Felix went back to the hut to inform Muriel of this new peril thus suddenly sprung upon them.  Poor Muriel, now almost worn out with endless terrors, received it calmly.  “I’m growing accustomed to it all, Felix,” she answered, resignedly.  “If only I know that you will keep your promise, and never let me fall alive into these wretches’ hands, I shall feel quite safe.  Oh, Felix, do you know when you took me in your arms like that last night, in spite of everything, I felt positively happy.”

About ten o’clock they were suddenly roused by a sound of many natives, coming in quick succession, single file, to the huts, and shouting aloud, “Oh, King of the Rain, oh, Queen of the Clouds, come forth for our vows!  Receive your presents!”

Felix went forth to the door to look.  With a warning look in his eyes, his Shadow followed him.  The natives were now coming up by dozens at a time, bringing with them, in great arm-loads, fallen cocoanuts and breadfruits, and branches of bananas, and large draggled clusters of half-ripe plantains.

“Why, what are all these?” Felix exclaimed in surprise.

His Shadow looked up at him, as if amused at the absurd simplicity of the question.  “These are yours, of course,” he said; “yours and the Queen’s; they are the windfalls you made.  Did you not knock them all off the trees for yourselves when you were coming down in such sheets from the sky last evening?”

Felix wrung his hands in positive despair.  It was clear, indeed, that to the minds of the natives there was no distinguishing personally between himself and Muriel, and the rain or the cyclone.

“Will they bring them all in?” he asked, gazing in alarm at the huge pile of fruits the natives were making outside the huts.

“Yes, all,” the Shadow answered; “they are vows; they are godsends; but if you like, you can give some of them back.  If you give much back, of course it will make my people less angry with you.”

Felix advanced near the line, holding his hand up before him to command silence.  As he did so, he was absolutely appalled himself at the perfect storm of execration and abuse which his appearance excited.  The foremost natives, brandishing their clubs and stone-tipped spears, or shaking their fists by the line, poured forth upon his devoted head at once all the most frightful curses of the Polynesian vocabulary.  “Oh, evil god,” they cried aloud with angry faces, “oh, wicked spirit! you have a bad heart.  See what a wrong you have purposely done us.  If your heart were not bad, would you treat us like this?  If you are indeed a god, come out across the line, and let us try issues together.  Don’t skulk like a coward in your hut and within your taboo, but come out and fight us. We are not afraid, who are only men.  Why are you afraid of us?”