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I made no reply and for a long time we lay sprawled in the shade, our hands behind our heads. I felt deeply the lonely peace and beauty of the islet. Beyond the long white curve of the reef, a northerly breeze ruffled the Pacific gently. I groped in memory for a phrase of Greek and at last it came to me—“wine-dark sea.” Stewart spoke, half to himself, as if putting his thoughts into words: “What a place for a hermit’s meditations!”

“Would you like to live here?” I asked.

“Perhaps. But I would miss the sight of English faces. You, Byam, living alone among the Indians, do you never miss your own kind?”

I thought for a moment before I replied: “Not thus far.”

Stewart smiled. “You are half Indian already. Dearly as I love Peggy, I would be less happy at Matavai without Ellison. I’ve grown fond of the lad, and he spends half his time at our house. It’s a damned shame he had to meddle in the mutiny.”

“There’s not an ounce of harm in the young idiot,” I said; “and now he must sail away with Morrison and pass the rest of his days in hiding, on some cannibal island to the west. All for the pleasure of waving a bayonet under Bligh’s nose!”