attle between Hanahouua and Oi, told by the sole survivor; the
making of _tapa_ cloth, and the ancient garments of the Marquesans.

Grelet said that the conch I had heard at night sounding off Oomoa
must have been in a canoe or whale-boat bound for Hanavave, a valley
a dozen miles away over the mountains, but only an hour or so by sea.
It might have brought a message of interest, or perhaps would be a
conveyance to my own valley, so in mid-forenoon we launched Grelet's
whale-boat for a journey to Hanavave.

Eight men carried the large boat from its shelter to the water,
slung on two short thick poles by loops of rope through holes in
prow and stern. It was as graceful as a swan, floating in the edge
of the breakers. Driving it through the surf was cautious, skilful
work, at which Grelet was a master. Haupupuu, who built the boat, a
young man with the features of Bonaparte and a _blase_ expression,
was at the bow, and three other Marquesans, with the two Paumotan
boys, handled the oars. There was no wind and they rowed all the way,
spurting often for love of excitement.

We skirted a coast of almost vertical cliffs crowned by cocoas, the
faces of the rock black or covered above the waterline with vines
and plants, green and luxuriant. Long stretches of white curtains
and huge pictures in curious outlines were painted on the sable
cliffs by encrusted salt. The sea surged in leaping fountains
through a thousand blow-holes carved from the black basalt, and the
ceaseless wash of the waves had cut the base of the precipices into
_paniho_, or teeth, as the Marquesans say.

There were half a dozen indentations in the bleak and rugged coast,
each a little valley guarded by cliffs on both sides, the natural
obstacle to neighborliness that made enemies of the clans.
Inhabitants of plains are usually friendly. Mountains make feuds.

We passed the valley of Hana Ui, inhabited when Grelet came, and
full of rich cotton-fields, now a waste with never a soul in it. We
passed Eue, Utea, Tetio, Nanifapoto, Hana Puaea and Mata Utuoa, all
empty of the living; graveyards and deserted _paepaes_. Thousands
made merry in them when the missionaries first recorded their numbers.
Death hung like a cloud over the desolate wilderness of these valleys,
over the stern and gloomy cliffs, black and forbidding, carved into
monstrous shapes and rimmed with the fantastic patterns made by the
unresting sea.

Near Matu Utuoa was a great natural brid