For example, in an earlier part of this narrative, I have mentioned an old heathen called Elatreus, a good-natured, dull, absent-minded man, who reminded me of a respectable British citizen.  How awful was his end, how trebly awful when I reflect how nearly I—­but let me not anticipate.  Elatreus was the head, and eldest surviving member of a family which had a singular history.  I never could make out what the story was, but, in consequence of some ancient crime, the chief of the family was never allowed to enter the town hall.  The penalty, if he infringed the law, was terrible.  Now it chanced one day that I was wandering down the street, my hands full of rare flowers which I had gathered for Doto, and with four young doves in my hat.  It was spring, and at that season the young persons of the island expected to receive such gifts from their admirers.  I was also followed by eleven little fawns, which I had tamed for her, and four young whelps of the bear.  At the same time, in the lightness of my foolish heart, I was singing a native song, all about one Lityerses, to the tune of “Barbara Allen.”

At this moment, I observed, coming out of a side street, old Elatreus.  He was doddering along, his hands behind his back, and his nose in the air, followed by a small but increasing crowd of the natives, who crept stealthily behind at a considerable distance.  I paused to watch what was happening.

Elatreus entered the main street, and lounged along till he came opposite the town hall, on which some repairs were being made.  The door stood wide open.  He gazed at it, in a vacant but interested way, and went up the steps, where he stood staring in an absent-minded, vacant kind of fashion.  I could see that the crowd watching him from the corner of the side street was vastly excited.

Elatreus now passed his hand across his brow, seemed vastly puzzled, and yawned.  Then he slowly entered the town hall.  With a wild yell of savage triumph the mob rushed in after him, and in a few moments came forth again, with Elatreus bound and manacled.  Some one sped away, and brought the old priest, who carried the sickle.  He appeared full of joy, and lustily intoned—­for they have this Popish custom of intoning—­an unintelligible hymn.  By this time Elatreus had been wreathed and crowned with flowers, and the rude multitude for this purpose seized the interesting orchids which I had gathered for my Doto.  They then dragged the old man, pitifully lamenting, to the largest altar in the centre of the square.

Need I say what followed?  The scene was too awful.  With a horrible expression of joy the priest laid the poor wretch on the great stone altar, and with his keen sickle—­but it is too horrible! . . .  This was the penalty for a harmless act, forbidden by a senseless law, which Elatreus—­a most respectable man for an idolater—­had broken in mere innocent absence of mind.

Alas! among such a people, how could I ever hope, alone and unaided, to effect any truly regenerating work?