pele-ula interrupted the silence:
“The people will have assembled in the hall by this time. Shall we move in that direction?” Her glance was first at Hiiaka as the leader of the party; her gaze rested on Lohiau.
“Let the resident guests be the first. When they are settled in their places it will be time enough for us to come in,” was the reply of Hiiaka.
“As you please,” nodded Pele-ula.
Wahine-oma’o rose to her feet as Pele-ula was departing. At this move Hiiaka said, “When you reach the hall go and take a seat by your man friend.” She meant Lohiau. Thereupon she gave vent to this enigmatical utterance:
Po Puna[2] i ka uwahi ku’i maka lehua[3];
Na wahine kihei-hei[4] paü heihei[5] o uka
E noho ana ka papa lohi o Mau-kele,[6]
Ha’a[7] ho’i ka papa e; ha’a ho’i ka papa,
Ke kahuli[8] nei, e-e!