in which his wife,
Ghost Girl, Malicious Gossip, Water, and the host joined, we sat for
some time singing "Malbrouck se va t'en guerre," "La Carmagnole,"
and other songs of France. Stirred by the memories of home, these
melodies awakened, Le Vergose remembered a countryman who lived
nearby.

"There is a hermit who lives a thousand feet up the valley," said he.
"We might take him half a litre of rum. He is a Breton of Brest who
has been here many years. He eats nothing but bananas, for he lives
in a banana grove, and he is able only to totter to the river for
water. He never moves from his little hut except to pick a few
bananas. He lives alone. Hardly any one sees him from year to year.
I think he would be glad to have a visitor."

A wet and slippery trail through the forest along the river bank led
toward the hermit's grove. Toiling up it, sliding and clutching the
boughs that overhung and almost obliterated it, we passed a small
native house of straw, almost hidden by the trees, and were hailed
by the voice of a woman.

"_I hea?_ Where do you go?" The words were sharp, with a tone almost
of anxiety, of fear.

"We go to see Hemeury Francois," replied Le Vergose.

The woman who had spoken came half-way down the worn and dirty steps
of her _paepae_. She was old, but with an age more of bitter and
devastating emotion than of years. Her haggard face, drawn and
seamed with cruel lines, showed still the traces of a beauty that had
been hard and handsome rather than lovely. She said nothing more,
but stood watching our progress, her tall figure absolutely
motionless in its dark tunic, her eyes curiously intent upon us. I
felt relief when the thick curtains of leaves shut us from her view.

"That is Mohuto," said Le Vergose. "She is a solitary, too. All her
people have died, and she has become hard and bitter. That is a
strange thing, for an islander. But she was beautiful once. Perhaps
she broods upon that."

We entered the banana-grove, an acre or two of huge plants, thirty
feet high, so close together that the sun could not touch the soil.
The earth was dank and dark, almost a swamp, and the trees were like
yellowish-green ghosts in the gloom. Their great soft leaves shut out
the sky, and from their limp edges there was a ceaseless drip of
moisture. A horde of mosquitos, black and small, emerged from the
shadows, thousands upon thousands, and smote us upon every exposed
part. In a few minutes our faces were smear