Presently Terutak’ came, bringing Tamaiti along with him, both smiling; and we four squatted without the rail.  In the three maniap’s of the infirmary a certain audience was gathered:  the family of a sick child under treatment, the king’s sister playing cards, a pretty girl, who swore I was the image of her father; in all perhaps a score.  Terutak’s wife had returned (even as she had vanished) unseen, and now sat, breathless and watchful, by her husband’s side.  Perhaps some rumour of our quest had gone abroad, or perhaps we had given the alert by our unseemly freedom:  certain, at least, that in the faces of all present, expectation and alarm were mingled.

Captain Reid announced, without preface or disguise, that I was come to purchase; Terutak’, with sudden gravity, refused to sell.  He was pressed; he persisted.  It was explained we only wanted one:  no matter, two were necessary for the healing of the sick.  He was rallied, he was reasoned with:  in vain.  He sat there, serious and still, and refused.  All this was only a preliminary skirmish; hitherto no sum of money had been mentioned; but now the captain brought his great guns to bear.  He named a pound, then two, then three.  Out of the maniap’s one person after another came to join the group, some with mere excitement, others with consternation in their faces.  The pretty girl crept to my side; it was then that—­ surely with the most artless flattery—­she informed me of my likeness to her father.  Tamaiti the infidel sat with hanging head and every mark of dejection.  Terutak’ streamed with sweat, his eye was glazed, his face wore a painful rictus, his chest heaved like that of one spent with running.  The man must have been by nature covetous; and I doubt if ever I saw moral agony more tragically displayed.  His wife by his side passionately encouraged his resistance.

And now came the charge of the old guard.  The captain, making a skip, named the surprising figure of five pounds.  At the word the maniap’s were emptied.  The king’s sister flung down her cards and came to the front to listen, a cloud on her brow.  The pretty girl beat her breast and cried with wearisome iteration that if the box were hers I should have it.  Terutak’s wife was beside herself with pious fear, her face discomposed, her voice (which scarce ceased from warning and encouragement) shrill as a whistle.  Even Terutak’ lost that image-like immobility which he had hitherto maintained.  He rocked on his mat, threw up his closed knees alternately, and struck himself on the breast after the manner of dancers.  But he came gold out of the furnace; and with what voice was left him continued to reject the bribe.