The
clouds hung low and black on the surrounding
amphitheatre of mountains; rain had fallen earlier in
the day, real tropic rain, a waterspout for violence;
and the green and gloomy brow of the mountain was still
seamed with many silver threads of torrent.
In these hot and healthy islands winter is but a name.
The rain had not refreshed, nor could the wind
invigorate, the dwellers of Tai-o-hae: away at one end,
indeed, the commandant was directing some changes in
the residency garden beyond Prison Hill; and the
gardeners, being all convicts, had no choice but to
continue to obey. All other folks slumbered and took
their rest: Vaekehu, the native Queen, in her trim
house under the rustling palms; the Tahitian
commissary, in his be-flagged official residence; the
merchants, in their deserted stores; and even the club-
servant in the club, his head fallen forward on the
bottle-counter, under the map of the world and the
cards of navy officers. In the whole length of the
single shoreside street, with its scattered board
houses looking to the sea, its grateful shade of palms
and green jungle of puraos, no moving figure could be
seen.
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