The god took another step forward, the divine mantle of red feathers glowing in the sunset on his dusky shoulders, and smiled once more that hateful gracious smile of his.  He was standing near the open door of his wattled hut, overshadowed by the huge spreading arms of a gigantic banyan-tree.  Through the open door of the hut it was possible to catch just a passing glimpse of an awful sight within.  On the beams of the house, and on the boughs of the trees behind it, human skeletons, half covered with dry flesh, hung in ghastly array, their skulls turned downward.  They were the skeletons of the victims Tu-Kila-Kila, their prince, had slain and eaten; they were the trophies of the cannibal man-god’s hateful prowess.

Tu-Kila-Kila raised his right hand erect and spoke again.  “I am a great god,” he said, slowly.  “I am very powerful.  I make the sun to shine, and the yams to grow.  I am the spirit of plants.  Without me there would be nothing for you all to eat or drink in Boupari.  If I were to grow old and die, the sun would fade away in the heavens overhead; the bread-fruit trees would wither and cease to bear on earth; all fruits would come to an end and die at once; all rivers would stop forthwith from running.”

His worshippers bowed down in acquiescence with awestruck faces.  “It is true,” they answered, in the same slow sing-song of assent as before.  “Tu-Kila-Kila is the greatest of gods.  We owe to him everything.  We hang upon his favor.”

Tu-Kila-Kila started back, laughed, and showed his pearly white teeth.  They were beautiful and regular, like the teeth of a tiger, a strong young tiger.  “But I need more sacrifices than all the other gods,” he went on, melodiously, like one who plays with consummate skill upon some difficult instrument.  “I am greedy; I am thirsty; I am a hungry god.  You must not stint me.  I claim more human victims than all the other gods beside.  If you want your crops to grow, and your rivers to run, the fields to yield you game, and the sea fish—­this is what I ask:  give me victims, victims!  That is our compact.  Tu-Kila-Kila calls you.”

The men bowed down once more and repeated humbly, “You shall have victims as you will, great god; only give us yam and taro and bread-fruit, and cause not your bright light, the sun, to grow dark in heaven over us.”

“Cut yourselves,” Tu-Kila-Kila cried, in a peremptory voice, clapping his hands thrice.  “I am thirsting for blood.  I want your free-will offering.”

As he spoke, every man, as by a set ritual, took from a little skin wallet at his side a sharp flake of coral-stone, and, drawing it deliberately across his breast in a deep red gash, caused the blood to flow out freely over his chest and long grass waistband.  Then, having done so, they never strove for a moment to stanch the wound, but let the red drops fall as they would on to the dust at their feet, without seeming even to be conscious at all of the fact that they were flowing.