Now, as I have mentioned, after our talk with Marama, although we did not think it wise to adventure ourselves among them again at present, we had lost all fear of the Orofenans.  In this attitude, so far as Marama himself and the majority of his people were concerned, we were quite justified, for they were our warm friends.  But in the case of the sorcerers, the priests and all their rascally and superstitious brotherhood, we were by no means justified.  They had not forgiven Bastin his sacrilege or for his undermining of their authority by the preaching of new doctrines which, if adopted, would destroy them as a hierarchy.  Nor had they forgiven Bickley for shooting one of their number, or any of us for our escape from the vengeance of their god.

So it came about that they made a plot to seize us all and hale us off to be sacrificed to a substituted image of Oro, which by now they had set up.  They knew exactly where we slept upon the rock; indeed, our fire showed it to them and so far they were not afraid to venture, since here they had been accustomed for generations to lay their offerings to the god of the Mountain.  Secretly on the previous night, without the knowledge of Marama, they had carried two more canoes to the borders of the lake.  Now on this night, just as the moon was setting about three in the morning, they made their attack, twenty-one men in all, for the three canoes were large, relying on the following darkness to get us away and convey us to the place of sacrifice to be offered up at dawn and before Marama could interfere.

The first we knew of the matter, for most foolishly we had neglected to keep a watch, was the unpleasant sensation of brawny savages kneeling on us and trussing us up with palm-fibre ropes.  Also they thrust handfuls of dry grass into our mouths to prevent us from calling out, although as air came through the interstices of the grass, we did not suffocate.  The thing was so well done that we never struck a blow in self-defence, and although we had our pistols at hand, much less could we fire a shot.  Of course, we struggled as well as we were able, but it was quite useless; in three minutes we were as helpless as calves in a net and like calves were being conveyed to the butcher.  Bastin managed to get the gag out of his mouth for a few seconds, and I heard him say in his slow, heavy voice: 

“This, Bickley, is what comes of trafficking with evil spirits in museum cases—­” There his speech stopped, for the grass wad was jammed down his throat again, but distinctly I heard the inarticulate Bickley snort as he conceived the repartee he was unable to utter.  As for myself, I reflected that the business served us right for not keeping a watch, and abandoned the issue to fate.