At this I appeared, as I really was, interested, and begged her to
explain what she meant. She thought a moment, and then briefly, but
clearly, sketched the life of those islands, showing how, in spite of
missionary labour selfish and unselfish, the native became the victim of
civilisation, the prey of the white trader and beachcomber, who were
protected by men-of-war with convincing Nordenfeldt and Hotchkiss guns;
how the stalwart force of barbaric existence declined, and with it the
crude sense of justice, the practice of communism at its simplest and
purest, the valour of nationality. These phrases are my own--the
substance, not the fashion, of her speech.

"You do not, then," I said, "believe wholly in the unselfishness of
missionaries, the fair dealing of traders, the perfect impartiality of
justice, as shown through steel-clad cruisers?"

"I have seen too much to be quite fair in judgment, I fear, even to men-
of-war's men;" and she paused, listening to a song which came from the
after-part of the ship. The air was very still, and a few of the words
of the droll, plaintive ditty came to us.

Quartermaster Stone, as he passed us, hummed it, and some voices of the
first-class passengers near joined in the refrain:

"Sing, hey, for a rover on the sea,
And the old world!"

Some days later I got all of the song from one of the intermediate
passengers, and the last verse of it I give here:

"I'm a-sailing, I'm a-sailing on the sea,