“Have you anything like this?”

He drew his bow to his ear and shot a yard arrow.  His companions in the other canoes leapt to their feet and sent showers of arrows whizzing at the men in the boat, shouting as they aimed: 

“This for New Zealand man, this for Bernu man, this for Motu man.”

Pulling away with all their speed, Patteson’s men were soon out of range, but an arrow had nailed John Nonono’s cap to his head.  Stephen lay in the bottom of the boat with six arrows in his chest and shoulders.  Mr. Atkin, the white man, had one in his left shoulder.

They reached the ship and were helped on board.  The arrow head was drawn out from Mr. Atkin’s shoulder, and was found to be made of a sharpened human bone.  No sooner was the arrow head out than Mr. Atkin leapt back into the boat, insisting on going back to find Patteson.  He alone knew how and where the reef could be crossed on the tide that was now rising.

So they got a boat’s crew from the ship, put a beaker full of water and some food in the boat, and pulled toward the reef.

At half-past four the tide was high enough to carry them across, and they rowed over, looking through their glasses anxiously at the white shore which was lined with brown figures.  A canoe rowed out towards them bringing another canoe in tow.  As the boat went towards the island, one canoe cast off the other, and went back; the second canoe drifted towards them slowly on the still waters of the blue lagoon.

As it came nearer they saw that in the middle of it lay Something motionless, covered with matting.  They pulled alongside, leaned over the canoe, and lifted into their boat—­the body of Patteson.  The empty canoe now drifted away.

A yell went up from the savages on the shore.  The boat was pulled towards the ship and then the body lifted up and laid on the deck.  It had been rolled in the native matting as a shroud, tied at the head and feet.  They unrolled the mat, and there on the face of the dead Bishop was still that wonderful, patient and winning smile, as of one who at the moment when his head was beneath the uplifted club said, “Lord, lay not this sin to their charge,” and had then fallen asleep.

There was a palm leaf fastened over his breast.  In its long leaflets five knots were made.  On the body, in the head, the side, and the legs were five wounds.  And five men in Fiji were at work in the plantations—­men captured from Nukapu by brutal white traders.

It was the vengeance of the savage—­the call of “blood for blood”; and the death of Patteson lies surely upon the head of those white traders who carried death and captivity to the white coral shore of Nukapu.

FOOTNOTES: 

[Footnote 32:  Noo-k[)a]-poo.]

[Footnote 33:  Midsummer day on the Equator, September 21.]

CHAPTER XII