and with friends, some of
whom had been long since dead. Then they returned to the ruined cities
of this wild land. Had they any affinity to those found in Mexico? he
asked himself. No, they must be Egyptian.

Suddenly a wild shout burst on his ear, a crashing blow, a whizzing in
the ears, and all was darkness. The missionary lay stretched beside the
embers of the fire.

How long he remained insensible on the ground Wyzinski never knew, but
the grey dawn was just breaking as he struggled back to consciousness,
to find his arms tightly and painfully bound behind his back, his head
splitting with pain, while the clearing seemed filled with the dark
forms of the Amatongas, seated in a circle, and evidently debating on
their prisoner's fate. As he lay there on his back, barely able to turn
his head, his open eyes gazing upwards at the stars, whose feeble light
was just paling before the first grey streaks of dawn, a black mass
intervened between him and the blue sky. It was a woman's head, the
long hair told him this much, but the face was that of a demon; the
beadlike eyes which peered into his flashing with malicious hatred; the
thick lips parted, showing the yellow teeth clenched with passion; the
flat nostrils distended with rage, and the hair, matted with grease and
dirt, sweeping his face as she bent over him.

It was a face he knew, for it was that of the dead chief's wife; and as
the missionary closed his eyes to shut out the horrid vision, the hag,
seeing he had again become conscious, uttered a piercing yell, and
dashed into the middle of the council ring, chattering in a shrill and
parrot-like voice. The missionary's eyes remained closed, for he felt
his position was hopeless, and what at this moment grieved him more was,
that by his negligent watch he had sacrificed his friend. If he had
been struck down and made prisoner with his rifle in his hand and wide
awake, what chance was there for the sleeping soldier? He knew he
should, after the fashion of this tribe, be tortured; he prayed for
firmness to meet his doom, but he thought with agony of what had been
his comrade's fate during the hours he himself lay insensible and
apparently dead.

A rude stroke from the sharp point of an Amatonga spear roused him, and
in obedience to the command he endeavoured to struggle to his feet.
Unable to effect this, two of his captors roughly seized him, dragging
him up. The dawn was just lighting up the scene, as