Now, on this morning the captain of the guard and his orderlies advanced to the waggon and stood in front of it.  They were splendid men, armed with great spears and shields, and adorned with feather head-dresses and all the wild finery of their regiment.  Owen descended from the waggon and came to meet them, and so for a few moments they remained, face to face, in silence.  A strange contrast they presented as they stood there; the bare-headed white man frail, delicate, spiritual of countenance, and the warriors great, grave, powerful, a very embodiment of the essence of untamed humanity, an incarnate presentation of the spirit of savage warfare.

“How are you named, White Man?” asked the captain.

“Chief, I am named Messenger.”

“The peace of the king be with you, Messenger,” said the captain, lifting his spear.

“The peace of God be with you, Chief,” answered Owen, holding up his hands in blessing.

“Who is God?” asked the captain.

“Chief, He is the King I serve, and His word is between my lips.”

“Then pass on, Messenger of God, and deliver the word of God your King into the ears of my king, at his Great Place yonder.  Pass on riding the beast you have brought with you, for the way is rough; but your waggon, your oxen, and your servants, save this man only who is of the Children of Fire, must stay here in my keeping.  Fear not, Messenger, I will hold them safe.”

“I do not fear, Chief, there is honour in your eyes.”

*****

Some hours later, Owen, mounted on his mule, was riding through the gorge, a guard in front of and behind him, and with them carriers who had been sent to bear his baggage.  At his side walked his disciple John, and his face was sad.

“Why are you still afraid?” asked Owen.

“Ah! father, because this is a place of fear.  Here in this valley men are led to die; presently you will see.”

“I have seen,” answered Owen.  “Yonder where we shall halt is a mount, and on that mount stands a tree; it is called the Tree of Death, and it stretches a thousand hands to Heaven, praying for mercy that does not come, and from its boughs there hangs fruit, a fruit of dead men—­yes, twenty of them hang there this day.”

“How know you these things, my father,” asked the man amazed, “seeing that I have never spoken to you of them?”

“Nay,” he answered, “God has spoken to me.  My God and your God.”

Another hour passed, and they were resting by the spring of water, near to the shadow of the dreadful tree, for in that gorge the sun burned fiercely.  John counted the bodies that swung upon it, and again looked fearfully at Owen, for there were twenty of them.

“I desire to go up to that tree,” Owen said to the guard.

“As you will, Messenger,” answered their leader; “I have no orders to prevent you from so doing.  Still,” he added with a solemn smile, “it is a place that few seek of their own will, and, because I like you well, Messenger, I pray it may never be my duty to lead you there of the king’s will.”