rotection when orgies of indulgence in rum had
made the natives brutal. The clergy must survive if souls are to be
saved. Within the wall stood the church, the school, and a rambling
rectory, all made beautiful by age and the artistry of tropical
nature. Mosses and lichens, mosaics of many shades of green, faint
touches of red and yellow mould, covered the old walls which were
fast decaying and falling to pieces.

By the half-unhinged door stood an old man of venerable figure, his
long beard still dark, though his hair was quite white. He wore a
soiled soutane down to the ankles of his rusty shoes, a sweaty,
stained, smothering gown of black broadcloth, which rose and
fell with his hurried respiration. His eyes of deepest brown,
large and lustrous, were the eyes of an old child, shining with
simple enthusiasms and lit with a hundred memories of worthy
accomplishments or efforts.

[Illustration: Pere Simeon Delmas' church at Tai-o-hae]

[Illustration: Gathering the _feis_ in the mountains]

Pere Victorien presented me, saying that I was a lover of the
Marquesas, and specially interested in Joan of Arc. Pere Simeon
seized me by the hand and, drawing me toward him, gave me the
accolade as if I were a reunited brother. Then he presented me to a
Marquesan man at his side, "_Le chef de l'isle de Huapu_," who was
waiting to escort him to that island that he might say mass and hear
confession. The chief was for leaving at once, and Pere Simeon
lamented that he had no time in which to talk to me.

I said I had heard it bruited in my island of Hiva-oa that the
celebration of the fete of Joan of Arc had been marked by
extraordinary events indicating a special appreciation by the
heavenly hosts.

Tears came into the eyes of the old priest. He dismissed the chief
at once, and after saying farewell to Pere Victorien, who was
embarking immediately for his own island of Haitheu, Pere Simeon and
I entered his study, a pitifully shabby room where rickety furniture,
quaking floor, tattered wall-coverings, and cracked plates and
goblets spelled the story of the passing of an institution once
possessing grandeur and force. Seated in the only two sound chairs,
with wine and cigarettes before us, we took up the subject so dear
to Pere Simeon's heart.

"I am glad if you cannot be a Frenchman that at least you are not an
Englishman," he said fervently. "God has punished England for the
murder of Jeanne d'Arc. That day at Rouen when th