priests and all their rascally and superstitious
brotherhood, we were by no means justified. They had not forgiven Bastin
his sacrilege or for his undermining of their authority by the preaching
of new doctrines which, if adopted, would destroy them as a hierarchy.
Nor had they forgiven Bickley for shooting one of their number, or any
of us for our escape from the vengeance of their god.

So it came about that they made a plot to seize us all and hale us off
to be sacrificed to a substituted image of Oro, which by now they had
set up. They knew exactly where we slept upon the rock; indeed, our fire
showed it to them and so far they were not afraid to venture, since here
they had been accustomed for generations to lay their offerings to
the god of the Mountain. Secretly on the previous night, without the
knowledge of Marama, they had carried two more canoes to the borders of
the lake. Now on this night, just as the moon was setting about three
in the morning, they made their attack, twenty-one men in all, for the
three canoes were large, relying on the following darkness to get us
away and convey us to the place of sacrifice to be offered up at dawn
and before Marama could interfere.

The first we knew of the matter, for most foolishly we had neglected to
keep a watch, was the unpleasant sensation of brawny savages kneeling on
us and trussing us up with palm-fibre ropes. Also they thrust handfuls
of dry grass into our mouths to prevent us from calling out, although as
air came through the interstices of the grass, we did not suffocate. The
thing was so well done that we never struck a blow in self-defence, and
although we had our pistols at hand, much less could we fire a shot. Of
course, we struggled as well as we were able, but it was quite useless;
in three minutes we were as helpless as calves in a net and like calves
were being conveyed to the butcher. Bastin managed to get the gag out
of his mouth for a few seconds, and I heard him say in his slow, heavy
voice:

"This, Bickley, is what comes of trafficking with evil spirits in museum
cases--" There his speech stopped, for the grass wad was jammed down his
throat again, but distinctly I heard the inarticulate Bickley snort
as he conceived the repartee he was unable to utter. As for myself, I
reflected that the business served us right for not keeping a watch, and
abandoned the issue to fate.

Still, to confess the truth, I was infinitely more sorry to die than I