Madder and wilder than ever, the savage pitched it away, yelling, rushed forward with a fierce curse on his angry tongue, and flung himself, tooth and nail, on his astonished opponent.

The suddenness of the onslaught almost took the Englishman’s breath away.  By this time, however, Felix had pulled together his ideas and taken in the situation.  Tu-Kila-Kila was attacking him now with his heavy stone axe.  He must parry those deadly blows.  He must be alert, but watchful.  He must put himself in a posture of defence at once.  Above all, he must keep cool and have his wits about him.

If he could but have drawn his knife, he would have stood a better chance in that hand-to-hand conflict.  But there was no time now for such tactics as those.  Besides, even in close fight with a bloodthirsty savage, an English gentleman’s sense of fair play never for one moment deserts him.  Felix felt, if they were to fight it out face to face for their lives, they should fight at least on a perfect equality.  Steel against stone was a mean advantage.  Parrying Tu-Kila-Kila’s first desperate blow with the haft of his own hatchet, he leaped aside half a second to gain breath and strength.  Then he rushed on, and dealt one deadly downstroke with the ponderous weapon.

For a minute or two they closed, in perfectly savage single combat.  Fire and Water, observant and impartial, stood by like seconds to see the god himself decide the issue, which of the two combatants should be his living representative.  The contest was brief but very hard-fought.  Tu-Kila-Kila, inspired with the last frenzy of despair, rushed wildly on his opponent with hands and fists, and teeth and nails, dealing his blows in blind fury, right and left, and seeking only to sell his life as dearly as possible.  In this last extremity, his very superstitions told against him.  Everything seemed to show his hour had come.  The parrot’s bite—­the omen of his own blood that stained the dust of earth—­Ula’s treachery—­the chance by which the Korong had learned the Great Taboo—­Felix’s accidental or providential success in breaking off the bough—­the length of time he himself had held the divine honors—­the probability that the god would by this time begin to prefer a new and stronger representative—­all these things alike combined to fire the drunk and maddened savage with the energy of despair.  He fell upon his enemy like a tiger upon an elephant.  He fought with his tomahawk and his feet and his whole lithe body; he foamed at the mouth with impotent rage; he spent his force on the air in the extremity of his passion.