CHAPTER XXXI.
THE CALABOOZA BERETANEE ABOUT a mile from the village we came to a halt.
It was a beautiful spot.

A mountain stream here flowed at the foot of a verdant slope; on one hand, it murmured along until the waters, spreading themselves upon a beach of small, sparkling shells, trickled into the sea; on the other was a long defile, where the eye pursued a gleaming, sinuous thread, lost in shade and verdure.
The ground next the road was walled in by a low, rude parapet of stones; and, upon the summit of the slope beyond, was a large, native house, the thatch dazzling white, and in shape an oval.
"Calabooza! Calabooza Beretanee!" (the English Jail), cried our conductor, pointing to the building.
For a few months past, having been used by the consul as a house of confinement for his refractory sailors, it was thus styled to distinguish it from similar places in and about Papeetee.
Though extremely romantic in appearance, on a near approach it proved hut ill adapted to domestic comfort.

In short, it was a mere shell, recently built, and still unfinished.

It was open all round, and tufts of grass were growing here and there under the very roof.

The only piece of furniture was the "stocks," a clumsy machine for keeping people in one place, which, I believe, is pretty much out of date in most countries.