Once more pretty Singa Mavoo and Loa Mog-wog lifted their ramis (chemises), revealed their nut-brown knees and swerved with inimitable grace. The Yankee nudged the German half-caste in the ribs till they both so roared with laughter that they fell down. It was a kind of miniature representation of the wine of the European music hall and opéra bouffe poured into one goblet so that the onlooker might swallow the draught at a gulp! Oom Pa, the aged high priest, was there. That fervent ecclesiastic had been unable to resist the temptation thrown out to him by the half-caste German sailors and grog-bar keepers. There he stood, as plain as plain could be, his eyes alive with avarice, as he too winked, begged for a drink and solemnly pointed out the attractions of his two pretty, semi-nude granddaughters, who danced ecstatically, so that he might add his mite to the collection-box for the heathen temple fund down at Ackra-Ackra.
The most unimaginative of those onlookers breathed a sigh of admiration when two Malayo-Polynesian youths stepped out of the shadows and put forth their arms, looking at first like dusky statues, not only because of their perfect terra-cotta limbs and artistic pose, but because of their graceful erectness as their arms and legs moved with marvellous symmetrical precision. Even the night seemed astonished as a breath of wind came in from the seas and ran across the island trees. For now it seemed like a shadow-world peopled with puppets. The youths put forth their arms and dived up, up between the palms, coming down on their bare feet like dusky marionettes dropping softly from the moon-lit sky! Then the tambu maids began to chant and dance. Only the weird jingling of their armlets and leglets showed that they were really there in the shadows, as the shellbacks in their wide-brimmed hats looked on in silence.
“Tavoo! Malloot!” suddenly said a voice. The effect of those two words was magical. Every maid, dancer and onlooker had vanished! Only the palms sighed as though in sorrow of it all as a German official’s white helmet hat came into sight far along the beach.
“Did I dream it all?” murmured Hillary. He rubbed his eyes; then he went across the sands to the spot where the dancers had done such wondrous feats. He stamped with his foot to see if there was some subterranean outlet through which the dancers could so mysteriously disappear. But all was solid enough. The moon still shone with its silent, religious light. Parsons flapped his towel three times from the grog-bar doorway. One could have sworn that the rough men in his bar-room had never left their drinks as they stood there solemnly pulling their beards, discussing old grievances in hushed voices. Not a breath of wind stirred the phantom-like palm groves outside; only the chants of the cicalas were faintly audible as they clacked down in the tall bamboo grass of the swamps and shore lagoons. Those old sailors and shellbacks looked the picture of honesty till they gazed meaningly into each other’s eyes and drank on, sighed and sent the flames of the roof oil lamps flickering over their wide-brimmed hats. But even they gave a startled jump as something out in the silent night went “Bang!” It might have been the signal that any kind of horror was being perpetrated. But it was only a mighty thump on a tribal drum, somewhere up in a mountain village, telling the frightened inhabitants that all was well, that the last of the tambu maids had arrived safely, had entered the stockade gates and that their pagan world might rest in peace for the remainder of the night.
Even Hillary responded to the far-off voice of the tribal drum, for he turned away and strolled back to his humble lodging-house. As he went over the slopes he saw Oom Pa staggering homeward with his mighty calabashes, minus his granddaughters, who had come down from the mountain villages. All was silent as he crept beneath the palms, passed under the verandah and entered his room. Even Mango Pango was snoring on her sleeping-mat in the kitchen, so late was it. And yet, as he looked out of his open window and yawned, he could distinctly hear the sounds of muffled drums beating across the slopes.
“Damned if there is not another heathen festival on somewhere,” he muttered. It was true enough: the full-moon festivals were in progress, and down at Ackra-Ackra they were chanting and banging, and their sacred maids were dancing to the discordant music. Had Hillary known who was dancing at that moment on a tambu stage only two miles away he wouldn’t have slept much that night. But he was oblivious to all that happened, so he fell asleep and dreamed of dusky whirling ghosts and fate-like drums that swept dancing maidens away into a shadowy pageant of swift-footed figures that bolted into the mountains and were seen no more.
CHAPTER IV—THE SOUL’S RIVAL
As soon as Gabrielle Everard had paddled across the lagoon and passed from Hillary’s enraptured sight she pulled her little craft up on the sandy beach, hid it amongst the tall rushes and started off home. She stood for a moment hidden beneath the mangoes till three jabbering, hurrying native chiefs had passed by.
As she watched them recede from sight down into the gloom of the sylvan glades, she gave a sigh. “I hate to see those big tatooed chiefs; it’s through them that I feel so wild at times, I’m sure. I simply curse that ancestor of mine who married a dark woman. Why, I’d sooner die than marry a dark man!” Then she added: “Pooh! Why should I worry? I’m white enough, since I feel such a dislike for them—but, still, I do like dancing and singing at times, I admit.”
Then she thought of the young apprentice; his bronzed, frank face and earnest eyes rose before her memory. “He does look handsome; those odd-coloured eyes of his do fascinate me; but it’s a pity he’s not a passionate kind, who would make love like those handsome chiefs do when they sing to their brides on the pae paes and tambu stages. But there, they’re wild and can’t control their passions as we do!” she added. She looked down into the lagoon at her image and blushed deeply at her own thoughts. “I’m getting quite a pretty girl—almost a beautiful woman,” was her next reflection, as she noticed her large shadowy eyes and her full throat in the still water.