“Alas, monsieur,” the Frenchman replied, drawing circles in the dust with his stick with much discomposure, “I can only tell you I have been trying to make out the secret of this distinction myself ever since the first day I came to the island; but so reticent are all the natives about it, and so deep is the taboo by which the mystery is guarded, that even now I, who am myself Tula, can tell you but very little with certainty on the subject.  All I can say for sure is this—­that gods called Tula retain their godship in permanency for a very long time, although at the end some violent fate, which I do not clearly understand, is destined to befall them.  That is my condition as King of the Birds—­for no doubt they have told you that I, Jules Peyron—­Republican, Socialist, Communist—­have been elevated against my will to the honors of royalty.  That is my condition, and it matters but little to me, for I know not when the end may come; and we can but die once; how or where, what matters?  Meanwhile, I have my distractions, my little agrements—­my gardens, my music, my birds, my native friends, my coquetries, my aviary.  As King of the Birds, I keep a small collection of my subjects in the living form, not unworthy of a scientific eye.  Monsieur is no ornithologist?  Ah, no, I thought not.  Well, for me, it matters little; my time is long.  But for you and Mademoiselle, who are both Korong—­” He paused significantly.

“What happens, then, to those who are Korong?” Felix asked, with a lump in his throat—­not for himself, but for Muriel.

The Frenchman looked at him with a doubtful look.  “Monsieur,” he said, after a pause, “I hardly know how to break the truth to you properly.  You are new to the island, and do not yet understand these savages.  It is so terrible a fate.  So deadly.  So certain.  Compose your mind to hear the worst.  And remember that the worst is very terrible.”

Felix’s blood froze within him; but he answered bravely all the same, “I think I have guessed it myself already.  The Korong are offered as human sacrifices to Tu-Kila-Kila.”

“That is nearly so,” his new friend replied, with a solemn nod of his head.  “Every Korong is bound to die when his time comes.  Your time will depend on the particular date when you were admitted to Heaven.”

Felix reflected a moment.  “It was on the 26th of last month,” he answered, shortly.

“Very well,” M. Peyron replied, after a brief calculation.  “You have just six months in all to live from that date.  They will offer you up by Tu-Kila-Kila’s hut the day the sun reaches the summer solstice.”

“But why did they make us gods then?” Felix interposed, with tremulous lips.  “Why treat us with such honors meanwhile, if they mean in the end to kill us?”