MANY years ago, before the steamers came to Samoa, when the whites depended on sailing-ships for their precarious supplies and their meagre news of the outside world, the Rev. Wesley Cook reached the Islands to take up the Lord’s work in that troubled field. He was a good-looking young man with a weak chin, rather regular features, and an abundance of yellow, fluffy hair, who had trod since earliest infancy the narrow path that leads to a missionary career. An assiduous church-member, a devout Sunday-school scholar, he had climbed, rung by rung, the religious ladder, and his sanguine, sensitive nature had flowered in an atmosphere which would have stifled a bolder boy. At nineteen he was fed into a sectarian college like corn into a mill, and at twenty-two the machine turned him out into the world, an undistinguishable unit of the church to which he belonged. Then, after a quiet month with his old mother, whose heart overflowed with the measure of her son’s success, the Rev. Wesley was bidden to marry and depart.

There were plenty to advise him at this juncture, and half a dozen young ladies were entered, so to speak, for the matrimonial steeplechase. But Wesley, contrary to all expectation and not a little to the chagrin of the narrow set in which he moved, showed some determination to have his own way in this important matter, and after a brief courtship he carried Miss Minnie Chandler to the altar. She was the proud and defiant beauty of the town, the self-willed, high-spirited young woman whose name was in every mouth, and whose rejected suitors numbered half the bachelors in the neighbourhood. Many wondered at her choice, until it was whispered about that she was heartsick over her affair with Harry Jardine, the manufacturer’s son, and that she preferred the missionary wilds to life in the same country with the man who had broken his troth. Be that as it may, she was joined to Wesley Cook in the bonds of holy matrimony, and after a quiet wedding, at which the breakfast was frugal and prayer abundant, the young couple bade farewell to their relations and departed for the uttermost isles of the sea.

Six months later the Morning Star hove to off the iron-bound coast of Savai’i, and her surf-boats landed the Rev. Wesley on the shores of his new home, together with a ton of provisions, some cheap furniture, a box of theological books, and a Samoan grammar. He found a concrete house already prepared for him, a church with sand-bagged windows and a plank door still studded with bullets,—an alarming reminder of the unsettled state of his district,—and an obsequious band of church elders, sticky with oil, and, to his notion of things, almost naked in their kilts of paper cloth. Bewildered and unhappy, with his wife in tears beside him, he gazed despairingly at the fast-dwindling ship, which he could not hope to see again for the space of a year.

The natives hung about like flies, buzzing through the stuffy rooms of the old mission-house so long closed to their little world, or bestirred themselves with noisy good will to the task of bringing up the freight and the pastor’s scanty boxes. He, poor fellow, with haggard face and eyes smarting with sweat, checked off the tally on an envelope, and strove to bear himself like the picture of the martyr Williams in “The Heroes of the Cross.” Numberless old men shook him by the hand, and talked to him loudly as though he were deaf, or drew him off to a distance and, leaning on long sticks, barked orations at his head. Bands of youths staggered in, singing, with loads of squealing pigs, and unsavoury victuals in baskets, while shaven-headed children tied chickens to the verandah-posts, and women and girls unfolded offerings of prawns and snaky eels. There was a live turtle in the sitting-room, a bull-calf in the kitchen, and at every turn veritable mountains of half-roasted pork. It was a wild scene for a man new come from quiet England, and the long, even days of life at sea; the unceasing press and bustle of the multitude, the squawking of chickens, and the screams of fettered pigs, all wore on his nerves until his head was giddy and his pulse throbbing. It was late in the afternoon before the mob scampered off with the suddenness and decision of a flock of birds, leaving the missionary and his wife to the peace they so sorely needed. The poor exiles, with sinking hearts, brewed their tea beside a packing-case, and wondered (much in the spirit of convicts who have left another world beyond the prison door) whether the captain had won his philopena of Mrs. McDougall, or if Miss Mossby had made it up with young Sturgis.

A year later the new missionary found himself somewhat at home in Fangaloa. He had preached a halting sermon in the native tongue, which, though no one could understand it, had evoked a respectful admiration. The school was now on its feet, and the children came eagerly, seemingly pleased with the rudiments of learning he managed to teach them. His parishioners, too, began to give evidence of their finer and nobler qualities, and warmed his heart by their kindness, generosity, and intelligence. Their laborious talks, as they sat at night round the fires, or on mats beneath the tropic moon, revealed to him a tenderness and refinement he was little prepared to find; and, from a task, these gatherings became an entertainment to be prepared for by anxious study of the phrase-book, and bewildering consultations with an old man who was supposed to understand English. Cook liked the admiration and deference of these ragged chiefs; he loved to note the bustle that heralded his own approach; the shaking out of the finest mats for his special seat; the polite chorus of “Maliu mai, susu mai Tutumanaia” (“You are high chief come, Cook the Handsome”); the closing up of the ranks, and the row of expectant faces. He was the little god of Fangaloa Bay, and in a hesitating, humble way he began to taste the sweets of power and authority.But with his wife it was very different. Her beautiful face grew pale and sharp, as the days rolled on in a blank succession of household tasks begun and ended. In the long night hours, when the heat made sleep impossible, and her heart turned to England and those dear ones she could not hope to see again for years, she would abandon herself to despair. She never complained, but went about her duties with sad-eyed patience, mixing very little with the many servants provided for her—the young men who studied for the ministry in the intervals of bread-making and waiting at table, and the girls of rank whose fathers were eager for them to keep pace with the strange new times they lived in. She never chid them, as most missionaries’ wives would have done, for trifling faults or petty forgetfulnesses. She never realised the enormity of breaking a plate, or the crime of tinting the pudding with washing-blue to enrich the colour; she allowed things to take their untroubled course in a way that amazed her household. When one’s heart is slowly breaking, it is hard to count the sugar in the bowl or watch the soap with housewifely care. In the hot afternoons she would take her work and seek the shadow of a tall cocoanut-grove which stood on a hill behind the town, and there remain for hours, gazing out at the vast shining bosom of the ocean, or at the blue mountains of Upolu, far across the strait. So regular was her visit to this little grove that her boys built a bench of tamanu wood for her to sit on, and raised a roof overhead to protect her from passing showers or the glancing rays of the sun; and the place was called “o le Nofoali’i o Misi Mini,” or the Throne of Mrs. Minnie, which name it bears to the present day, though all the actors in this story have long been laid beneath the sod. Once, after a solitary vigil of more than usual length, she returned and sought her room, now a little sanctuary of her irrevocable life; for here were gathered the treasures of her past; the photographs, mementoes, and keepsakes that she had clung to in her exile. Here she breathed again the air of home; here she could caress the fading photographs that were so dear to her, and indulge unstinted in passionate rebellion against her fate. On the day of which we write she found no comfort in her shrine. The faces of her friends looked down mournfully at her from the walls, tormenting her with a thousand recollections. Existence was unbearable enough without such added bitterness. These things, inanimate though they were, devoured her while they pretended to comfort; they broke her heart while she looked to them for solace. For a moment she saw the truth and trembled for herself. Madness lay on the road she had begun to follow.

One by one, she gathered them together; the picture of her father and mother, the photographs of her relations and girl friends, old Christmas cards, bits of ribbon, little odds and ends that had played each a part in those bygone days. There were letters, too, precious bundles of letters tied with ribbon, which she kissed and cried over before consigning to destruction; and from one such packet dropped the likeness of a man in uniform, which she pressed to her breast before tearing it into a hundred pieces. When at last the room was stripped of everything, she bore the heap of tender rubbish to the fire, and, with a stony face, fed it to the flames.

The Rev. Wesley Cook and his wife were not the only whites in their corner of Savai’i, as indeed they had first imagined themselves to be. There was still another in Fangaloa, an old, white-haired Irish priest called Father Zosimus. No one could remember how many years had passed since Father Zosimus came to Fangaloa and built the tiny house and chapel in the mango-grove; for he was an old, old man, and had come to that sleepy hollow when his hair was as black and his feet were as light as those of the nimblest warrior of the bay. He had no followers to speak of, for Fangaloa was Protestant to the core, and his congregation numbered no more than one family of eight, three transient young men who had run away with as many girls from Upolu, and Filipo, the aged catechist, who acted as his servant. But Father Zosimus never faltered in the path he had set himself to follow. For seven and forty years he had daily broken the stillness of the grove with the tinkle of his little bell, and never failed to carry on the service of his church. He scarcely heeded the new arrivals, and more than once he had had to chide old Filipo for gossiping about the papalangi on the hill. He never gave them a second thought, in fact, until one day he happened to see Tutumanaia passing on his way to church. The sight of that fresh, clear-eyed youngster greatly moved the old priest. He was troubled and uneasy as he walked home, and his heart ached a little. The new missionary belonged to his own race; he had the air of a scholar, and the frank, open face and quick eyes of a man full of enthusiasms and generous impulses; yet, so mused Zosimus on his homeward way, this charity, this noble purpose, were all for the aborigines alone. There would be none to spare for an old man to whom no music was so sweet as his mother-tongue, and whose loneliness was intensified by the burden of advancing years. For nearly half a century Father Zosimus had lived in exile, and his soul continually thirsted for the companionship which had been denied him all his life. The few whites who had come his way before had been scrubby traders, a priest or two a year, or some nondescript beach-comber, rough and foul-mouthed, begging brandy and food. True, he had spent eighteen years within a furlong of the Rev. Josiah Fison, Cook’s predecessor in Fangaloa; but that gentleman’s Christian charity stopped short at what he called a “rank Jesuit,” and they had never exchanged even so much as a word. In Father Zosimus there was a strain of Irish gaiety; he loved talk, and laughter, and argument; and the humblest white man who could speak English was welcomed to his table and treated to the best that Fangaloa afforded. Indeed, among the “squires of Savai’i” he was honoured and respected, from Falealupo to the strait. But these men were, most of them, gross and common. In Wesley Cook he saw a being of another world, a young man of refinement and spirituality, a fellow-missionary, a fellow-countryman, with whom all intercourse was inexorably barred, with whom he should live out the balance of his days and know no more than if an ocean rolled between them. No longer did he stem the tide of old Filipo’s gossip; on the contrary, he could now never learn enough of the new arrivals, and little passed in the mission-house that was not reported to him at once. He learned, with a singular feeling of delight, of the young minister’s kindness and ability; how he had mastered the language in less time than a foreigner had been ever before known to take; how he had raised the dying, nay, the breathless dead themselves, back to life with the costly medicines he never stinted to the poorest. “Oh, he is a minister wise and good,” said Filipo, “and his heart is not stony against us Catholics like the last pig-face; only yesterday he said that thou, Zosimus, wert honourable, and deserving of respect as a man who had trod the narrow road his whole life long.”

The old priest hung upon his words as though Filipo were inspired. The next day he went purposely out of his way to gain another look at Tutumanaia, and came back more affected than he had been before.

“Had I not entered the priesthood, I might have had a son like that,” he mused to himself, as he trudged homeward. “But that I gave to God, scarce knowing the sacrifice.” Then he rebuked himself for his impiety.More than once, as time passed, he turned over in his mind the possibility of calling at the Protestant mission. But no young girl could have shown more timidity than Father Zosimus. Many a time he brought out his best cassock, and brushed his best hat, and took a long look at himself in the cracked shaving-glass. But he would sigh as he saw the image of that wrinkled, shaggy-haired old man. “You’re nothing but a frowsy old frump, Zosimus,” he would say to himself, “nothing but the husk of what was once a man. Sure, they would have little use for you, that handsome boy and girl in their elegant home.” For to Father Zosimus the whitewashed, coral-built mission-house, with its shining windows and its trim garden laid out in plots, was a fairy palace resplendent with luxury and filled with a thousand treasures. In his simple heart, half prepared as it was to believe anything that redounded to the honour of his hero, he had received with all confidence the glowing tales the natives brought him; and the very glamour with which his imagination endowed the spot helped to keep him back. “If the boy cares to know me, he will come himself,” he said; and the camphor-wood chest would close, perhaps for the twentieth time, on the father’s Sunday best.

But the boy never came. He, too, was timid, and though he often noticed the gaunt old priest, and longed also to speak his mother-tongue with the only creature save his wife who could understand it in all Fangaloa, the opportunity never came to break the ice. A whole year passed, and the Rev. Wesley Cook and the Rev. Father Zosimus, S. J., were no nearer an acquaintance than before. Yet there was seldom a day but they saw each other from afar, the one shy and kind, half hoping to receive the first advances, the other no less eager and no less restrained.

One day Filipo brought a rumour to his master which the latter listened to with deep concern. For a whole afternoon he gave up his usual digging in the garden and paced his little verandah to and fro. Once he even washed and dressed himself in his best, and trimmed his ragged beard; but he took off his clothes again and smoked another pipe instead of paying the visit he had so nearly decided to make. He called in Filipo from the taro-field, and bade him waylay Misi’s girls every day and bring news of Mrs. Cook’s condition.

Day by day the two old men discussed the coming event, and Father Zosimus grew by turns glad and fearful at the prospect. The news came to him one morning in October, as he was kneeling to implore divine aid in the hour of a woman’s agony. Dawn was breaking as Filipo rushed into the chapel, coughing and panting. “It is all over,” he cried,—“the mother well and happy, and the child a little chief, of a strength and beauty the like of which has never been seen in Fangaloa.”

“God be thanked!” cried Father Zosimus, throwing himself once more on his knees.

With the later hours there came less assuring news of the mother and the little chief. There was a devil in Misi, said Filipo; a devil that caused her to lie as dead, or to burst forth furiously into strange tongues, so that all about her stood amazed and trembling. The little chief lay helpless in old Sisimaile’s arms, and the flame of its tiny life was that of a flickering torch. Yes, the papatisonga had not been neglected. Old Tuisunga and Leotele, the speaking-man, were the godfathers at the font; and Tutumanaia read fast, with tears in his voice, lest the babe should die before it had been joined to the Tahitian religion. For Master Wesley Chandler Cook was not destined long to be a member of Christ’s church on earth. As they bore him back to the room where his mother lay, he closed his eyes for ever.

Father Zosimus was stunned when the news first reached him, and the tears rolled down his cheeks as he listened to Filipo. Then he went indoors and rummaged the old chests where he kept his treasures, turning out some trashy velvet with which he had meant to decorate the chapel, a bottle of varnish, some brass nails, and a bundle of well-seasoned, well-polished maalava boards that he had laid away to build himself a desk. He spread them out on the rough table, and studied them long and earnestly. In his youth he had been a joiner and a worker in wood, and though his hand was palsied with age, and his eye not so true as it once had been, he was still more than a fair craftsman. He brought out his tools, clamps, and measures, and asked Filipo what he judged to be the bigness of the chief-son of Tutumanaia.

“Not very long,” said the old retainer,—“scarcely more than the half of your Highness’s arm.”Father Zosimus put on his spectacles, measured off the velvet, scanned his materials and tools with a workmanlike eye, and then, when all lay ready to his hand, he went outside and began to pace up and down his verandah. The devil of irresolution and doubt was again gnawing at his heart. Unsought and unasked, what business was it of his to make a coffin for the dead child? There was not a soul in Fangaloa but knew that Father Zosimus was skilled in such matters, as his house and chapel so abundantly testified. Were his help required, they would come and seek it. Would it not look strange for him to make a coffin unbidden? Would it not appear forward, grasping, perhaps as though he expected payment for his work? For an hour he wrestled with the problem. Finally he told Filipo to spread the news about the village that the old priest looked to undertake this task for nothing, and was waiting only to be asked. With that he shut himself up in the chapel, and spent the forenoon in reciting prayers for the dead. But, devout though he ordinarily was in everything touching the services of his church, Father Zosimus found it hard, on this occasion, to dwell on things heavenly when all the while his body was quivering with suspense, and his soul hearkened for that footfall on the coral floor. Again and again he seemed to hear the sound of voices, Filipo answering with soft deliberation, the minister agitated and saying with mournful earnestness, “Tell the ali’i patele I must see him instantly.” But no message came; no discreet cough or dog-like scratching against the door warned him that his attention was desired; and the stillness of the chapel remained untroubled save for the murmuring surf and the coo of wild pigeons in the forest.

It was late in the afternoon, and the fierce heat of day was already melting into the softness of night, when the minister’s little son was borne to his rest. Under the equator burial follows swiftly on the heels of death, and life no sooner leaves the body than the diggers must sweat and the hammers fly. There can be no decorous pause to soften the blow or strengthen the bereaved for that last farewell beside the grave. Ashamed, he knew not why, with a desolate sense of defeat, Father Zosimus was drawn to gaze on the burial from afar, crouching on a knoll that overlooked the spot. He watched, with an emotion not to be expressed in words, the affecting scene which played itself out before him. Across the strait blue Upolu sparkled in the setting sun; the foaming breakers outlined the coast like a fringe of silver, and thrilled faintly on the ear; the evening star quivered in the blackening sky, and the constellation of the Southern Cross gleamed in the heavens, the bright solace of many a Christian heart.

The coffin lay on a rough bier of mingled boughs and flowers, borne in procession by eight solemn little boys all of a size, who were tricked out in a uniform of white cotton. Behind them, very pale and handsome, walked Tutumanaia, in duck clothes and a pith helmet. On his one hand was the smug-faced native pastor from the next bay; on the other, Tuisunga, the towering old chief, imperious of eye, stately in manner, as befitted the occasion and the man. Behind these again, and at the head of the elders and speaking-men with their fly-flappers and Bibles, strode the taupou of Fangaloa, in a striped silk apana and a skirt made of a fine mat. The village matrons made up the middle of the procession, with their hands full of hibiscus, frangipani, stephanotis, and moso’oi, followed by groups of young girls and young men, decorously apart, as convention demands; the former in bright lavalavas and little shirts of flowers and leaves, or with their brown bosoms glistening through entwined laumaile and necklaces of scarlet singano; the latter with lime-whitened heads and flaming aute-blossoms behind their ears. Throughout swarmed the village children, with shaven heads and eager faces, and ears all unmindful of the click-click of their warning parents, romping, quarrelling, and chasing one another through the crowd.

The pall-bearers laid down their burden beside the empty grave, and knelt on the grass in a little semicircle. Tutumanaia and his two companions threw themselves on a mat which a woman unrolled and spread out for them. The taupou took her position at the head of the coffin, and raised her silken parasol, less to shade her eyes than to display a cherished possession. At a respectful distance, the chiefs, elders, and speaking-men formed the first rank of a great circle, their deeply lined faces overcast and solemn. The silence was first broken by a shrill hymn, and then Cook rose to his feet, drew a Testament from his pocket, and began to address the village. What he said was commonplace enough, and only the echo of what he had said a hundred times before, but the stress of a deep emotion ennobled his ready phrases and impassioned the narrow vocabulary of Samoan woe. It seemed to Father Zosimus that he was listening to an angel, or to one of those inspired beings on whom the church is founded; and, indeed, a painter would have found a saint to his hand in the tall, shining white figure of the young minister, with his aureole of golden hair, his hand uplifted to the sky, and his pale, rapt face raised to God.

He faltered as he drew near the close of his address, and when at last he looked down and pointed to the little coffin, the stream of his eloquence suddenly ran dry. He tried to go on, hesitated, and covered his face with his hands, leaving it for the pastor to continue. This the Rev. Tavita Singua did without further loss of time. He expatiated on the godlike virtues of Tutumanaia in a strain that would have made an angel blush, and did not spare the poor clay that had lived but to die. Another piercing hymn preceded the third address. Old Tuisunga now stepped forward, his battle-scarred chest naked to the heavens, the bunching tapa round his loins his only garment. Slowly, softly, with the tenderest deliberation, he began to speak. He was a born orator, and knew the way to men’s hearts, rugged old barbarian though he was. His theme was the bond that this little grave would for ever be between the missionary and themselves, and his voice thrilled as he invited Wesley into the fellowship of the bereaved, and told of the tragedy that underlies the life of man. He drew familiar instances from the village history; here a cherished boy destined for a name renowned; there a young maid struck down in all her bright promise. He called to mind his own son Rafael, who had fallen beside him on the battle-field, his Absalom, for whom he would have died a thousand deaths. He spoke, he said, as one man of sorrow to another, one whose heart lay beneath a fathom of Samoan earth. He drew to a close by declaring that no common hand should touch the coffin of their beloved. He, the son of chiefs, the father of famous warriors, would lay the little body to its last repose, so that it should say when its spirit reached the angels, “Behold, I am the son of Tutumanaia, and my servant Tuisunga laid me to rest in the house of sandalwood.” He tenderly lifted the coffin in his arms, pressed his lips against the unpainted boards, and lowered it into the grave.

An hour later, a gaunt, black-robed figure made its way through the trampled grass and fell on its knees beside the grave. It was Father Zosimus, bowed in supplication before the throne of grace.

It was strange what a simple matter at last brought about the acquaintance of the only two white men in Fangaloa. Each had timidly waited for the other to make the first advances, and each had gone his solitary way, sick at heart, and hungering for the companionship which would have been so eagerly accorded. It befell that Cook’s well went dry, and there being no other water in the village save the brackish fluid the natives were content to drink, one of the mission boys suggested that they apply to the old priest. So Tutumanaia sat down and wrote a polite note, explaining his predicament, and begging for a little water. The note was sent by a messenger with a bucket. Father Zosimus was overwhelmed when he opened and read the letter; he was dazed by the suddenness of his own good fortune; he bade Filipo feed the boy with the best the house afforded, with sucking pig and palusami unstinted, while he hurriedly made ready for the visit that he was at last to pay.

Oh, that first meeting! It exceeded his wildest expectations, his most sanguine dream! Wesley Cook was so cordial, so frankly anxious to be friends, so overflowing with pent-up confidences, that the priest almost wept as he unbosomed himself of the scruples that had kept him back. With innocent craft, he left nothing undone to establish his footing, and his bland and beaming smile hid a thousand schemes for entangling Cook in a web of obligation. Could he send some roses to madam, his beautiful wife? It might distract her from the thought of her terrible loss. He had so many roses—to give a few would be such a pleasure, such an honour. Ah, madam would be pleased with them, were she fond of flowers. She, too, must come and see his garden, his poor garden, where he grudged not the labour, as it seemed to bring him close to God. Could he not provide her with some special seeds sent him all the way from Ceylon—acclimated seeds from the famous gardens of the lay brothers at Point de Galle? Some guava jelly of his own making? Some smoked pigeons that he ventured to say were delicious? Would Cook accept some cherries in brandy that the captain of the Wild Cat had presented to him years ago—that headstrong naval captain who had come to bombard Fangaloa, and ended by giving prizes to the school-children?

Father Zosimus did not overstay his welcome. On the contrary, he had to tear himself away almost by force, so insistent was Cook to keep him. But he knew how much depended on that first visit; he would not jeopardise the precious friendship by remaining too long; and he took early leave, exulting like a child in the rosy vistas that opened before him. This proved to be the first of many visits, and the beginning of an acquaintance that ripened into the closest intimacy. In the day each had his duties to perform, his quiet routine of tasks to fulfil. Father Zosimus sawed stone for the unfinished church he had been ten years building with the perseverance of an ant, or dug in the garden hard by the chapel whose tinkling bell called him periodically to devotions. Tutumanaia had his school, his Young Men’s Institute, his medical practice, and the thousand and one labours imposed upon him by his position and the multitude of his flock. One hour daily he devoted to the intricacies of the language, another to the translation of the “Peep o’ Day” and “Glimpses of the Holy Land” into the Samoan tongue. But at night, when all the village lay quiet on its mats, and nothing broke the stillness save the drone of the surf and the rustle of flying-foxes among the trees, then it was that Father Zosimus would seek the mission verandah and the society of the friend that had become so dear to him.

Side by side, with their canvas chairs touching, the strange pair would talk far into the night. The world passed in review before them, that great world of which they both knew so little; and from their village on the shores of an uncharted sea they weighed and examined, criticised and condemned it. Or perhaps from such lofty themes their talk would drift into the homelier channel of local gossip, or stray into the labyrinths of Samoan politics. Or Origen, Athanasius, George of Cappadocia, would be drawn from their distant past to point an argument or illustrate a deep dissertation on the primitive church. And from these, again, perhaps to Steinberger’s new poll-tax and the fighting in Pango Pango.

On one subject they never spoke—the great barrier reef of dogma that lay between them. Once only was it in any way alluded to—once after a memorable night when Wesley had opened his heart to the old priest. In saying farewell the latter had raised his hands, and was deeply chagrined when his companion leaped back with a look of consternation.

“Oh, my son,” said Zosimus, “the blessing of an old and not unworthy man cannot harm thee. Do we not each serve God according to our lights?”

But if Father Zosimus had succeeded in winning the young minister’s confidence and friendship, with Mrs. Cook he had not fared so well. In the bottom of his heart he felt that the woman’s ill will was the rock on which the precious friendship might founder, and he accordingly left no stone unturned to ingratiate himself in her favour. But the lonely, wilful, moody woman, with her health impaired by her recent confinement, and her spirit warped by disappointment and the consciousness of dimming beauty, was in no state of mind to receive his advances. Unhappy herself, she was in the tigerish humour when one must rend, if one can, the happiness of others. She had nothing in common with the frowsy old priest who wore blue jeans under his snuffy cassock and smelled of garden mould. Moreover, her pride was wounded by her tacit exclusion from the nightly company on the porch. Her presence brought constraint and what seemed to her disordered nerves a scarcely veiled resentment. Though she yawned in her husband’s face when they were alone together, and did nothing to seek his confidence, she detested his intimacy with the old priest, and the thought of it rankled perpetually within her. At first she had ignored Father Zosimus’s very existence, repelling his overtures with an indifference quite unaffected, and treating him with the frank rudeness that springs from unconcern. But as time passed, and every fibre of her being revolted at the narrowness and hopelessness of her imprisoned life; as her spirit beat against the bars and her heart seemed to burst within her breast; she began to perceive in the priest the means of striking at her husband. Not that she did not love Wesley, after a fashion; if things had so fallen out, she could have felt the most poignant jealousy; but she resented the easy, contented nature that blossomed in that hot hole where they lived, among those greasy, fawning savages with whom their lot was so inexorably cast. His prattle about the school, the progress of the “Peep o’ Day,” his zeal for unearthing legends and old Samoan songs, his whole innocent enjoyment in his daily tasks and duties, all fanned the flame of her revolt. If he, too, had risen against the dreary confinement of their life; if he, too, had faced each succeeding day with ineffable disgust, and had lain weary and heartsick in her arms at night; she would have comforted him, encouraged him, strengthened him for the task he had so rashly undertaken. What she could not bear, what she could not forgive or condone, was his mild acceptance of his fate; his zest in the pitiful drudgery of his every-day existence; the petty nature that could thus expand in the close air of a prison. With a malignity that was crazed in its intensity, the outcome of hysteria and the first gnawings of disease, she sought to shatter the placidity which had grown as intolerable to her as the Samoan sun at noon. In Father Zosimus she perceived the dagger with which she could stab her husband through and through; and in the maturing of her plot she enjoyed the nearest approach to happiness that had ever come her way in Fangaloa.

One evening, when Father Zosimus arrived as usual, he was met on the verandah by Mrs. Cook, and informed that the minister had been detained in the village by some trifling errand. He felt a tone of menace in her voice, and foreboded no good from her high colour and quivering lips. He would have excused himself had a lie come easily to his lips, but he was not quick in such things, and took the offered seat with a sinking heart. He searched nervously here and there for some topic of conversation that might be interesting and yet free from the slightest possibility of offence, his ear, meanwhile, alert for the sound of the minister’s footsteps. But Mrs. Cook was too adroit for the old man, and, to his inexpressible chagrin, he soon found himself stumbling into an argument, and the target for humiliating and derisive questions. He now thought only of escape, for his hands were trembling, and he felt his cheeks flushing with indignation. Every word he said seemed only to land him deeper in the mire. When, at last, Mrs. Cook began to taunt him with a recent scandal in Upolu involving the good name of a nun, Father Zosimus cried out inarticulately, and flung himself past her into the darkness. Even as he did so, Wesley Cook came swinging up the path, and instinctively stepped aside to allow the flying figure to pass. He looked back at it irresolutely, and then continued on his way with a premonition of evil to come. His wife received him with vehement caresses, clinging to him in an hysterical frenzy. Between her choking sobs she overflowed with foolish, disjointed, and often incoherent accusations against the old priest. “That horrible old Jesuit!” she cried; “that sly, slinking, wicked creature; never, never must he be permitted to cross the threshold again.” Her cheeks flamed as she continued her tirade; as she described the shame, the humiliation she had secretly undergone; as she affected, with passionated outbursts of indignation, to keep back things that were too black even for utterance. All the time she searched Wesley’s eyes for an answering fire, and could read nothing but incredulity and dismay. Then her wrath turned full upon him, and with a hundred quotations from his own lips she denounced his intimacy with a Jesuit, and bade him choose between the priest and her.

She threatened to seek old Tuisunga’s protection were he to persist in this unworthy friendship, and drew in no uncertain colours the effect of the letter she would write to the missionary authorities at Malua. Wesley was frightened to the core, and quaked under the lash of her denunciation. He saw himself disgraced; dismissed from the Society; turned out into the world, that most forlorn and helpless of human beings, the discarded missionary. Abjectly he begged for mercy, simulated an indignation against Father Zosimus he could in no wise feel, and was in due course forgiven on promising to break for ever with the old priest.

He passed a troubled night; he felt he had made a mean capitulation, and, try as he would, he was unable to gloss the matter to his conscience. He was stung by the conviction of his cowardice and disloyalty, and yet his common sense told him that he was powerless in his wife’s hands. He could never outlive the scandal of her desertion, or explain away those letters which would write him down a pervert. In the morning Wesley timidly expostulated with his wife, quoting all the texts he could remember that bore on charity and forgiveness. This was a course little calculated to allay Mrs. Cook’s wrath. She burst out upon him with a fury that completely crushed his last effort at intercession. She stood over him as he wrote the letter in which, with smooth and nicely balanced sentences, interspersed with religious commonplaces and trite expressions of regret, he raised a wall of words between himself and the old man he had called his friend. He knew, he said, that Father Zosimus could have had no intention to offend, but Mrs. Cook had taken the matter of overnight in such a way that he felt unable to resume an intimacy which had been very precious to him. No apologies or explanations could avail, and he begged that none be offered; but he trusted, he need not say how earnestly, that in some future time (D. V.) the dark clouds would roll away, and with them all memories of this unhappy misunderstanding.

The letter was brought to Father Zosimus in the garden, where he was digging furiously to drive away the devils that beset him. He tore it open with his grimy hands, and read it with a feeling of despair. The few kindly allusions brought tears to his eyes, and his first resentment against Tutumanaia passed away as he re-read them; but against Mrs. Cook, the author of his humiliation, his whole nature rose in arms. Disciplined though he was by seven and forty years of abnegation, the old Adam in him lay still fiery and untamed. He was consumed with bitterness towards the woman who had so cruelly wronged him. What had he to hope “in some future time (D. V.),” old and broken man that he was? In the fierceness of his indignation he called down the vengeance of God upon her until contrition overpowered him, and he threw himself on his knees.

“Oh, Zosimus,” he said, “so old and still so foolish!”

After such a blow it was hard to pick up the threads of life once more, and interest himself in the recurring tasks which rounded out each day. But in Father Zosimus there was the stuff of which martyrs are made. Sore of heart though he was, and spent of body, his unremitting energy and indomitable faith drove him to work and pray as he had never worked or prayed before. His lacerated feelings found an outlet in dazzling garden-beds, trellises of bamboo, and in the stone wall he had so often planned and as often given up, which was to inclose the seaward side of his little plantation. And in these tranquil and unexciting occupations, which kept the hands busy while the mind was free to rove, a certain scheme unfolded itself which found increasing favour in his eyes; the means, in fact, by which he might score a triumph over Mrs. Cook, and restore himself once again in her good graces. Not that he had forgiven her for the part she had taken against him; his anger still smouldered beneath the blanket of Christian charity with which he had sought to smother it; but were he to gain again his footing in that household on the hill; were he to renew the intimacy that was the very salt of his life; he must needs pay toll to the woman who held the key of his happiness. As he dug, or weeded, or carried stones to his wall, or climbed the ladder beside the shining trellis-work, the old priest was never far from a sheet of paper and a pencil. Sometimes it was a hammer that kept these things in place, sometimes it was the well-worn shovel-hat that guarded them from the puffs of the trade or chance cat’s-paws from the mountains, while Zosimus, his head economically wrapped in banana-leaves, seized many an occasion during the course of his labours to scribble another word on the anchored sheet, or erase something already written. It was a list of such delicacies as the limited markets of Apia afforded, for which the old man was intending to lay out the savings of a year.

It must not be supposed that the Rev. Wesley Cook was having a particularly pleasant time of it during the days that followed the breaking off with Father Zosimus. For half a week, indeed, his wife exerted herself to supply the old man’s place, and had never before shown herself so agreeable or so helpful. She interested herself in Wesley’s legends, listened patiently to the story of Sopo’s misdoings, of the brilliant possibilities that lay in Popo would he only apply himself in earnest, or lamented with her husband the bad influences which were undermining the character of a gentleman named O; she wrote to his dictation a little essay on the “King-names of Samoa,” which Cook intended sending to the Polynesian Society of New Zealand; and, in fact, proved herself a zealous, clever, and indefatigable comrade. All thought of Father Zosimus would soon have slipped from Wesley’s memory had this new-found companionship been destined to endure; but it was nothing more than a flash in the pan, due half to remorse, half to policy, a means to gain time for the breach to widen irrevocably between her husband and the priest.

The sour, capricious woman could not long brook the task she had set herself to perform; her spirit soon flagged in the dull round which made up her husband’s life, and her new part in it grew daily more intolerable. She slowly lapsed again into the dark humour which was fast becoming her second nature, and took no further trouble to conciliate her husband. Cook was slow to realise the change, but when at last it dawned upon him that she listened with unconcealed indifference to the tale of the day’s doings, and made no further pretence of caring either for his work in Fangaloa or for the literary labours which were his only relaxation, he, too, grew gloomy and dispirited. The essay languished; the “Peep o’ Day” stood still; and he spent solitary hours in his study in a kind of stupor. A thousand times his heart turned towards his old friend, and he longed to throw himself at his feet and say, “Father, comfort me! I am weak of spirit and sore distressed.” But loyalty to the overwrought and nigh crazy woman he called his wife, as well as the timidity which was constitutional in the man, forbade an open reconciliation, and he shrank from the thoughts of a clandestine one. So he went his lonely way, bearing his cross as best he might.

At last the time grew near for the execution of the plan which had cost Father Zosimus so much trouble and calculation, not to speak of many dollars from his scanty hoard.

On Christmas morn, as the cannon at Faleapuni pealed along the shore and roused the villages with its joyful reverberations, Father Zosimus hastened to transform his dwelling into a bower of ferns and flowers. With Filipo to assist him, and ’afa enough to have built a chief’s house, the pair worked unceasingly until there remained not an inch without its flower nor a post unentwined with brilliant creepers and fragrant moso’oi. He drew a breath of satisfaction when it was all finished to his liking, and while Filipo swept out the litter he sat down and wrote the following letter:

Fangaloa, December 25, 186-.

My Dear Children: On this blessed morning no Christian can harbour any unkindness in his heart, nor cast up another’s shortcomings against him. I am an old and a failing man; the day of my release is close at hand, and you both must be generous to me as one so soon to stand before his God. And if I have unwittingly offended you,—as I know I have done,—I pray you to forgive me for the sake of Him who was born to-day. I have ventured to prepare a little feast in your honour, with which I hope we may celebrate, in innocent gaiety, the renewal of our friendship. At twelve o’clock I shall expect you both.

I remain, my dear children, with heartfelt wishes for your good health and continued prosperity,

Your old friend,
Zosimus, S. J.

He read the note several times to himself before putting it into an envelope and addressing it to Mr. and Mrs. Cook. Filipo was at hand, garlanded with red singano and elegantly garbed in white, prepared to make a good appearance before the young ladies of the mission. He trotted off with the note carefully wrapped in a banana-leaf, that it might be delivered in all its virgin purity. Father Zosimus lit a pipe and impatiently set himself to await his messenger’s return.

“Se’i ave le tusi lea ia Misi,” said Filipo to the young lady that met him at the door. “Ou te fa’atali i’inei mo le tali.” (“Give this letter to Misi. I will wait here for the answer.”) Now, in Samoa, the word “Misi” is used to designate and address Protestant missionaries of either sex, and the maid carried the letter, not to Wesley Cook in his study, but to Mrs. Cook, who was listlessly lolling in the sitting-room. She tore it open, read it with attention, and putting it hastily in her pocket, bade the girl send Filipo away. “Tell him Misi says there is no answer,” she said.The old catechist skipped down the hill, and repeated to his master the message that had been given him.

Father Zosimus was painfully overcome.

“Filipo,” he said, “did you see the minister with your very own eyes?”

“Ioe,” answered the catechist, cheerfully; “he was writing in his room, and I saw him through the window, looking very sad, and eating his pen like a cow at a breadfruit-tree.” Filipo mimicked the action on his finger.

Father Zosimus sat for a long time in a kind of dream. A glass of wine served to rouse and strengthen him, and the unaccustomed stimulant put him in some sort of trim to carry on the duties of the day. But a recurring dizziness and a sinking at the heart soon drove him to take an enforced rest. He told Filipo he did not care to eat, bidding him put away the wine, and call Iosefo and his family to the feast that had been made ready for such different guests.

With the passing of Christmas Father Zosimus began to work harder than ever in his garden; early and late he could be seen in the midst of its blooming flower-beds, digging, weeding, or transplanting with passionate intensity. A loutish fellow from the westward, a heavy-featured son of Wallis Island, had been engaged to divide the burden of these tasks, and for a wage infinitesimally small toiled and sweated under the father’s eye. To guard this creature from the prattle of the passers-by, and to check his tendency to gaze dreamily into the sun; to stifle his inclination to drink, to smoke, to chatter, to explain how much better they did things in Wallis Island; to keep his fat face, in fact, on the weeds in front of him, became, indeed, Father Zosimus’s constant study. Day by day, he stood sentinel over his Uvean, applied the man’s clumsy force to profitable ends, and kept his own unconquerable heart from breaking.

It was not every day he could pursue the occupation he loved best, and watch his plans take shape with slow but appreciable success. January falls in the depth of the wet season; furious rains and long stretches of boisterous weather often interrupted the Uvean’s labours, driving both him and his taskmaster to the enforced idleness of the house—the former to sleep on the floor or to smoke interminable suluis with Filipo: the priest to read his breviary by dim lamplight as the deluge pounded on the roof. It was during one of these black days, when all the world was awash outside, and a wild westerly wind was tearing through the trees, bombarding the village with crashing boughs and cocoanuts, that the priest’s ancient barometer sank to 29°, and gave a quivering promise of worse to follow. He was looking at the mercury, and setting the gauge, when Filipo appeared in the passage, his face bright with news.

“The partner of Tutumanaia is known to your Highness?” he began, with a question that might well have appeared superfluous.

Father Zosimus turned instantly.

“God is high-chief angry with her rock-like heart,” went on Filipo, with the calm intonation of one vindicated. “She was presumptuous and beautiful like an angel; now she is pig-faced and torn of devils; and her man, oh, he weeps like an aitu in the wilderness.”

“Whence didst thou get this tala?” asked the priest, mindful of past mare’s nests on his servant’s part.

“The tala is a true one, Zosimus,” he said. “Even now the pastor of Faleapuni is praying with a loud voice in the room of the sick, tussling with the devil, while the family shrieks and is distracted. The hand of God lies heavy upon her, and they say she will die; her face scorches the touch like a hot lamp, and she talks constantly the words of devils.”

Zosimus made a gesture of annoyance; at any other time he would have reproved Filipo for retailing such heathenish fables, and reopened a discussion that had continued between them for upward of thirty years; but his solicitude for Wesley Cook monopolized every thought, and he allowed his servant’s words to pass unchallenged.

“But her sickness?” he demanded. “How first did it come upon her?”

“It was thus,” returned Filipo: “thy grieving heart was known of God, and when he looked down at that costly feast to which neither the minister nor his wife would deign to come—”

“Stop!” cried the priest. “This is the talk of an untattooed boy. Have I not told thee a thousand times that sickness has invariably a cause?”

“The maids say that last week she had a long talk with her husband,” said Filipo, “and together they quarrelled until she talked loud and fierce, like a German, and he cried and cried, and threw himself on the mats. Then she went out of the house, and to her there was neither umbrella nor coat, though it rained; and she walked, uselessly, all the way to Faleapuni, so burned her heart with anger; and when she returned she was trembling with the cold so that her teeth went thus. Then she went to bed, and vomited terribly, and every time she breathed, it hurt her chest so that she said, ‘Ugh! ugh!’ like a man sorely wounded on the field. Then the minister came to her and tried to talk and bedarling her; but she mocked at him, and said her heart was in the White Country. After that she began to talk the devil-stuttering which is not understandable of man.”

Father Zosimus’s jaw fell, and he looked about him like a man on the brink of some great resolve.

“She was never the same after the day of the feast,” said Filipo.

The priest put on his yellow oilskin, and placing a bottle of brandy in one pocket, he grasped the bunched umbrella that was his inseparable companion. Thus prepared to face the elements and carry succour to the sick, he made his way into the open and ascended the hill towards the mission-house. His face tingled under the lash of the wind and rain as he struggled on, dodging the nuts that occasionally shot across his path like cannon-balls; and when at last he reached his goal in safety, he was surprised to see the curtains pulled down within, and to find no one to answer his repeated knocks.He was emboldened to turn the knob and enter, which he did hesitatingly, not knowing what reception awaited him. At the end of the hall a half-open door let out a flood of lamplight, betraying one room, at least, in which he might expect to find some member of the household. On the bed beside the wall Mrs. Cook lay in disordered bedclothes, her glassy eyes upturned in delirium, her face yellow and pinched almost beyond recognition, one thin arm on the pillow beneath her head, the other thrown limply across the sheet. Not far from her, in shabby dressing-gown and slippers, Wesley himself was asleep in a canvas chair, sunk in the deep oblivion that follows an all-night watch. On the floor two native girls slumbered in boluses of matting, their heads side by side on a bamboo pillow. The priest stole softly to the bed and looked down on Mrs. Cook’s face; but there was no understanding in the bright, troubled glance that met his own, no coherence in the whispered words she repeated to herself. He was angered to think of his own ignorance and helplessness as he stood the brandy on the littered table beside the copy of “Simple Remedies for the Home,” and studied the woman with renewed anxiety. In truth, she looked grievously ill. Sixty miles of wild water and mountainous seas separated them from Apia and the only doctor in the group; he shivered as he caught the wail of the wind without, and saw in mind the breakers that were thundering against their iron coast.

He fell on his knees and prayed, and then went out into the air again, his mind made up to a desperate measure. He now took another path, one that led him across the village to Tuisunga’s stately house. It was nearly filled with chiefs and speaking-men, ranged round in a great circle, and the high-pitched, measured periods of an orator could be heard above the wind and the pelting rain. On his approach there burst out a chorus of “Maliu mai, susu mai, ali’i Zosimo”; and he bent under the eaves and made his way, half crouching, to a place by Tuisunga’s side. The eyes of all the party turned on him with surprise, and there was a little burst of expectation, broken only by the embittered hawking of the interrupted orator.

“Your Majesty Tuisunga, chiefs, and speaking-men of Fangaloa,” began Zosimus, “be not angry with me for disturbing this meeting. I have just come from the house of mourning, where God’s hand lies heavy upon your pastor’s wife, so that she is like to die. It is my thought that we take a boat and go with all expedition for the German doctor in Apia.”

“Chief Zosimus,” answered Tuisunga, “the gentlemen you see before you have been discussing this very matter. We are agreed that if the lady is to live, we must seek help at once from the wise white man in Apia, though the storm is heavy upon us, and the risk more than bullets in the fighting line. But what boat can live in such a gale, save one that is strong indeed, and well wrought? Our man-of-war that pulls forty oars is with Forster to be mended; my own whaler is too old and rotten for so bold a malanga; the others we possess are small and useless.”

“There is Ngau’s boat,” said the priest, with a flash of his eyes towards a sullen-looking old chief. “It is new, and strong like a ship of two masts.”

Ngau’s withered face hardened. A titter ran round the assembled chiefs.

“That is the knot,” said Tuisunga; “it is not the will of Ngau to give his boat, lest it be cast away.”

“Not to save the life of a dying woman?” demanded Father Zosimus.

“Ngau is accustomed to the white man’s way,” said Tuisunga. “He is mean, and his heart is like a stone.”

All eyes turned to Ngau, who stared back, defiant and unabashed.

“If he has a white man’s heart, we will treat him to the white man’s law,” cried Zosimus. “We will take his boat by force.”

“But it is Ngau’s boat,” said Tuisunga.

“It is Ngau’s boat,” echoed the chiefs.

“And thou wilt let the woman die?” cried Father Zosimus.

“It is Ngau’s boat,” said Tuisunga.

“What dost thou want for the boat?” demanded the priest.

“Five dollars and a tin of biscuit,” replied Ngau, promptly; “and if it be wrecked, one hundred and twelve dollars, a water-bottle, and a coil of rope as thick as a man’s thumb.”

“I will take it on myself,” said Father Zosimus. “I am poor; I belong to a faith that thou deridest; yet my heart is not weak and fearful like thine. I will answer for thy boat, Chief Ngau, before all these gentlemen as witnesses.”

“O le tino tupe lava [hard money]” inquired Ngau, “to be put in my hand before the young men touch my boat?”

“I have not so much,” cried the priest. “I have not money in my house like drinking-nuts. It comes this month, and that a little at a time. But I tell thee truly, I will pay thee every seni.”

The owner of the boat shook his head.

“I want one hundred and twelve dollars,” he said, “a water-bottle, and a coil of rope as thick as my thumb.”

“Why dost thou call thyself chief of this village, Tuisunga?” demanded the priest. “The only chief I see here is Ngau. He speaks: we obey. It matters not what I want, or what thou wishest, or whether the pastor’s wife lies dying. It is his Majesty Ngau who is King of Fangaloa. Thy power is no stronger than that of an untattooed boy.”

“But it is Ngau’s boat,” said Tuisunga, looking very black.

“Zosimus,” said Ngau, “they tell me thou hast costly things in thy church—cups of silver, two silver candlesticks, each heavy as a gun, and a silver cross on which there is the image of Jesus. Bring these to me, together with five dollars of hard money and the musical box that sounds so sweetly of an evening, and I will hold them for the price of my boat. If it be cast, thou shalt pay me, from time to time, one hundred and twelve dollars, a water-bottle, and a coil of rope as thick as a man’s thumb, and when the contract is finished I will give thee back the precious things. But if no harm befall the boat, I shall return them at once, and the price of it will be five dollars and a tin of biscuit.”

“Thou shalt have them,” cried Father Zosimus; “and if thou hadst said, ‘Zosimus, take an axe and strike off thy right hand,’ that also would I have done. A life is more to me than dollars in a bag, Chief Ngau. Of thee, Tuisunga, one only is the question I desire to ask: When I bring back my precious things according to the will of Ngau, how may I be sure, indeed, that thou wilt not claim another price for the crew?”

The chief hung his head. “We are not all like Ngau,” he returned.

In half an hour the priest was back, with Filipo at his heels, the arms of both filled with well-wrapped packages. Father Zosimus laid his burden on the floor, and began to pluck away the siapo that enfolded it.

“Stop!” cried Tuisunga.

The priest desisted with a look of angry wonder, as though some fresh imposition were to be laid upon him.

“Zosimus,” said Tuisunga, “since thou left us, these gentlemen and myself have been looking down into our hearts. They are black and pig-like, and we feel ashamed before thee. It would be a mock and an everlasting disgrace to Fangaloa wert thou to sacrifice thy holy things to the meanness of the pig-face Ngau. We have taken counsel together in thine absence, and this is our decision: The boat shall be taken from Ngau, and not one seni shall be paid him, nor shall a water-bottle be given, nor a coil of rope; and if his boat be cast away, well, it is God’s will. Furthermore, Ngau’s house shall be burned and his plantation destroyed for a punishment, and thou shalt have him (if thou shouldst so high-chief will) to make of him a Catholic; for Ngau has been expelled from the Protestant religion, and his communion ticket has been taken from him as one unworthy.”

Father Zosimus said nothing, but his eyes gleamed like coals of fire as he hurriedly put his treasures in order for their return; in a trice Filipo was scudding away with them down the hill, to the mirth of all the chiefs, some of whom shouted after him derisively to make haste.

“When are we to start?” asked the priest. “If it be thy high-chief will, the sooner the better.”

“But thou canst not go,” said Tuisunga. “Thou art old and unfit.”

“No man is too old to serve God,” returned the priest.

There rose a murmur of dissent from the assembled chiefs. The old man would be a dead weight in the boat; by carrying a priest they would infallibly bring down the anger of God upon them all; even the whites who cared for naught but money dreaded to sail with a faifeau.

“This is foolish talk,” said Tuisunga. “Do we not need Zosimus to talk for us in Apia? Do we not know the ways of whites, and their disdain and pride? Who will speak to the German doctor? Everywhere we shall be disregarded and mocked at. We will say that the wife of Tutumanaia is dying, and behold, they will answer with contumely. ‘There is no such minister,’ for we know not his name in the foreign stutter.”

“Let us start,” cried Father Zosimus. “We have no time to waste.”

On the rocky beach they found the boat had already been drawn from the shed and made ready by the young men. Ngau’s house, which stood close by the landing, was packed with his relatives and family, who looked out from beneath the eaves with lowering faces. The sea was white as far as the eye could reach, and was bursting furiously against the coast and into the half-moon of the bay, while overhead, and against the obliterated sky-line, the wild clouds drove stormily to leeward. The young men looked troubled, and old Tuisunga himself was lost in gloom as he studied the breakers that seemed about to engulf them. Father Zosimus alone was calm and unconcerned in the busy tumult of their making ready; for was not God beside him, with the blessed saints? Bidding Filipo tell the minister of their errand, he took his seat without a tremor when the young men lined themselves beside the gunwales, and began to drive the boat slowly into the water.

There was a yell as she floated off. The young men sprang to their paddles, while Tuisunga seized the steering-oar in his sinewy hands. They rode dry over the first wave, then dug into the next bow foremost, and rose half swamped. The third was a huge comber, green as bottle-glass, steep as a park wall, which shot up before them and raced shoreward with a smoking crest. There was a convulsive scurry among the crew; a roar from the crowded beach; as Tuisunga, standing full upright in the stern, and swaying with every jerk of the paddles, headed the boat into the boiling avalanche. The whaler rose like a cork, darted her nose high in air, and for one awful moment seemed to stand on end. When Father Zosimus opened his eyes, she was speeding seaward on something like an even keel, sixteen eager paddles driving her past the point where the breakers sprang. But working out of the bight, they lost the shelter it gave them, and began to feel, for the first time, the unrestrained fury of the gale. There was a frightful sea running; the boat took in water at every turn; and though the wind was favourable, they could not take advantage of it at once. A rag of sail was raised at last, and a straight course laid for Apia, while half the crew rested and the other half baled. But no boat could run before such a sea as followed them. They had one narrow escape, then another by a hair’s-breadth; and as they tried to turn, a great black wave suddenly caught and smothered them beneath mountains of water. The crew rose laughing and shouting to the surface, but one grey head was missing. Father Zosimus had received his martyr’s crown.