“What is the matter?” I asked sternly of the chief.

“This, Friend-from-the-Sea.  The Bellower there, when the sacrifice was about to be offered to Oro at the dawn, rushed forward, and having thrust something between the legs of the image of the god, poured yellow water over it, and with fire caused it to burst into fierce flame.  Then he ran away and mocked the god who presently, with a loud report, flew into pieces and killed that man.  Therefore the Bellower must be sacrificed.”

“What to?” I asked.  “The image has gone and the piece of it that ascended fell not upon the Bellower, as would have happened if the god had been angry with him, but on one of its own priests, whom it killed.  Therefore, having been sacrificed by the god itself, he it is that should be eaten, not the Bellower, who merely did what his Spirit bade him.”

This ingenious argument seemed to produce some effect upon Marama, but to the priests it did not at all appeal.

“Eat them all!” these cried.  “They are the enemies of Oro and have worked sacrilege!”

Moreover, to judge from their demeanour, the bulk of the people seemed to agree with them.  Things began to look very ugly.  The priests rushed forward, threatening us with their wooden weapons, and one of them even aimed a blow at Bickley, which only missed him by an inch or two.

“Look here, my friend,” called the doctor whose temper was rising, “you name me the Great Priest or Great Healer, do you not?  Well, be careful, lest I should show you that I can kill as well as heal!”

Not in the least intimidated by this threat the man, a great bedizened fellow who literally was foaming at the mouth with rage, rushed forward again, his club raised, apparently with the object of dashing out Bickley’s brains.

Suddenly Bickley lifted his revolver and fired.  The man, shot through the heart, sprang into the air and fell upon his face—­ stone dead.  There was consternation, for these people had never seen us shoot anything before, and were quite unacquainted with the properties of firearms, which they supposed to be merely instruments for making a noise.  They stared, they gasped in fear and astonishment, and then they fled, pursued by Tommy, barking, leaving us alone with the two dead men.

“It was time to teach them a lesson,” said Bickley as he replaced the empty cartridge, and, seizing the dead man, rolled him into the burning pit.

“Yes,” I answered; “but presently, when they have got over their fright, they will come back to teach us one.”

Bastin said nothing; he seemed too dazed at the turn events had taken.

“What do you suggest?” asked Bickley.

“Flight,” I answered.

“Where to—­the ship?  We might hold that.”

“No; that is what they expect.  Look!  They are cutting off our road there.  To the island in the lake where they dare not follow us, for it is holy ground.”