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I dined with Christian that evening; his sweetheart and old Hitihiti, my taio, were the other guests. With the girl—who would eat nothing—at his side, Christian seemed to have shaken off for the moment the sombre mood from which he had not emerged since the mutiny. He raised his glass and smiled at me across the table.

“To our sweethearts,” he said lightly. “You can drink to mine, Byam, since you have none of your own.” Maimiti smiled gravely and touched the glass with her lips, but my taio drained his wine at a gulp.

“Stop ashore my house, Byam,” he said.

I could feel Christian’s eyes on me as I replied. “I’m sorry,” I said; “but we shall be here only a few days, and Mr. Christian has informed me that I shall be needed on board.”

Hitihiti was evidently surprised at this. He turned to Christian, who nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “He will be needed on board during the whole time we are at anchor here.” The old chief understood enough of discipline on a British ship to let the subject drop.

Peggy had come on board during the afternoon, and when I went on deck after dinner I saw the couple seated by the mainmast, in the shadow of the pumps. Stewart’s arm was about her waist and they were speaking together in the Indian tongue. When she had gone ashore, Stewart, Morrison, and I met by agreement on the main hatch. Young was the officer of the watch, and since we were at anchor and the night was calm, he had given his men permission to sleep on deck. He was a carefree, unsuspicious fellow, and now he lolled on the poop, his head turned toward the dark loom of the land. Taurua, his Indian sweetheart, kept the watch with him—a slender ghostly figure, shrouded in white tapa. The night was chilly, for it was winter in Tahiti, and Matavai Bay was a black mirror to reflect the stars.