Walking along, I heard the explosions of the volcano like a far-away cannonade. The dull shocks gave my walk a peculiar solemnity, but the bush prevented any outlook, and only from the coast I occasionally saw the volcanic clouds mounting into the sky. From the old mission-house the view on a clear day is splendid. On the slope stand a few large trees, whose cleft leaves frame the indescribably blue sea, which breaks in snowy lines in the lava-boulders below. Far off, I can see Malekula, with its forest-covered mountains, and summer clouds hanging above it. It is a dreamlike summer day, so beautiful, bright and mild as to be hardly real. One feels a certain regret at being unable to absorb all the beauty, at having to stand apart as an outsider, a patch on the brightness rather than a part of it. At night the view is different, but just as enchanting. A fine dust from the volcano floats in the air and the pale moonlight plays softly on the smooth surface of the bay, filling the atmosphere with silver, so that everything shines in the white light, the long, flat point, the forest; even the bread-fruit tree on the slope, whose outline cuts sharply into the brightness, is not black, but a darker silver. In the greenish sky the stars glitter, not sharply as they do elsewhere, but like fine dots, softly, quietly, as if a negligent hand had sprinkled them lightly about. And down by the water the breakers roll, crickets cry, a flying-fox chatters and changes from one tree to the other with tired wings, passing in a shapeless silhouette in front of the moon. It is the peace of paradise, dreamlike, wishless; one never tires of listening to the holy tropical night, for there is secret life everywhere. In the quiet air the trees shiver, the moonlight trembles in the bushes and stirs imperceptibly in the lawn; and from the indistinct sounds of which the mind is hardly conscious the fancy weaves strange stories. We see all those creatures that frighten the natives under the roof of the forest, giants with crabs' claws, men with fiery eyes, women that turn into deadly serpents, vague, misty souls of ancestors, that pass through the branches and appear to their descendants; all that we dream of in our northern midsummer night wakes in tenfold strength here. Suddenly, violent shocks shake the house, explosions follow, like distant shots, and the thin, misty silver is changed to a red glow. The volcano is in action,--a dull, reddish-yellow light mounts slowly up behind the black trees, thick smoke rises and rises, until it stands, a dark monster, nearly touching the zenith, its foot still in the red glare. Slowly the fire dies out, the cloud parts, and it is dark night again, with the silver of the moon brooding everywhere.