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A dozen men and a few women were squatting about, evidently expecting some event. The presence of the women was a sign that the people were peacefully inclined. An old man, a relative of Macao's, joined us, and a short walk through a gully brought us quite suddenly into a village square. About thirty men were awaiting us, armed with rifles and clubs, silent and shy.
Macao's claim to renown rests chiefly upon the fact that Portugal's greatest bard, Camoens, there wrote in part or its entirety the immortal "Lusiad," which in epic form details the prowess of the sons of ancient Lusitania in Eastern discovery and oversea feats of daring, and in which work the voyages and discoveries of Vasco da Gama are recorded with the fidelity of a history prepared by a sympathetic admirer.
We laughed at them, but they would not be cheered up, and, after all, Macao's horrible dread that his old father was surely being eaten up by this time in the village was not quite groundless.
The headstones of Macao's God's-acre bear name after name once carried with pride on the rolls of the American, British or French naval and merchantman services, and diplomatic and consular titles are recorded on more than one headstone. It is interesting to scale the steps to inspect closely the façade of the Jesuit church of San Paulo, erected some three hundred years ago.
Macao's chief claim to renown is its association with Camoëns, the great Portuguese poet of the sixteenth century, whose epic poem, "The Lusiads," has been translated into most known languages. This poem was written during his ten years' residence in Macao, and the garden, grotto, and bust of Camoëns are all a memorial tribute from a fellow countryman, Lorenco Marques.
Bourbaki and Macao marched gaily off, as they were to spend the night in Macao's village. Next morning, while being pulled ashore for my excursion inland, I saw Macao on the beach, crying, waving and behaving like a madman. He called out that Bourbaki was dead, and that we must come to the village. I took him into the boat and we returned to the cutter.
The official bigwigs who administer Macao know that it is as necessary for the Chinaman to gamble as to have food and the colony accordingly legalizes fan-tan and semi-daily lotteries, supplies the requisite machinery for carrying on the games, and reaps a benefice for its enterprise that runs the community without further ado. That is all there is to Macao's fiscal policy.
The great sugar planter of the Hawaiian Islands, Ah Fong, whose Eurasian daughters were beautiful and accomplished enough to find splendid American and European husbands, was a subject of the Portuguese crown, strange to say. His domicile on the Praia Grande is one of Macao's proudest mansions.
In no court on the Tagus are the laws of Portugal construed with more tenacity and precision than in Macao's chambers of justice; and the flag of Portugal floats over the homes of hundreds of loyal subjects who know only in a hazy manner where Portugal really is they are rich Chinese and others evading the Chinese tax collector, or escaping burdensome laws, and for many years these crafty Mongols have made a sort of political Gretna Green of Macao.
We were exposed, of course, to shots from close quarters alongside the path, but we trusted to Macao's sharp eyes to detect a hidden enemy. After an hour's brisk walk, we asked Macao whether the village was still far off; every time we asked, his answer was the same: "Bim by you me catch him," or, "Him he close up." However, after an hour and a half, we began to feel worried.
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