The count had escorted Commander Tazewell to the lawn. Phil and his friends fell in behind and found themselves in the front row where an excellent view was to be had when the dancers appeared.
“Those old women are the orchestra,” Alice told them, pointing to a dozen or more figures huddled up on mats beyond the illumination of the bonfires.
Even as she spoke the count had raised his hand as a signal to begin.
Immediately the dim figures began to beat time with sticks upon their mats; while from the darkness a volume of savage melody burst forth. Then came slowly forward from the shadow into the illumination a score of men in single file, their arms on each other’s shoulders. To Phil it resembled the prison-gang step, but every move of their half-naked bodies was graceful. The light reflected from their shiny skins gave a startling effect. On each head was a green wreath. Gummed to cheeks, ears and nose were hanging pendants of the leaves of the crimson hibiscus flower. About their necks were worn circles of boar tusks mixed with scarlet peppers and bright berries.
They entered, first slowly, singing a low and slow measure which increased as their movements quickened, until with a final rush they threw themselves into a squatting position on the ground facing the numerous audience.
Great was the applause when an equal number of women suddenly made their appearance from the opposite direction. Phil watched them fascinated. On they came with pride and consciousness of exalted position and importance. They were redolent and glistening with perfumed oil. Garlands of bright leaves and vivid flowers, wonderfully made, crowned their flowing locks. Like the men, necklaces from their beloved bush adorned their graceful necks. About their slender waists and hanging to the knee were fabulously valuable soft mats, their only garments. Garlands of green leaves encircled their knees and ankles. All this Phil knew vaguely before. His eager eyes clung to the leading dancer’s face and did not leave it to define the marvelous costumes of those following. The girl was Avao, and leading the Siva-Siva given by Count Rosen and Kataafa. So surprised was he that he turned suddenly toward Alice, a question bursting on his lips.
“Wait,” she breathed.
Avao, the Tapau of Ukula, daughter of Tuamana, the irreconcilable loyalist, was dancing before his enemies, while he was still a self-imposed exile on board the American war-ship. What did it mean? Could it be that even Tuamana had been won by this remarkable foreign nobleman?
At length the dancers were in place, in two rows, the women in front, and all seated cross-legged. The Tapau with her marvelous head-dress of human hair and mother of pearl, glistening in the firelight, sat smiling proudly in the middle of her troupe. The orchestra, now reinforced by many good voices, was keeping time. The dancers were motionless as if struck from gleaming marble and then Avao raised her arms, flinging them out with graceful ease, and as if the twoscore men and women had been molded into a single figure, every arm was flung out in perfect unison with their girlish leader. It was a drill of the most difficult kind, requiring years of daily practice. No single person seemed to lag or get out of time, while all the while a weird chant rose and fell and finally as the movements, at first slow and deliberate, took on a galloping pace, the high treble of the women and the harsh bass of the men mounted to a pitch of delirious and savage ecstasy and then suddenly stopped. A thunder of applause greeted the marvelous performance. Phil for the first time withdrew his eyes from the savage beauty of the scene and saw that hundreds of sailors of all three nations had been admitted to the show. He recognized the uniform of the American sailors and smiled with pleasure at their warm reception to the efforts of Avao, to whom was due the credit for the perfect dancing of the youth and maids of Ukula.
Figure after figure was performed. The enthusiasm of the natives rose higher as the evening wore on.