Her voice seemed to give the parrot a fresh impulse to speak. “—­Is contained, as it were,” he continued, feebly, “the divine essence itself, the soul and life of Too-Keela-Keela.  Whoever, then, being a full Korong, breaks this off, hath thus possessed himself of the very god in person.  This, however, he must do by exceeding stealth; for Too-Keela-Keela, or rather the man that bears that name, being the guardian and defender of the great god, walks ever up and down, by day and by night, in exceeding great cunning, armed with a spear and with a hatchet of stone, around the root of the tree, watching jealously over the branch which is, as he believes, his own soul and being.  I, therefore, being warned of the Taboo by the woman that was my consort, did craftily, near the appointed time for my own death, creep out of my hut, and my consort, having induced one of the wives of Too-Keela-Keela to make him drunken with too much of that intoxicating drink which they do call kava, did proceed—­did proceed—­did proceed—­In the nineteenth year of the reign of his most gracious majesty, King Charles the Second—­”

Muriel bent forward once more in an agony of suspense.  “Oh, go on, good Poll!” she cried.  “Go on.  Remember it.  Did proceed to—­”

The single syllable helped Methuselah’s memory. “—­Did proceed to stealthily pluck the bough, and, having shown the same to Fire and Water, the guardians of the Taboo, did boldly challenge to single combat the bodily tenement of the god, with spear and hatchet, provided for me in accordance with ancient custom by Fire and Water.  In which combat, Heaven mercifully befriending me against my enemy, I did coom out conqueror; and was thereupon proclaimed Too-Keela-Keela myself, with ceremonies too many and barbarous to mention, lest I raise your gorge at them.  But that which is most important to tell you for your own guidance and safety, O mariner, is this—­that being the sole and only end I have in imparting this history to so strange a messenger—­that after you have by craft plucked the sacred branch, and by force of arms over-cootn Too-Keela-Keela, it is by all means needful, whether you will or not, that submitting to the hateful and gentile custom of this people—­of this people—­Pretty Poll!  Pretty Poll!  God save—­God save the king!  Death to the nineteenth year of the reign of all arrant knaves and roundheads.”

He dropped his head on his breast, and blinked his white eyelids more feebly than ever.  His strength was failing him fast.  The Soul of all dead parrots was wearing out.  M. Peyron, who had stood by all this time, not knowing in any way what might be the value of the bird’s disclosures, came forward and stroked poor Methuselah with his caressing hand.  But Methuselah was incapable now of any further effort.  He opened his blind eyes sleepily for the last, last time, and stared around him with a blank stare at the fading universe.  “God save the king!” he screamed aloud with a terrible gasp, true to his colors still.  “God save the king, and to hell with all papists!”