But Methuselah was evidently put off the scent now by the unseasonable interruption.  Instead of continuing, he threw back his head a second time with a triumphant air and laughed aloud boisterously.  “Pretty Polly,” he cried.  “Pretty Polly wants a nut.  Tu-Kila-Kila maroo!  Pretty Poll!  Pretty Polly!”

“Sing again, for Heaven’s sake!” Felix exclaimed, in a profoundly agitated mood, explaining briefly to the Frenchman the full significance of the words Methuselah had just begun to utter.

The Frenchman struck up his tune afresh to give the bird a start; but all to no avail.  Methuselah was evidently in no humor for talking just then.  He listened with a callous, uncritical air, bringing his white eyelids down slowly and sleepily over his bleared gray eyes.  Then he nodded his head slowly.  “No use,” the Frenchman murmured, pursing his lips up gravely.  “The bird won’t talk.  It’s going off to sleep now.  Methuselah gets visibly older every day, monsieur and mademoiselle.  You are only just in time to catch his last accents.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD.

Early next morning, as Felix lay still in his hut, dozing, and just vaguely conscious of a buzz of a mosquito close to his ear, he was aroused by a sudden loud cry outside—­a cry that called his native name three times, running:  “O King of the Rain, King of the Rain, King of the Rain, awake!  High time to be up!  The King of the Birds sends you health and greeting!”

Felix rose at once; and his Shadow, rising before him, and unbolting the loose wooden fastener of the door, went out in haste to see who called beyond the white taboo-line of their sacred precincts.

A native woman, tall, lithe, and handsome, stood there in the full light of morning, beckoning.  A strange glow of hatred gleamed in her large gray eyes.  Her shapely brown bosom heaved and panted heavily.  Big beads glistened moistly on her smooth, high brow.  It was clear she had run all the way in haste.  She was deeply excited and full of eager anxiety.

“Why, what do you want here so early, Ula?” the Shadow asked, in surprise—­for it was indeed she.  “How have you slipped away, as soon as the sun is risen, from the sacred hut of Tu-Kila-Kila?”

Ula’s gray eyes flashed angry fire as she answered.  “He has beaten me again,” she cried, in revengeful tones; “see the weals on my back!  See my arms and shoulders!  He has drawn blood from my wounds.  He is the most hateful of gods.  I should love to kill him.  Therefore I slipped away from him with the early dawn and came to consult with his enemy, the King of the Birds, because I heard the words that the Eyes of Tu-Kila-Kila, who pervade the world, report to their master.  The Eyes have told him that the King of the Rain, the Queen of the Clouds, and the King of the Birds are plotting together in secret against Tu-Kila-Kila.  When I heard that, I was glad; I went to the King of the Birds to warn him of his danger; and the King of the Birds, concerned for your safety, has sent me in haste to ask his brother gods to go at once to him.”