ub and waited.

"In the first place, my death will profit you nothing," began the
argument.

"I leave the answer to my club," was the Buli's reply.

And to every point he made the same reply, at the same time watching the
missionary closely in order to forestall that cunning run-in under the
lifted club. Then, and for the first time, John Starhurst knew that his
death was at hand. He made no attempt to run in. Bareheaded, he stood in
the sun and prayed aloud--the mysterious figure of the inevitable white
man, who, with Bible, bullet, or rum bottle, has confronted the amazed
savage in his every stronghold. Even so stood John Starhurst in the rock
fortress of the Buli of Gatoka.

"Forgive them, for they know not what they do," he prayed. "O Lord! Have
mercy upon Fiji. Have compassion for Fiji. O Jehovah, hear us for His
sake, Thy Son, whom Thou didst give that through Him all men might also
become Thy children. From Thee we came, and our mind is that to Thee
we may return. The land is dark, O Lord, the land is dark. But Thou art
mighty to save. Reach out Thy hand, O Lord, and save Fiji, poor cannibal
Fiji."

The Buli grew impatient.

"Now will I answer thee," he muttered, at the same time swinging his
club with both hands.

Narau, hiding among the women and the mats, heard the impact of the
blow and shuddered. Then the death song arose, and he knew his beloved
missionary's body was being dragged to the oven as he heard the words:

"Drag me gently. Drag me gently."

"For I am the champion of my land."

"Give thanks! Give thanks! Give thanks!"

Next, a single voice arose out of the din, asking:

"Where is the brave man?"

A hundred voices bellowed the answer:

"Gone to be dragged into the oven and cooked."

"Where is the coward?" the single voice demanded.

"Gone to report!" the hundred voices bellowed back. "Gone to report!
Gone to report!"

Narau groaned in anguish of spirit. The words of the old song were true.
He was the coward, and nothing remained to him but to go and report.

MAUKI

He weighed one hundred and ten pounds. His hair was kinky and negroid,
and he was black. He was peculiarly black. He was neither blue-black nor
purple-black, but plum-black. His name was Mauki, and he was the son
of a chief. He had three tambos. Tambo is Melanesian for taboo, and
is first cousin to that Polynesian word. Mauki's three tambos were
as follows: First, he must never shake hands with a woman, nor