“That was a sharp tooth of wind,” said the chief Happy are we that we live. But our sail is gone. Take, therefore, your paddles, my men, and let us get back to the land.”

So they lowered the mast and began to scull; but very slowly did they move, for the canoe was large and heavy-laden, also being full of people; and, when the night came over the waters, they had made but little way. All night they sculled, till they were faint and weary; nevertheless, when the morning broke, the land was still far away; so the men’s souls were small because of the evil case in which they were. “We are hungry and faint,” said they. “We can scull no more.”

And lifting up the paddles out of the deckholes, they sat down in silence, while the canoe drifted slowly before the swell.

“We must eat,” said the chief. “What food have we on board?”

“There is none, my lord,” answered one of the young men. “The last of the yams were cooked yesterday, before the squall struck us.”

“We must eat,” said the chief once more; “no man can work without eating. Go now and see if there be any banana stalks left on the weather half of the canoe.”

Now you must know that there is a hidden meaning to this saying. It is on the thama, or weather half of a double canoe, that the women sit when sailing, for it is unlawful i for them to sit upon the leeward half or kata. Wherefore when the chief said, “Go, now, and see if there be any banana stalks left on the weather half or thama, his meaning was, “Kill one of the women that we may eat.”

So the young man took his club, and looking around among the women, who sat crouching down in great dread (for they had heard the words of the chief), he singled out Talingo — the Forgotten one — the daughter of Takape, and beckoning to her with his club, he said: “Come, Talingo; the chief is calling you.”

So the girl rose, holding her baby tight to her breast and came slowly towards the stern, where the chief was sitting. But just as the club was raised to strike, with a shrill and sudden cry she leaped into the sea, diving down with her child far below the waters.

“My spear! my spear!” shouted the chief. “Give me a spear. Ha! This is the hook that will catch that fish.” And, with a savage laugh, he shook the weapon, as he stood, with his left foot drawn forward, gazing eagerly upon the water, where he expected her to rise.

But she dived below the canoe, and coming up again between the leeward and the weather portions of the canoe she stayed there silently, holding on by the cross-pieces below the deck, so that, after a long while, they said: “The sharks have eaten her and the child. They will rise no more.”

But Talingo hid herself till it was dark. And from her hiding-place she heard the crack of the club, and the death-shriek, and the talk of the crew as they made ready the victim. For when the young man, even Faha, asked the chief, saying: “Whom now shall I take, for the sharks have devoured the girl, and we must eat,” His lord glared upon him in fierce anger.

“True,” cried he, “we must eat. And you — you shall be eaten. Why did you not strike her before she leaped?” And, with these words, he smote him through and through with the spear that he held in his hand. Then it was that Talingo heard the death-shriek, and the crash of the heavy club.

When it was dark she floated quietly away, dragging the steer-oar off the stern, where it lay idly, for the crew were all feasting, and, laying her child on its broad blade, she steadied it by the handle, and so drifted away into the darkness, she knew not whither.

Four days she drifted, weeping continually, but ever suckling her child, and fighting with the great seabirds which circled round them, often swooping fiercely down; and, in spite of all her care, one of them struck the child with its beak, tearing out one of his eyes. Four days they drifted over the waters; then, early on the fifth day, the waves cast them upon the reef at Ono, and Talingo, gathering her strength, dived through the breakers and swam across the lagoon, landing near Onolevu, where she crawled up the beach, and sank down at the foot of a palm, she and her child.

Now there dwelt in that town an old man called Tausere, with Senirewa his wife, and their house was empty, for they had no children. On this very morning they went together to the beach to drag their paddle-canoe into the water that they might go fishing, and down by the waterside the old man saw Talingo lying beneath the palm with her baby sleeping at her breast.

“Who is this?” cried he, stooping over her, and he wept as he looked upon the poor girl, for she was dead, and lay there still holding her child, which was sleeping peacefully.

“Oh, Senirewa! Oh, my wife! Here, now, is a piteous sight!” sobbed the old man, and his wife also wept with him.

“They are strangers,” said she. “They are Tonga folk. A Tonga canoe has been wrecked, and they have drifted hither. Alas, alas! She is young, and her face is fair. And the child! True are your words, husband; a piteous sight, indeed, is this. But come, now, let us dig a grave and bury them.”

These were her words; but as she made an end of speaking, and stood there with her husband, looking sadly through her tears upon the dead, suddenly the child opened his eyes and smiled in her face. Then did the woman’s heart burn within her, and with a joyous cry she sprang forward and snatched the child from its mother, hugging it to her breast, and laughing and crying by turns.

“Oh, my son, my son!” cried she. “My son you are; my true son shall you be, for the gods have sent you. Look, husband, look at our boy! We shall weep no more because of our empty house. The gods have taken pity upon us.” And having thus spoken, she wept aloud for joy.

So they buried Talingo on the beach, where she had lain down to die, after bringing her child safe to land; but the boy they carried with them to the town. And when the neighbours ran together, asking all manner! of questions — whence he came, and whose child he was — they answered always in the same words: “Our son, our true son, whom the gods have sent us over the sea” — this much and nothing more.

And the child lived and throve, growing up into a fine lad, quick of hand, swift of foot, and loving of heart, so that his foster-parents rejoiced more and more every day, thanking the gods for the gift which the sea had brought them; and they called his name Matandua, because one of his eyes was gone. But Talingo lay in her grave on the beach, with the waves rolling over her when the tide was high. And often, when the north wind blew by night, the men of Ono, trembling within their houses, heard a voice of bitter weeping on the shore; and when this doleful sound came floating through the air, the boy would start in his sleep and moan, while the tears ran down his cheeks.

Once the old woman took him by the hand and woke him, whereupon the lad started up in a fright, and the sound of the weeping ceased.

“Where, then, is the lady?” cried he, gazing around like one bewildered. “Where is the lady?”

“What lady, my son?” asked his foster-mother, trembling sorely.

“Oh, mother!” said the lad; “was it, then, only a dream? I saw her! I heard her weeping! Her tears fell down on my face like the rain! Look, mother, look, my cheek is still wet! It surely was not a dream!” And he brushed the tears away with his hand.

“The tears are your own, my son,” said she soothingly. “You were crying in your sleep, and therefore did I waken you. But who was the lady? You have been dreaming only, my child.”

“I saw her! I saw her!” cried the lad. “She was tall and noble, like a great lady. Her hair was not brown and curly like yours, but stiff and black, and her skin was fairer than yours. She was wet all over, as if she had been bathing, and she stood over me, crying and wringing her hands. Oh, my mother, tell me who was this lady; for it seems to me that I have seen her before, and my heart burns within me as I think of her sorrowful face.”

“How should I know, my son?” said the old woman; “how should I know? Many are the strange faces that we see in dreams. Lie down again, and sleep, my child. Let not your soul be troubled because of a dream.”

So the boy lay down again and slept; but when his foster-parents looked upon him, as he lay sleeping, they saw that the tears were still rolling down his cheeks.

“It was his mother,” whispered the old man. “It was his mother! His heart knew her. See, he is still weeping. Let us tell him all.”

“Hush!” said the old woman, in an angry whisper. “Hush! He must not know. Am not I his mother? Have I not nursed him and tended him day and night? Could his mother have done more for him? Could she have loved him better than I? And now you say, ‘Tell him all!’ Foolish are your words. Is she not dead? I am his mother, and he shall know none but me.”

So they held their peace: and though the sound of the weeping was often heard, yet never, after this night, did they waken the boy, when he moaned and wept in his sleep. And always, in the morning, he had forgotten his dreams; nor was the weeping ever heard when he was awake.

In the course of time he grew up to be a youth, tall and strong, and useful in the land. Gentle also, and kind was he to all, and very loving to his foster-parents, who were now old and feeble; so that they were well repaid for all their love to him; for they were alone in the land, all the rest of their tribe having perished long before, men, women, and children, in a great fight with the people of Doi; wherefore they would have been wretched indeed, if he had not been with them, for who, among all the other tribes in the town, would have cared for them?

But the young men hated him. They hated him because he would not go with them, nor would he help in their evil deeds.

“Go you,” he would say, “and do as you please, for you are free. You are many in your tribes, and your old folks have many to help them. But we are few. Our people have perished, and I only am left to care for those at home.”

They used, at first, to mock him. But he would only laugh, repeating his words, “Go you, and do as you please. As for me, I shall stay with my father and mother.”

They feared him also, for he was strong, and skilled in the weapons of war. And one day, when Yango-levu, the Big-bodied, the son of the Lord of Ono, wishing to vex him, struck Tausere, his father, on the head with a club, the One-eyed one sprang upon him with a fierce cry, and smote him to the earth with his fists. Then snatching up the club which had fallen to the ground, he whirled it round his head, and stood there, glaring savagely round upon all the young men, and they were many.

“Who will strike next?” he shouted; and his voice rang out clear and high over the land, so that all the townsfolk heard him, and came running down to the beach where he stood. “Here am I! Who will strike next? Hear my words, O Lord of Ono! Hear my words, ye chiefs! He struck my father, the greyhead, the old, the feeble one. Without a cause he struck him.”

“It is enough,” said the Lord of Ono, “lower your club, Matandua. Listen to me. Hear, now, my words, ye youths. Listen, all of you. Do you wish to die? Right is the thing that he has done. He, therefore, who hurts him, hurts me. He that will fight with him, must fight with me, I have spoken; I, the Lord of Ono.”

So they feared him greatly because of his strength and fierceness, and, moreover, because of the King’s words: and, fearing him, they hated him all the more; nor did they cease from plotting together how they might kill him. And, though they dared do nothing openly against him, yet did they many things secretly — they, and some of the chiefs who favoured them. The Lord of Ono was an old man, lazy and careless; and it was only when he was roused to anger that he would bestir himself. Thus when the work of the land was portioned out among the tribes, they gave a full share to the tribe of Tausere, even though his own little household was the only one therein. But thereby they did but gather disappointment and rage to themselves, for the One-eyed one’s task was always the first to be finished. If it were fish for a great feast, then the lad’s basket-snares were always full while theirs were empty; for Talingo helped him, driving the fish away from theirs into his. Or, if the order was that timber be felled, then the fire, which he kindled round his tree, would burn it through in a single night, because Talingo tended it, while it would be many days before their trees fell. Thus it was ever with all the tasks that were set; but, when the high-priest called the people together, and told them that a new temple, larger than any of the others, must be built for their gods, then Matandua’s enemies rejoiced exceedingly.

“Now we have him,” said they. “Here at last is a thing he cannot do.”

So the work was portioned out, and one whole end of the temple was given to Tausere as his share. Wherefore came he, weeping, into the house, where his wife was sitting with the lad, combing his hair, and anointing him with sweet-smelling oil; and weeping, he told them the news.

“What!” screamed the old woman. “A whole end! Do they think we are gods? Where shall we find the sinnet? How shall we carry the posts? Are there, then, none given to help us?”

“Not one,” answered Tausere; “not even a child. They hate us, these chiefs of ours. They have a mind to kill us. Let us therefore die at once, and make an end of it; then will our lords be satisfied. Take pity upon us, Matandua, and strangle us both; for we are old, and feeble, and useless.”

“It is good,” whined the wife. “Hear the words of your father, my son. Strangle us, that we may die.”

“Not so,” cried the One-eyed one. “You shall live. Let us try once more, and if this thing be too hard for us, then let us flee together to some other land. If we die in the midst of the waters, or if the people of the land whither we go kill us because we are strangers, it is but dying after all. Let us therefore try once more.”

“Good!” said Tausere. “Let us try. It will be useless; but still let us try yet this once. Come now, here is coconut fibre. Let us make sinnet to-day.”

So they sat down together in the house, plaiting sinnet. And every time that they twisted the fibre a full fathom was done, neat and well laid; wherefore they worked in great wonder and awe, for it was plain that some god was helping them. And before the night came over the land the floor of the house was covered with beautiful sinnet of various colours.

“It is enough,” said Tausere, and they wound it up into a ball, large and heavy.

“Here now is a wonderful thing,” whispered he to his wife, when Matandua had fallen asleep. “Here now is a wonderful thing. What can it be, my wife, for the like thereof was never heard of before.”

“It is his mother,” answered the old woman. “It must be his mother. Who else of ‘Those who are absent ‘ would care for him?”

“True perhaps are your words,” said the man; “but whether it be his mother, or whosoever it be, one thing is plain — that it was a happy day for us when we found the child on the beach. And now let us sleep, for it is far into the night, and there is a great work and heavy to be done in the morning.”

On the morrow they went to cut down the posts, and when they had found a clump of trees which were fit for the purpose, before they could light their fires to burn them down, suddenly a furious blast swept through the forest, and in a moment the trees lay at their feet, with all the branches broken off, so that they were ready for fashioning into posts. Great also was their wonder when they went about to lift them, for the big logs were no heavier than so many little sticks; and they carried them down into the town, throwing them down on the spot where the temple was building. And all the people were astonished.

“What sort of wood can it be,” said they, “that even old Tausere can carry so big a log?” but when they tried to lift them, no two of the strongest among them could so much as raise one end of the smallest post.

Thus all the work was made easy to Tausere and Matandua, so that they finished their end with ease, often having to wait for the other tribes, to whom the sides of the building had been allotted.

Then said the young men among themselves, “Useless is all that we have done, we must kill him ourselves.” So, having plotted together, first of all they dug a deep pit, the mouth of which they hid with sticks and grass, and made ready a plan for enticing him thither, that he might fall therein and die. But when it was finished, and they were going back in great glee to the town, the sun having gone down below the waters, and the moon shining bright and clear, suddenly they saw in the path a strange woman, wondrous fair, whose look was even as the look of the women of Tonga; her body was wet, as if she had come from the sea, and the drops on her hair glistened in the moonlight, as she stood before them in the path, holding in her hand a large steer-oar.

“Who are you?” shouted “Big-body,” who was walking in front, while the young men followed him. “Who then are you? Why do you not speak?” for the woman answered never a word; and when he ran forward she turned and fled into the forest.

“Seize her!” cried the son of the Lord of Ono, rushing after her; and the young men followed him, shouting aloud.

Swiftly ran the woman through the forest, doubling on them till she came out again into the path behind them, and ran forward towards the pit which they had been digging, over which she passed as if it had been solid ground; and the young men were close behind her, forgetting the pit in their eagerness to catch her. Then rang through the forest a dreadful laugh, loud, fierce, and shrill, as “Big-body,” with ten more of the foremost — eleven in all — fell headlong down into the pit which they had dug for the One-eyed one, and the hindmost turned and fled, with yells of terror, back, to the town.

“Oh, evil day!” cried the Lord of Ono, when he heard the news, “My son is dead! Oh, evil day!”

And, gathering together a great company, he led them through the wood. And when they came to the mouth of the pit they heard a noise of dismal groaning and cries of agony, for three of the young men were killed outright, and the others lay grievously wounded by the sharp stakes which they had planted in the bottom for the One-eyed one, one of which had so torn the knee of “Big-body “ that he was lame for ever after; and men thereafter called him no more Yango-levu, or Big-body, but Loki-loki, the Lamester.

That was a night of much weeping in Ono; but when Tausere heard of the matter, he whispered to his wife, “It was his mother. See how she watches over him!” and they rejoiced together. Moreover, during the night, when the moon was high in the heavens, there rang forth from the beach a voice of singing, as of one chaunting a chaunt of savage triumph in the Tongan tongue. And Matandua laughed in his sleep, shaking his hand, as if it held a spear.

None of the men of Ono knew the song, or its meaning; but there was one who knew it, even Vatui, a man of Vavao, who, many years before, had drifted to Ono in a large canoe, which had been driven from Tonga by a dreadful storm. A young man, stout of heart and strong of arm, drifted he to Ono; but now he was old and feeble and blind, and would sit moping all day long in the house of the King, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, and speaking never a word. But when the first notes of that fearful chaunt came ringing through the night, he started to his feet with a terrible cry, and stood there before them all, glaring around with his blind eyes, and quivering in every limb — an awful sight to see.

“Is there death in the town?” cried he in a hollow voice. “Is there slaughter? Is there blood? Woe, woe, woe, to the land! I know it! I know that terrible chaunt! I heard it on a bloody day. I heard it when the warriors took our stronghold, and slew our people. Thus they sang as they dragged the dead bodies to the ovens. It is The Song of Death!”

These were the words of Latui; and word spake he never again; for the blood gushed from his mouth, as he sank down upon the mats; and, when they ran to lift him up, behold, he was dead!

Great then was the fear that fell upon all the people; nor did the young men plot any more against Matandua, for they were afraid. Nevertheless, after many days, when they went to Thakau Lala, the Empty Reef, to catch turtle for the feast of the yearly tribute, for which their lords had come, the lords of Lakemba; then having fished all day in vain (for they caught but one), they fastened their canoes to the reef by night, and waited for the morning. And at low water the young men gathered together on the king’s canoe to sing songs and tell tales of the olden days, as their manner is; but “One-eye” stayed by his canoe and slept alone upon the deck.

So it fell out that, when it was dark, “Big-body” came limping by with the young men, his followers; and, when he saw him, whom his soul hated, lying there asleep alone on the canoe, his heart gave a great leap in its joy; and creeping softly to the stake, which was thrust into the reef, he untied the mooring-rope, while his comrades stole the paddles; whereupon the canoe drifted slowly away into the darkness, for the tide was still running out, causing a strong current, and the wind was blowing gently from the shore.

“Good-bye, One-eyed One,” shouted “Big-body,” with a laugh of savage glee, and the young men laughed with him. “Good-bye, One-eyed One! A fair wind! A happy voyage!” But the One-eyed One heard him not, for he was sleeping soundly.

And, as he slept, he dreamed a dream. He dreamt that he was floating away out to sea in an empty canoe, and that when he looked for the paddles, behold, they were gone! Great then was his fear, as he saw the land growing dim astern, and nothing but the waste of waters before and around him.

Then, as he sank down in utter despair upon the deck, his eye caught a black speck rising on the top of a distant wave; and when he looked steadily upon it, he saw that it was moving slowly towards him, and his heart burned within him, he knew not why. “It is like a man swimming,” said he to himself; but it was something more marvellous than that. For in his dream he saw a woman, light of colour and wondrous fair, swimming towards him and pushing before her a large steer-oar, on the blade whereof sat a child whose face was stained with blood, which trickled down from its wounded eye. Coming near to the canoe, she dived below the waters and disappeared. Then from under the deck, between the weather and the leeward portions of the canoe, there came a sound of bitter weeping; and it was in his mind to rise and look beneath the deck, but it seemed to him in his dream as if he could not stir, though he strove till the sweat rolled off his limbs, so he lay still in great trouble of soul. And presently a sad voice was heard, calling him by name, “Matandua! Matandua! Oh, my son, my son, Matandua!”

“Can it be you, Senirewa, my mother?” asked he in i great astonishment.

“No, my son,” answered the voice, “it is not Senirewa. It is your mother, my son, my dear son — your true mother, Talingo.”

“Surely I know the voice,” cried the lad, still dreaming; “surely I know the voice! But this now is a strange thing that you tell me. Is not Senirewa my mother? Is not Tausere my father? They with whom I have lived all my life?”

“No, my son, no!” cried the voice with exceeding earnestness; “I alone am your mother. They are good people, those two. I love them because of their love to you. But I alone am your true mother; even I, Talingo. Listen now, my son, I will tell you all.” And beginning at the beginning she told him how she, a young girl, had been taken away by force by the cruel chief, on the woeful day when her father was slain; how she leaped overboard to escape being eaten; how they two together had drifted to Ono; and how she had watched over him day and night, helping him in his work and saving him from danger and death. All these things did Matandua hear in his dream.

“And now, my son,” continued the voice, “know that it was ‘Big-body’ who sent you adrift; and it will not be well for you to stay in the land where he dwells, for the name of the Lord of Ono has been called in the Land of Spirits — the messenger is even now on the way to summon him — and your enemy will be king when his father is dead. Wherefore, my son, my dear son, hear now the words of your mother who loves you. Go back to Ono. It is true that your paddles are stolen, but there is yet this steer-oar. With it you will be able to reach the land, before the canoes return from the fishing. Go back once more to Ono; and, having taken those two loving ones on board, hoist your sail and return to your own land, even to Tonga. Fear nothing, my son. The wind will be fair, and no evil will befall you; for is not your mother watching over you? I shall be with you, even though ou see me not. And now, awake, my son, awake, and cmember these my words.” And she struck the side of he canoe with the steer-oar.

Then Matandua, starting from his sleep, heard a knocking against the side of the canoe; and, stooping down, he saw a large steer-oar floating between the weather and the leeward portions of the canoe, but nothing else did he see.

“Oh, my mother!” he cried, “my dear mother! Will you leave me thus? Let me but see you with my eyes, my mother, my dear mother!”

But there was no voice, nor sound, save only the rippling of the waves against the canoe. Nevertheless, the steer-oar, which he had caught by the handle when he saw it floating, began to work backwards and forwards in his hand with a paddling motion; and thereby he understood that Talingo wished him to start. So he sat down, weeping, on the stern, and rowed with the heavy steer-oar towards the land. But, though the steer-oar was large and heavy, yet it was light in his hand, even as a small paddle; and the canoe moved swiftly over the waters as if it were sailing before a pleasant breeze.

“Surely my mother is helping me,” said he.

It were too long to tell of all that passed between him and the old people, when he told them that his mother had come swimming over the waves to save him once more from certain death; how Senirewa tried, with many words and much weeping, to persuade him that it was all nothing more than a dream, vowing and declaring that he was, her true son, and she the mother who bare him, and how her husband silenced her at last.

“Woman!” said he sternly; “it is enough. Lie no more to the lad. True are the words of Talingo, my son; true indeed are her words. She, and she only, is your mother. But we have loved you well. Ever since the day when we found you on the beach have we loved you well and truly. A good son also have you been to us. Weep no more, wife. Why should you weep? for he will love us none the less now that he knows the truth.”

“I love you all the more!” cried he.

So, after many words, they went on board the canoe, taking with them such things as were needful, and sailed away before the pleasant breeze, which carried them steadily along for three days, and then Tonga was in sight. Now, on the night before they made the land, the young man dreamed yet another dream. He dreamt that his mother came through the moonlight, not swimming this time but stepping lightly over the waves from crest to crest, her bare feet glistening amidst the foam. She came, and looking down with sad eyes upon the face of her sleeping son, she told him many things as to how matters stood in Tonga, advising him how to act. And truly, they needed advice; for not one of them knew the islands, or the reefs, or the passage — strangers were they, sailing to a strange land.

But when the white line of surf was seen in the distance, there flew from the shore a little green bird with a white breast, and lighted down upon the head of the young man as he stood steering, and then flew away towards another island, which was faintly seen to leeward, returning again, after a while; thus going and coming many times.

“Slack oflf the sheet, father,” said the young man. “Let us keep her away, and follow the bird.”

So Tausere slacked off the sheet; and when the prow of the canoe was pointing to the island, then the little green bird settled on the young man’s head and slept. But, when the reef was in sight, it rose again, making straight for the passage; and the young man steering after it took his canoe through the opening in the reef into the still waters of the lagoon, and ran her ashore on the sandy beach.

Now the island whereon they landed was Tonga-tabu or “Sacred Tonga,” and the great town, the town of the king, was near at hand. But, when they went up thither to present themselves to the chief, behold, the town was empty and silent, the hearths were cold, the houses were falling to ruin, and grass was growing in all the paths.

“The town has been smitten,” said Tausere, whereupon his wife began to weep.

“Not so,” said the One-eyed One. “When did a war-party smite a town and not burn the houses? No enemy has been here. Some terrible thing must have come to pass, for this has been a town of chiefs. Look now at the houses, how many they are and how great. Perhaps the townsfolk have been devoured by an evil disease, and the remnant have fled away, leaving the town with the dead.”

“Let us go too,” cried the wife; “I dare not stay here in this empty town. It is a fearful thing to stay with the dead. Look, my son, look! There is the bird that guided us hither. Ah, my lord, you have brought us into an evil case. Here are none but the dead. Pity us therefore, I pray you, and lead us to some dwelling-place of the living.”

Thus spake the old woman in a lamentable tone, as with streaming eyes she looked upwards at the bird, which was hovering over their heads; and when she had made an end of speaking, it darted away.

“Let us follow the bird,” said Matandua.

And, following it, they went through the town; out into the forest, through the gate of the war-fence at the back, over a mighty hill and down into the valley beyond, where the bird rose suddenly upwards with a shrill cry and then darted down into a dense thicket on the other side of the brook which ran through the valley. So they forded the stream; and, when they came to the thicket, behold a lamentable sight! Truly a mournful sight was that which their eyes beheld; for there sat a band of men famine-stricken, gaunt, and woe-begone. Round in a circle they sat upon the grass, gazing with lack-lustre eyes upon one who lay dying in their midst. An old, old man was he; and he lay there gasping for breath, his grey hair, all bedaubed with filth, streaming over the ground.

Stern of countenance and fierce of look was the One-eyed One as he stepped within the circle and bent over the dying chief, for he knew him, having been forewarned of all these things in the dream which he had dreamt on the night before they made the land, when his mother came to him, walking over the waves.

Stern of countenance and fierce of look was he; and, with a gurgling cry of horror, the old man struggled to a sitting posture, and gazed with fearful eyes not upon him, but upon the bird which had again perched on his head.

“Take her away! Drag her away!” he cried in a voice shrill with terror, while his flesh twitched and quivered and crept, and the foam gathered upon his lips.

“Hold her hand! Take from her the steer-oar! Why should she smite me with it?” Then, in a whining tone, “Why should you smite me, Talingo? It was not I. It was the young man, even Faha. I killed him for it. I thrust him through with’ the spear. Pity me, pity me, Talingo, for I am an old man and weak.”

Then, with a despairing howl, he threw up his hands as if to ward off a blow, and fell back — dead.

“He was my father,” said the young man, looking down upon the body. “An evil father has he been to me. It was in my mind to kill him, for he killed my mother, even Talingo, but now have the gods taken him out of my hands.”

“Are you, indeed, the son of Talingo?” asked a white-bearded old man; “of Talingo, the daughter of Takape? How can this thing be? Her only child was a baby at the breast when she was drowned, and they two died together. I saw it; I, Anga-tonu the ‘Just One.’”

“The true son of Talingo am I,” was the reply; “and he who lies there dead was my father. Hear now my words, ye men of Tonga, and you shall know all that has happened.” With that he told them all.

“It is a wonderful story,” said the old man, when the tale was ended. “Truly, a wonderful story is that which our ears have heard to-day. I would welcome you after our manner, and say, ‘Good is your sailing,’ but why should I mock you? You have come to a ruined land. We few, even we whom you see here, we are the remnant of death. And now the king also is gone! You are his son, and should be king in his stead. But to what end? The warriors are killed and eaten, and none but the women live.”

“What words are these?” cried the son of Talingo. “What things, perchance, are these that you tell me? Why is the town deserted? Why are you thus hiding in the forest? Where are the rest of the people?”

“Dead! dead!” sobbed the greybeard; “they are all dead. Chiefs and serfs — young and old — they are all gone. We only remain — we and the women; and they, too, are taken from us.” And, lifting up their voices, the whole company wept with a bitter weeping.

“It is eight months,” continued Anga-tonu, when the weeping was over, “since destruction came to this land. We were living quietly in peace and plenty when there came, wading through the sea, a great and terrible giant. Wading through the sea, he came, and seldom was it that he had to swim, for his feet trod the bottom of the ocean, while his head and shoulders were above the waves. We know not whence he came; but his face is white, and he speaks our language with the tongue of a stranger. We fought with him when he came ashore, but he laughed at our spears and clubs and arrows, sweeping them from him as you would brush a mosquito away, nor could the strongest among us pierce so much as his skin. And he killed our people, squeezing them to death with his hands, and crushing them beneath his cruel feet — a frightful slaughter! So we fled before him; whereupon he gathered the women together and took them away. He has built for himself a large war-fence, wherein he lives with our women, even our wives and our daughters, making them his slaves. And us he hunts through the forest, day after day, killing us off, one by one, and feasting upon the slain. Therefore are we in hiding. You see us, how few, and wretched, and miserable we are. We dare not go down to the beach to fish upon the reef, lest the giant should kill us. Therefore have we no food but the roots which we find in the woods, and even them must we eat raw, not daring to make a fire, lest the smoke should betray us. Moreover, the giant has an evil imp, in the shape of a white vampire-bat, that helps him, keeping watch and ward in the fence when he is away, and waking while he sleeps. At first we used to creep up to the fence and call the women, begging for something to eat, but always did this evil imp discover us, and many were killed before they could hide themselves from the giant. Therefore will it be well for you to flee before he knows of your coming; for, if he knows thereof, you will surely die. Go, therefore, back to your canoe, you and your two friends, and escape alive out of this evil land. If you will have pity on any of these wretched ones, take them also with you, as many as your canoe will hold, and save their lives. As for me, I am old and useless. Here will I stay. What matters it when I follow my lord, who lies there dead? To-day, or to-morrow, or perhaps the next day! I have followed him all my life, in war and in peace, by sea and by land; together have we fought, together have we feasted, and death shall not part us. One grave will do for us both. He was a hard man and a cruel. But what then? He was my lord, and I am his man. The words of Anga-tonu are spoken.”

Then was there a long silence, after which Matandua spoke.

“This, indeed,” said he, “is a lamentable tale, a tale of woe. Hear now my words. It is in my mind to fight with this giant. If I die, I die, and there is an end of the matter. But if I live, — how then? Will you be true men to me, and give me that which falls to me as a right, now that my father is dead?”

“True men will we be,” said the greybeard; and “true men will we be,” said they all.

“But why should you go to your death?” cried Anga-tonu. “To your death will you go, if you seek the giant. You now, you alone, are left of the blood of the chiefs. Why should you wish to die? Sail away to some other land, and stay there till these evil days be overpast. The giant will not live for ever, and you can return,; with your children, to people the land, when he is gone. Fly while there is yet time, I beseech you, that the light of Tonga be not utterly quenched for ever. Rise up, Kalo-fanga, my son, and follow your lord. Be you to him what I have been to his father. Take his life into your hand and keep it safe. Be your eye his watchman, your arm his club, and your body his shield. And you, too, go, some of you also; follow this your lord to other lands. Guard him well, and bring him back hither in peace, when the giant is dead, that he may reign in the land of his fathers. As for me, my day is spent, my work is done. I shall go after my chief, who lies there before us.”

These were the words of the Just One. Then rose Kalo-fanga from his seat on the grass; and, bowing down before his new chief, he kissed his hand, saying, “Your man am I, my lord; your true man, now and for ever.” Others also stood up, seven and forty in all, and vowed to follow him whithersoever he went. But the old men sat still: “We will die with Anga-tonu,” said they.

Then out spake the young chief. With outstretched arm and kindling eye spake he; his voice rang loud and clear, even as on the day when he faced the young men of Ono after that he had smitten “Big-body” to the earth.

“I will not flee!” he cried. “Shall the son of a king flee like a coward, leaving his people to perish? Even the children of cowards would cry shame upon me! But why stand I here talking? This is no time for many words. Come, Kalo-fanga; lead me to the slayer of my people.”

And they two went together through the forest, leaving the others behind, with Tausere and his wife, in the thicket. Never a word spake the One-eyed, until the war-fence of the giant was in sight. Then he said to Kalo-fanga, “Stay you here, and watch. If the giant kills me, go back and report to your father; but if I kill him, then will we return together in triumph to our friends.” And he turned to go, but Kalo-fanga caught him by the hand and stayed him.

“Not so, my lord!” cried he; “let me go with you. Forbid me not. It were a shame to me if you went alone.”

“It must be so,” said the young chief in a tone of command, as he walked away towards the fence. “Do as I bid you; stay there and wait for the end.”

“Alas! alas!” said Kalo-fanga, as he sank down beneath a big tree and wept; “he is going to his death! But, as for me, I will never return to my father. How could I go back and tell him that my lord died, and I not at hand to die with him?”

So the young chief went boldly on towards the fence; and, entering therein, he was aware of a vampire-bat, large of body and white, which, with a dismal cry, flew out of the top of a lofty palm, and made off towards the sea; whereupon the women came running out of the houses — a great crowd, even all the women of the island, whom the giant had gathered together for himself.

Great was their wonder when they saw a stranger within the fence; and they flocked round him, beseeching lim to escape, not even so much as asking him whence le came, so eager were they to get him away.

“Fly,” said one, “while there is yet time! “

“The giant will kill you!” cried another.

“The vampire-bat has told him of your coming,” lid a third.

“See! There he comes!” screamed a fourth; and, with that, they all fled away, leaving him alone in the midst of the fence.

Then, with angry look and hasty stride came the giant up from the beach (for he had been out on the reef fishing for turtle), and the earth shook under his heavy tread.

“You have come to your death!” roared he, as he sprang upon the young chief, who stood waiting quietly and watching him with a steady eye. Leaping nimbly aside as the giant rushed forward, he smote him full on the sinews behind his knee; whereupon he fell flat upon his face, and the young chief struck him two more heavy blows of his club on the same spot before he could rise. (Now this was his weak place; of this also had Talingo told her son, when she came walking over the waves to him as he slept.)

With a fearful howl the giant struggled to his feet and rushed again upon his daring foe. But now a great shout was heard; and from the wood came Kalo-fanga, leaping and bounding, and whirling his war-club over his head.

“Here am I!” cried he. “Here am I! I could not stay, my lord! We will die together!”

“His knee! His knee!” shouted his master. “Strike at his knee! The back of his knee, Kalo-fanga!”

So they fought together, those three. And a sore fight it was — the giant roaring and howling, and rushing first upon one, then upon the other; and they two ever dodging between his legs, but ever striking him upon the same spot, till at length he fell a second time; whereupon they raised the shout of victory, thinking to make an end of him.

But, in falling, he caught hold of a large tree, and brought it to the ground with him as he fell, wrenching it out of the earth by the roots. Then, rising, he seized it by the stem; and, giving it one fierce sweep through the air smote them with it, before they could spring backwards out of his reach; and they both fell, entangled amongst the branches.

“Aha! I have you at last!” roared he, with a savage laugh. But, just as he staggered forward to clutch them, behold, a little green bird came flying full in his face, and darted her beak into his eye, whereupon he threw up his hands with a yell of pain; and his two enemies, struggling from beneath the tree (for they were not hurt) came nimbly behind him, as he stamped and howled in his agony. Two heavy blows they struck — nor were more needed, for thereat he fell across the trunk of the tree, and after this fall he rose no more.

“A rope! a rope!” cried the young chief. “Bring me a rope!” And the women came rushing out of the houses, dragging behind them the long rope of a turtle-net, which their chief threw over the giant’s head, in spite of his struggles, and then the fight was soon over; for, pulling both ends of the line, they strangled him easily, and there was an end at last of this fearful monster, this slayer and devourer of men.

Then, with a dismal screech, rose the vampire-bat from the tree whereon it had perched during the battle, and flew away seaward; nor did it ever come back again to Tonga.

Meanwhile, Anga-tonu and the rest of the people, with Tausere and his wife, were sitting, full of fear, in the thicket, their heads bowed down, each man fearing to look his neighbour in the face, because of the utter despair which he knew to be written upon his own; and ever and anon a noise was heard in their midst, as of the breath of the north-easter on a calm night, but this was only their sighing. Thus they sat in mournful silence, waiting for the tidings of death; when suddenly the wife lifted her head and listened, then started to her feet with a joyous cry.

“He lives! He lives!” cried she. “I hear his voice!” And, ringing through the forest, distant yet, but drawing ever nearer, now dying away, now swelling full and clear, there came the sound of many voices, singing a chant which the Tongans knew full well.

“It is the Song of Death!” cried the Just One. “He lives! He has conquered!” and, leaping to their feet, they all joined their voices in the terrible chorus, as the young chief and Kalo-fanga came in sight over the crest of the ridge, carrying the head of the giant, lifted high in the air, on the point of a fish-spear; and all the women following them, making the woods ring with their song of triumph; while, over all, hung a thick cloud of smoke, rolling upwards from the burning town, which they had set on fire, after piling the stakes of the war-fence on and around the body of the dead giant so that it might therewith be consumed.

And thus was Tonga delivered from this dreadful scourge, which the anger of the gods had brought upon it.

On that same day they went back to the empty town, and began to repair the houses, working hard, day and night, till all was finished. And, then, with joyful ceremonies, they made the young chief King of Tonga, in the place of his father, who now lay buried on the brow of a hill that looked out over the sea.

So he began his reign, having taken Tauki, the Merry One, the fairest maiden of the land, to wife, and soon the great house had children rolling upon the mats. Only one wife did he take — her and no other. And when his foster-mother said to him, “You should take more wives, my lord, that you may get your ‘tapa’ cloth made,” he only shook his head and smiled.

“ ‘Tapa’ is good, but peace and quietness are better,” quoth he.

Many children also, sons of the giant, were born of the women. These grew to be mighty men, and pillars of the land; and, before many years were over, the town was too small for its people; wherefore they divided into three bands, building two other towns, even Mua and Hihifo.

But, long before this came to pass, the men of Vavau, and Haapai, and other islands, having heard that the giant was dead, were of one mind to lay aside their feuds with one another, and enter into a league together to make war upon Tonga-tabu, in revenge for all the slaughter which its warriors had made among them in days gone by.

“There is but a small remnant,” said they; “it will be easy work.”

Then was there great fear in Tonga-tabu, and many were for making a peace-offering, and bowing themselves beneath the yoke of the foreigners. But the King utterly scorned their counsel, vowing that his club should crush the skull of him, whosoever he might be, who should thenceforth so much as speak of surrender: thus he encouraged his people.

And, when the enemy landed, he fell upon their rear, as they went carelessly, and in straggling parties, towards the town (for they did not dream that he with his few would dare to come out against their vast multitude). Whereupon, some of the hindermost being slain, there rose a great cry; and a sudden panic fell upon all that mighty host, so that their hearts became as water; and, throwing down their arms, they fled hither and thither, and were slain on every side, even the women sallying forth out of the town, killing every one her man. Many fled to the canoes, but the King had secured them, dragging them up, high and dry, upon the beach; wherefore, their retreat being cut off, they sat down in despair, giving themselves to death.

But the King stopped the slaughter; for, said he, “great is the use of living men throughout all the years of their life, but what is the good of the dead? They fall, and are eaten; and there is an end of their usefulness. Slay no more.” So the work of death was stayed.

And he sent those who remained alive back to their own lands, keeping only such as stayed of their own accord; and he appointed a yearly tribute to be brought from every land.

Some of them rebelled against him in the following year, and strengthened themselves, fencing in their towns, and refusing to bring the tribute. Against these he led his warriors, and smote them with a dreadful slaughter, levelling their war-fences, and burning their towns. But, to the obedient, he was ever a just and wise ruler, neither oppressing them himself, nor suffering others to oppress them, so that even his enemies became his friends; and all the islands were brought under his sway; for he won them twice — once by the strength of his arm, and once, again, by the wisdom of his counsel.

As for the King’s foster-parents, they lived to a good old age, loved and honoured by the King, who was ever an obedient son to them. And, when they died, he buried them in the tombs of the chiefs, mourning for them with all his people.

Old Anga-tonu, also, lived for many years after the slaying of the giant; having, on that day of gladness, utterly abandoned his resolve to follow the old King, his master. He grew to be as blind and helpless as Latui (the Vavauan who drifted to Ono), but his mind was clear to the last; and he never wearied of telling to the young people the deeds of the olden days. But, of all his tales, that wherein his soul most delighted was the “Story of Matandua, the One-eyed,” which grew longer and more wondrous every time that he repeated it.

So the King prospered exceedingly. And the root of his great success in all his undertakings was the advice which Talingo continued to give him; for very often did she come to him in his sleep, warning him of coming danger, and advising him how to act in every weighty matter.

Moreover, Kalo-fanga was ever with him, by day and night, at home or abroad, in peace or war, by sea or land. Well did he redeem his pledge, which he gave on the day when he bowed down before him, and kissed his hand, saying, “Your man am I, my lord: your true man am I for ever.”

And strictly did he obey the words of his father, who, when he gave him to be the King’s man, had commanded him saying —

“Take his life into your hand, and keep it safe. Be your eye his watchman, your arm his club, and your body his shield.” Well did Kalo-fanga observe this command.

Now, when many years had passed away, and the King’s children had grown up around him into fine young men and women, a great longing came over him to sail once more to Fiji, and visit the grave of his mother. So, having called together the chiefs, he told them of his purpose, and appointed his eldest son to rule in his stead, until he should return. Then, taking Kalo-fanga, and a chosen band of warriors with him, he hoisted his sail, steering for Ono.

There he found the younger son of the lord of Ono reigning over the land; for Big-body had long since died of the old wound in his knee, which had broken out afresh, and festered, and mortified; so that he died in great torment. Three months did the Tongans stay at Ono, living in peace with the people; -with whom also they made a friendly league, which is kept even to this day. Thence they sailed away to other islands, until at length they came to Nairai; and here the King told his men to see to the fastenings of the canoe, for that it was now his mind to go back to Tonga: but the mind of the gods was otherwise, and back to Tonga never more went he.

No man slew him: no accident befell him: nor did he fall sick of any evil disease: but thus it was. When all things were ready for sailing, then for the last time came Talingo to him in the night, as he lay sleeping in the great house at Natautoa, the chief town of Nairai. Ever before, when she came, had she gazed upon him with sad eyes; but now was she light and cheery of look, as she stood, beckoning to him with her hand, but speaking never a word.

And Kalo-fanga, waking with a start, heard the King saying in a low tone and faint, “ Good-bye, Kalo-fanga. I am going. Talingo beckons me away.”

“My lord is talking in his sleep,” he replied.

But, when he woke in the morning, the King was ying at his side, cold and dead; and there was a happy mile upon his face.

They would not bury him in the foreign land, but laid him lovingly in the hold of the canoe, carrying sand on board to cover him withal, that they might take him back to his own country. Kalo-fanga held his head, as, with bitter wailing, they bore him down to the canoe; and, when they laid him in the hold, he stooped down to kiss, once more, the hand of his lord, his tears falling, like rain, on the face of the dead; and, sinking down by his side, without a groan or a struggle, the spirit of this true-hearted warrior departed, following hard after him whom he had loved so well, and overtaking him even on the road to Bulu, the Land of Spirits.

So they covered them both with the sand which had been brought on board; and, hoisting their sail, they steered for Tonga, before a strong breeze, which carried them thither on the third day. And there they buried the King in the tomb of his father, with Kalo-fanga lying at his feet.

Thus, without pain or sickness, died Matandua, the best of kings — brave in war, wise in peace, terrible to his enemies, faithful to his friends, and kind and gentle and loving to all.

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