The King of Water, with three attendants, forced Tu-Kila-Kila on one side for a moment.  Ula stood by and smiled pleased compliance.  A temple slave, trembling all over at this conflict of the gods, brought out a calabash full of white coral-sand.  The King of Water spat on it and blessed it.  By this time a dozen natives, at least, had assembled outside the taboo-line, and stood eagerly watching the result of the combat.  The temple slave made a long white mark with the coral-sand on one side of the cleared area.  Then he handed the calabash solemnly to Toko.  Toko crossed the sacred precinct with a few inaudible words of muttered charm, to save the Taboo, as prescribed in the mysteries.  Then he drew a similar line on the ground on his side, some twenty yards off.  “Descend, O my lord!” he cried to Felix; and Felix, still holding the bough tight in his hand, swung himself blindly from the tree, and took his place by Toko.

“Toe the line!” Toko cried, and Felix toed it.

“Bring up your god!” the Shadow called out aloud to the King of Water.  And the King of Water, using no special ceremony with so great a duty, dragged Tu-Kila-Kila helplessly along with him to the farther taboo-line.

The King of Water brought a spear and tomahawk.  He handed them to Felix.  “With these weapons,” he said, “fight, and merit heaven.  I hold the bough meanwhile—­the victor takes it.”

The King of Fire stood out between the lists.  “Korongs and gods,” he said, “the King of the Rain has plucked the sacred bough, according to our fathers’ rites, and claims trial which of you two shall henceforth hold the sacred soul of the world, the great Tu-Kila-Kila.  Wager of Battle decides the day.  Keep toe to line.  At the end of my words, forth, forward, and fight for it.  The great god knows his own, and will choose his abode.  Taboo, Taboo, Taboo!  I, Fire, have spoken it.”

Scarcely were the words well out of his mouth, when, with a wild whoop of rage, Tu-Kila-Kila, who had the advantage of knowing the rules of the game, so to speak, dashed madly forward, drunk with passion and kava, and gave one lunge with his spear full tilt at the breast of the startled and unprepared white man.  His aim, though frantic, was not at fault.  The spear struck Felix high up on the left side.  He felt a dull thud of pain; a faint gurgle of blood.  Even in the pale moonlight his eye told him at once a red stream was trickling—­out over his flannel shirt.  He was pricked, at least.  The great god had wounded him.

CHAPTER XXIX.

VICTORY—­AND AFTER?

The great god had wounded him.  But not to the heart.  Felix, as good luck would have it, happened to be wearing buckled braces.  He had worn them on board, and, like the rest of his costume, had, of course, never since been able to discard them.  They stood him in good stead now.  The buckle caught the very point of the bone-tipped spear, and broke the force of the blow, as the great god lunged forward.  The wound was but a graze, and Tu-Kila-Kila’s light shaft snapped short in the middle.