“What’s that?” The apprentice could hear approaching footsteps.
He rubbed his eyes. What on earth had happened to Ingrova? There he stood, stiff and erect, his arms crooked; he had suddenly undergone a wonderful transformation—looked like some gnarled old tree trunk that had been carved so as to resemble a man. For only the eyes blinked. At the sound of approaching footsteps he had swiftly succumbed to the old primitive instincts, and become, as it were, a part of the silent tropical forest.
Looking swiftly round, Hillary observed a dusky, wrinkled face and bright eyes peeping cautiously through the tall, thick ferns that grew around the spot where they stood. Ingrova’s form immediately relaxed; it was no enemy who sought to club him; it was only the friendly face of old Oom Pa. It was very evident that Oom Pa had heard the speech of the Englishman, and knowing that the white missionaries disapproved of very many of the things his priesthood called on him to do in the performance of heathen rites, he had approached warily. Seeing that only one white papalagi was there, Oom Pa stepped forth from the thickets and forced his finest deceitful smile to his thin lips.
“Nice day,” quoth Hillary.
“Verra nicer, papalagi,” muttered the heathen ecclesiastic, after looking up at Ingrova, who winked and raised his tattooed brows to reassure the suspicious priest. Oom Pa prostrated himself in his most gracious manner before Hillary. In a moment he had risen to his feet, and standing with head inclined he listened to Ingrova, who had begun to tell him the cause of the white man’s visit.
“Oo woomba!” said the priest, rubbing his chin reflectively, then said: “Nicer white girl’s goner? She who gotter eyes like sky when stars walker ’bout, and gotter hair liker sunset on rivers?”
“That’s her!” ejaculated Hillary dramatically. His heart thumped with hope. Oom Pa’s manner made him think that Gabrielle was somewhere close behind him, hiding in the palms. The old priest winked and put on a wise look. Then he looked up and, shaking his head all the while that he spoke, he told Hillary that he had not the slightest idea as to the girl’s whereabouts.
“I not know where girl is, but I knower you mean white girl who comes and jumper on pae pae and dance at festival, one, two nights. But she did fly away like beautiful tabarab (spirit) in forest.”
“Dance on pae pae and run away into the forest!” said Hillary in surprise. “Good gracious! She’s not the girl I’m looking for. It’s a white girl I’m after, one who wears a blue dress, coiled-up tresses of gold that fall over her brow; she’s white and beautiful. Dance on your damned pae pae! Phew!” said Hillary, putting his foot out and kicking vigorously.
Oom Pa also metaphorically kicked himself. He wondered what trouble his incautious remarks might cause both to himself and the girl. He swiftly realised that it was an unusual thing for a white girl to do a jig on a pae pae; he also knew that the white men might think that he had something to do with the girl’s strange leaning towards his heathenish creed, and so would blame him for anything that might have happened to her. Consequently he at once put his hand to his brow, shook his head and intimated that he was “old fool” to make such a mistake.