Methuselah twisted his eye sideways, first this way, then that, and responded in a very clear tone, indeed, “God save the king!  Confound the Duke of York!  Long live Dr. Oates!  And to hell with all papists!”

CHAPTER XXII.

TANTALIZING, VERY.

They looked at one another again with a wild surmise.  The voice was as the voice of some long past age.  Could the parrot be speaking to them in the words of seventeenth-century English?

Even M. Peyron, who at first had received the strange discovery with incredulity, woke up before long to the importance of this sudden and unexpected revelation.  The Tu-Kila-Kila who had taught Methuselah that long poem or sermon, which native tradition regarded as containing the central secret of their creed or its mysteries, and which the cruel and cunning Tu-Kila-Kila of to-day believed to be of immense importance to his safety—­that Tu-Kila-Kila of other days was, in all probability, no other than an English sailor.  Cast on these shores, perhaps, as they themselves had been, by the mercy of the waves, he had managed to master the language and religion of the savages among whom he found himself thrown; he had risen to be the representative of the cannibal god; and, during long months or years of tedious exile, he had beguiled his leisure by imparting to the unconscious ears of a bird the weird secret of his success, for the benefit of any others of his own race who might be similarly treated by fortune in future.  Strange and romantic as it all sounded, they could hardly doubt now that this was the real explanation of the bird’s command of English words.  One problem alone remained to disturb their souls.  Was the bird really in possession of any local secret and mystery at all, or was this the whole burden of the message he had brought down across the vast abyss of time—­“God save the king, and to hell with all papists?”

Felix turned to M. Peyron in a perfect tumult of suspense.  “What he recites is long?” he said, interrogatively, with profound interest.  “You have heard him say much more than this at times?  The words he has just uttered are not those of the sermon or poem you mentioned?”

M. Peyron opened his hands expansively before him.  “Oh, mon Dieu, no, monsieur,” he answered, with effusion.  “You should hear him recite it.  He’s never done.  It is whole chapters—­whole chapters; a perfect Henriade in parrot-talk.  When once he begins, there’s no possibility of checking or stopping him.  On, on he goes.  Farewell to the rest; he insists on pouring it all forth to the very last sentence.  Gabble, gabble, gabble; chatter, chatter, chatter; pouf, pouf, pouf; boum, boum, boum; he runs ahead eternally in one long discordant sing-song monotone.  The person who taught him must have taken entire months to teach him, a phrase at a time, paragraph by paragraph.  It is wonderful a bird’s memory could hold so much.  But till now, taking it for granted he spoke only some wild South Pacific dialect, I never paid much attention to Methuselah’s vagaries.”