Felix took the measure of his man at once.  He opened his knife, and held it up threateningly.  “See here, fellow,” he said, in a low, slow tone, but with great decision, “if you dare to speak or look like that at that lady—­god or no god, I’ll drive this knife straight up to the handle in your heart, though your people kill me for it afterward ten thousand times over.  I am not afraid of you.  These savages may be afraid, and may think you are a god; but if you are, then I am a god ten thousand times stronger than you.  One more word—­one more look like that, I say—­and I plunge this knife remorselessly into you.”

Tu-Kila-Kila drew back, and smiled benignly.  Stalwart ruffian as he was, and absolute master of his own people’s lives, he was yet afraid in a way of the strange new-comer.  Vague stories of the men with white faces—­the “sailing gods”—­had reached him from time to time; and though only twice within his memory had European boats landed on his island, he yet knew enough of the race to know that they were at least very powerful deities—­more powerful with their weapons than even he was.  Besides, a man who could draw down fire from heaven with a piece of wax and a little metal box might surely wither him to ashes, if he would, as he stood before him.  The very fact that Felix bearded him thus openly to his face astonished and somewhat terrified the superstitious savage.  Everybody else on the island was afraid of him; then certainly a man who was not afraid must be the possessor of some most efficacious and magical medicine.  His one fear now was lest his followers should hear and discover his discomfiture.  He peered about him cautiously, with that careful gleam shining bright in his eye; then he said with a leer, in a very low voice, “We two need not quarrel.  We are both of us gods.  Neither of us is the stronger.  We are equal, that’s all.  Let us live like brothers, not like enemies, on the island.”

“I don’t want to be your brother,” Felix answered, unable to conceal his loathing any more.  “I hate and detest you.”

“What does he say?” Muriel asked, in an agony of fear at the savage’s black looks.  “Is he going to kill us?”

“No,” Felix answered, boldly.  “I think he’s afraid of us.  He’s going to do nothing.  You needn’t fear him.”

“Can she not speak?” the savage asked, pointing with his finger somewhat rudely toward Muriel.  “Has she no voice but this, the chatter of birds?  Does she not know the human language?”

“She can speak,” Felix replied, placing himself like a shield between Muriel and the astonished savage.  “She can speak the language of the people of our distant country—­a beautiful language which is as far superior to the speech of the brown men of Polynesia as the sun in the heavens is superior to the light of a candlenut.  But she can’t speak the wretched tongue of you Boupari cannibals.  I thank Heaven she can’t, for it saves her from understanding the hateful things your people would say of her.  Now go!  I have seen already enough of you.  I am not afraid.  Remember, I am as powerful a god as you.  I need not fear.  You cannot hurt me.”