Tu-Kila-Kila went home that day in a very bad humor.  The portent of the bitten finger had seriously disturbed him.  For, strange as it sounds to us, he really believed himself in his own divinity; and the bare thought that the holy soil of earth should be dabbled and wet with the blood of a god gave him no little uneasiness in his own mind on his way homeward.  Besides, what would his people think of it if they found it out?  At all hazards almost, he must strive to conceal this episode of the bite from the men of Boupari.  A god who gets wounded, and, worse still, gets wounded in the very act of trying to break a great taboo laid on by himself in a previous incarnation—­such a god undoubtedly lays himself open to the gravest misapprehensions on the part of his worshippers.  Indeed, it was not even certain whether his people, if they knew, would any longer regard him as a god at all.  The devotion of savages is profound, but it is far from personal.  When deities pass so readily from one body to another, you must always keep a sharp lookout lest the great spirit should at any minute have deserted his earthly tabernacle, and have taken up his abode in a fresh representative.  Honor the gods by all means; but make sure at the same time what particular house they are just then inhabiting.

It was the hour of siesta in Tu-Kila-Kila’s tent.  For a short space in the middle of the day, during the heat of the sun, while Fire and Water, with their embers and their calabash, sat on guard in a porch by the bamboo gate, Tu-Kila-Kila, Pillar of Heaven and Threshold of Earth, had respite for a while from his daily task of guarding the sacred banyan, and could take his ease after his meal in his own quarters.  While that precious hour of taboo lasted, no wandering dragon or spirit of the air could hurt the holy tree, and no human assailant dare touch or approach it.  Even the disease-making gods, who walk in the pestilence, could not blight or wither it.  At all other times Tu-Kila-Kila mounted guard over his tree with a jealousy that fairly astonished Felix Thurstan’s soul; for Felix Thurstan only dimly understood as yet how implicitly Tu-Kila-Kila’s own life and office were bound up with the inviolability of the banyan he protected.

Within the hut, during that playtime of siesta, while the lizards (who are also gods) ran up and down the wall, and puffed their orange throats, Tu-Kila-Kila lounged at his ease that afternoon, with one of his many wives—­a tall and beautiful Polynesian woman, lithe and supple, as is the wont of her race, and as exquisitely formed in every limb and feature as a sculptured Greek goddess.  A graceful wreath of crimson hibiscus adorned her shapely head, round which her long and glossy black hair was coiled in great rings with artistic profusion.  A festoon of blue flowers and dark-red dracaena leaves hung like a chaplet over her olive-brown neck and swelling bust.  One breadth of native cloth did duty for an apron or girdle round her waist and hips.  All else was naked.  Her plump brown arms were set off by the green and crimson of the flowers that decked her.  Tu-Kila-Kila glanced at his slave with approving eyes.  He always liked Ula; she pleased him the best of all his women.  And she knew his ways, too:  she never contradicted him.