“You would murder as did your forefathers, O children of snakes and hogs fashioned in the shape of men.  You would sacrifice those who dwell in my shadow to satisfy your hate because they are wiser than you.  Come hither thou,” and he beckoned with a bony finger to the chief magician.

The man advanced towards him in short jumps, as a mechanical toy might do, and stood before him, his miniature crate and feathers all awry and the sweat of terror melting the paint in streaks upon his face.

“Look into the eyes of Oro, O worshipper of Oro,” said the Sleeper, and he obeyed, his own eyes starting out of his head.

“Receive the curse of Oro,” said the Ancient again.  Then followed a terrible spectacle.  The man went raving mad.  He bounded into the air to a height inconceivable.  He threw himself upon the ground and rolled upon the rock.  He rose again and staggered round and round, tearing pieces out of his arms with his teeth.  He yelled hideously like one possessed.  He grovelled, beating his forehead against the rock.  Then he sat up, slowly choked and—­died.

His companions seemed to catch the infection of death as terrified savages often do.  They too performed dreadful antics, all except three of them who stood paralysed.  They rushed about battering each other with their fists and wooden weapons, looking like devils from hell in their hideous painted attire.  They grappled and fought furiously.  They separated and plunged into the lake, where with a last grimace they sank like stones.

It seemed to last a long while, but I think that as a matter of fact within five minutes it was over; they were all dead.  Only the three paralysed ones remained standing and rolling their eyes.

The Sleeper beckoned to them with his thin finger, and they walked forward in step like soldiers.

“Lift that man from the boat,” he said, pointing to Bastin, “cut his bonds and those of the others.”

They obeyed with a wonderful alacrity.  In a minute we stood at liberty and were pulling the grass gags from our mouths.  The Ancient pointed to the head magician who lay dead upon the rock, his hideous, contorted countenance staring open-eyed at heaven.

“Take that sorcerer and show him to the other sorcerers yonder,” he said, “and tell them where your fellows are if they would find them.  Know by these signs that the Oro, god of the Mountain, who has slept a while, is awake, and ill will it go with them who question his power or dare to try to harm those who dwell in his house.  Bring food day by day and await commands.  Begone!”

The dreadful-looking body was bundled into one of the canoes, that out of which Bastin had emerged.  A rower sprang into each of them and presently was paddling as he had never done before.  As the setting moon vanished, they vanished with it, and once more there was a great silence.

“I am going to find my boots,” said Bastin.  “This rock is hard and I hurt my feet kicking at those poor fellows who appear to have come to a bad end, how, I do not exactly understand.  Personally, I think that more allowances should have been made for them, as I hope will be the case elsewhere, since after all they only acted according to their lights.”