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“Aye. Look—there he is now.”

Thompson was seated alone on the beach, half a cable’s length from us, with the air of a man brooding over his wrongs, as he nursed the musket between his knees.

“The man’s half mad,” growled Churchill. “You’ve a musket, Byam; best load it and keep it handy till he’s gone.”

“Are you planning to stop in Tautira?” I asked after a pause.

“Yes. I like the old chief—your father-in-law, whatever he is—and he seems to like me. He’s a fighting man, and so is the other chief, Atuanui. We were planning a bit of a war last night. He says if I help him he’ll give me a piece of land, with a fine young wife thrown in. But come—it is time we went to his house.”

Vehiatua had bidden us to witness a heiva that evening—a night dance of the kind I had seen in Tetiaroa long before. We found the grounds bright with torchlight and thronged with spectators, and when we had greeted our friends, Tehani and I seated ourselves with Churchill on the grass, on the outer fringe of the audience.