returned Ravonino, sadly, "Not even for you, Ebony,
because you are only a black man. But they won't kill _you_, sir, or
Hockins. They know better than to risk the consequences of putting a
British subject to death. For the rest of us--our doom is sealed."

"If the Lord wills it so," remarked Laihova, quietly.

"How do you know that the Lord wills it so?" demanded a voice fiercely,
and a man who had hitherto sat still with his face buried in his hands
looked up. It was the stout chief Voalavo, all whose fun of disposition
seemed to have been turned to fury. "You all speak as if you were
already dead men! Are we not alive? Have we not stout hearts and
strong limbs? While life remains there is hope!"

He leaped up as he spoke and began to wrench at his chain like a
maddened tiger, until blood spurted from his wrists and the swollen
veins stood out like cords from his neck and forehead. But iron proved
tougher than flesh. He sank down, exhausted, with a deep groan--yet
even in his agony of rage the strong man murmured as he fell, "Lord
forgive me!"

While the men conversed, and Ebony sought to soothe Voalavo, with whom
he had strong sympathy most of the poor women opposite were seated in a
state of quiet resignation. Some there were, however, who could not
bring their minds to contemplate with calmness the horrible fate that
they knew too well awaited them, while others seemed to forget
themselves in their desire to comfort their companions. Among the timid
ones was pretty little Ra-Ruth. Perhaps her vivid imagination enabled
her to realise more powerfully the terrors of martyrdom. It may be that
her delicately-strung nerves shrank more sensitively from the prospect,
but in spite of her utmost efforts to be brave she trembled violently
and was pale as death. Yet she did not murmur, she only laid her head
on the sympathetic bosom of her queen-like friend Ramatoa, who seemed to
her a miracle of strength and resignation.

In a short time the door of the prison opened, and a party of armed men
entered with Silver Spear, or Hater of Lies, at their head. An
involuntary shudder ran through the group of captives as the man
advanced and looked round.

"Which is Razafil?" demanded Hater of Lies.

The poet rose promptly. "Here I am," he said, looking boldly at the
officer. Then, glancing upwards, and in a voice of extreme tenderness,
he said, "Now, my sweet Raniva, I will soon join you!"

"Ramatoa--which i