It was a reflected light, flashing from the island straight in the captain’s eyes, small and insignificant as to size, but strong for all that in the full tropical sunshine, and glittering like a diamond from a vague elevation near the centre of the island.

“Seems to come and go in regular order,” the passenger observed, reflectively, withdrawing his cigar.  “Looks for all the world just like naval signalling.”

The captain paused, and shaded his eyes a moment.  “Hanged if that isn’t just what it is,” he answered, slowly.  “It’s a rigged-up heliograph, and they’re using the Morse code; dash my eyes if they aren’t.  Well, this is civilization!  What the dickens can have come to the island of Boupari?  There isn’t a darned European soul in the place, nor ever has been.  Anchorage unsafe; no harbor; bad reef; too small for missionaries to make a living, and natives got nothing worth speaking of to trade in.”

“What do they say?” the passenger asked, with suddenly quickened interest.

“How the devil should I tell you yet, sir?” the captain retorted with choleric grumpiness.  “Don’t you see I’m spelling it out, letter by letter?  O, r, e, s, c, u, e, u, s, c, o, m, e, w, e, l, l, a, r, m, e, d—­Yes. yes, I twig it.”  And the captain jotted it down in his note-book for some seconds, silently.

“Run up the flag there,” he shouted, a moment later, rushing hastily forward.  “Stop her at once, Walker.  Easy, easy.  Get ready the gig.  Well, upon my soul, there is a rum start anyway.”

“What does the message say?” the passenger inquired, with intense surprise.

“Say?  Well, there’s what I make it out,” the captain answered, handing him the scrap of paper on which he had jotted down the letters.  “I missed the beginning, but the end’s all right.  Look alive there, boys, will you.  Bring out the Winchester.  Take cutlasses, all hands.  I’ll go along myself in her.”

The passenger took the piece of paper on which he read, “and send a boat to rescue us.  Come well armed.  Savages on guard.  Thurstan, Ellis.”

In less than three minutes the boat was lowered and manned, and the captain, with the Winchester six-shooter by his side, seated grim in the stern, took command of the tiller.

On the island it was the first day of Felix and Muriel’s imprisonment in the dusty precinct of Tu-Kila-Kila’s temple.  All the morning through, they had sat under the shade of a smaller banyan in the outer corner; for Muriel could neither enter the noisome hut nor go near the great tree with the skeletons on its branches; nor could she sit where the dead savage’s body, still festering in the sun, attracted the buzzing blue flies by thousands, to drink up the blood that lay thick on the earth in a pool around it.  Hard by, the natives sat, keen as lynxes, in a great circle just outside the white taboo-line, where, with serried spears, they kept watch and ward over the persons of their doubtful gods or victims.  M. Peyron, alone preserving his equanimity under these adverse circumstances, hummed low to himself in very dubious tones; even he felt his French gayety had somewhat forsaken him; this revolution in Boupari failed to excite his Parisian ardor.