As for Methuselah’s secret, there was only one way, Felix thought, in which it could now prove of any use to them.  When the actual day of their doom drew nigh, he might, perhaps, be tempted to try the fate which Nathaniel Cross, of Sunderland, had successfully courted.  That might gain them at least a little respite.  Though even so he hardly knew what good it could do him to be elevated for a while into the chief god of the island.  It might not even avail him to save Muriel’s life; for he did not doubt that when the awful day itself had actually come the natives would do their best to kill her in spite of him, unless he anticipated them by fulfilling his own terrible, yet merciful, promise.

Week after week went by—­month after month passed—­and the date when the Australasian might reasonably be expected to reappear drew nearer and nearer.  They waited and trembled.  At last, a few days before the time M. Peyron had calculated, as Felix was sitting under the big shady tree in his garden one morning, while Muriel, now worn out with hope deferred, lay within her hut alone with Mali, a sound of tom-toms and beaten palms was heard on the hill-path.  The natives around fell on their faces or fled.  It announced the speedy approach of Tu-Kila-Kila.

By this time both the castaways had grown comparatively accustomed to that hideous noise, and to the hateful presence which it preceded and heralded.  A dozen temple attendants tripped on either side down the hillpath, to guard him, clapping their hands in a barbaric measure as they went; Fire and Water, in the midst, supported and flanked the divine umbrella.  Felix rose from his seat with very little ceremony, indeed, as the great god crossed the white taboo-line of his precincts, followed only beyond the limit by Fire and Water.

Tu-Kila-Kila was in his most insolent vein.  He glanced around with a horrid light of triumph dancing visibly in his eyes.  It was clear he had come, intent upon some grand theatrical coup.  He meant to take the white-faced stranger by surprise this time.  “Good-morning, O King of the Rain,” he exclaimed, in a loud voice and with boisterous familiarity.  “How do you like your outlook now?  Things are getting on.  Things are getting on.  The end of your rule is drawing very near, isn’t it?  Before long I must make the seasons change.  I must make my sun turn.  I must twist round my sky.  And then, I shall need a new Korong instead of you, O pale-faced one!”

Felix looked back at him without moving a muscle.

“I am well,” he answered shortly, restraining his anger.  “The year turns round whether you will or not.  You are right that the sun will soon begin to move southward on its path again.  But many things may happen to all of us meanwhile. I am not afraid of you.”

As he spoke, he drew his knife, and opened the blade, unostentatiously, but firmly.  If the worst were really coming now, sooner than he expected, he would at least not forget his promise to Muriel.