And in a moment the women had disappeared into space, and the men lay flat on the moist ground with low groans of surprise, and hid their faces in their hands in abject terror.

CHAPTER XIII.

AS BETWEEN GODS.

Tu-Kila-Kila came up in his grandest panoply.  The great umbrella, with the hanging cords, rose high over his head; the King of Fire and the King of Water, in their robes of state, marched slowly by his side; a whole group of slaves and temple attendants, clapping hands in unison, followed obedient at his sacred heels.  But as soon as he reached the open space in front of the huts and began to speak, Felix could easily see, in spite of his own agitation and the excitement of the moment, that the implacable god himself was profoundly frightened.  Last night’s storm had, indeed, been terrible; but Tu-Kila-Kila mentally coupled it with Felix’s attitude toward himself at their last interview, and really believed in his own heart he had met, after all, with a stronger god, more powerful than himself, who could make the clouds burst forth in fire and the earth tremble.  The savage swaggered a good deal, to be sure, as is often the fashion with savages when frightened; but Felix could see between the lines, that he swaggered only on the familiar principle of whistling to keep your courage up, and that in his heart of hearts he was most unspeakably terrified.

“You did not do well, O King of the Rain, last night,” he said, after an interchange of civilities, as becomes great gods.  “You have put out even the sacred flame on the holy hearth of the King of Fire.  You have a bad heart.  Why do you use us so?”

“Why do you let your people offer human sacrifices?” Felix answered, boldly, taking advantage of his position.  “They are hateful in our sight, these cannibal ways.  While we remain on the island, no human life shall be unjustly taken.  Do you understand me?”

Tu-Kila-Kila drew back, and gazed around him suspiciously.  In all his experience no one had ever dared to address him like that.  Assuredly, the stranger from the sun must be a very great god—­how great, he hardly dared to himself to realize.  He shrugged his shoulders.  “When we mighty deities of the first order speak together, face to face,” he said, with an uneasy air, “it is not well that the mere common herd of men should overhear our profound deliberations.  Let us go inside your hut.  Let us confer in private.”

They entered the hut alone, Muriel still clinging to Felix’s arm, in speechless terror.  Then Felix at once began to explain the situation.  As he spoke, a baleful light gleamed in Tu-Kila-Kila’s eye.  The great god removed his mulberry-paper mask.  He was evidently delighted at the turn things had taken.  If only he dared—­but there; he dared not.  “Fire and Water would never allow it,” he murmured softly to himself.  “They know the taboos as well as I do.”  It was clear to Felix that the savage would gladly have sacrificed him if he dared, and that he made no bones about letting him know it; but the custom of the islanders bound him as tightly as it bound themselves, and he was afraid to transgress it.