“Monsieur,” the Frenchman answered, shrugging his shoulders with an expression of utter impotence, “I have as good reasons for wishing to find out all that as even you can have. Your secret is my secret; but with all my pains and astuteness I have been unable to discover it.  The natives are reticent, very reticent indeed, about all these matters.  They fear taboo; and they fear Tu-Kila-Kila.  The women, to be sure, in a moment of expansion, might possibly tell one; but, then, the women, unfortunately, are not admitted to the mysteries.  They know no more of all these things than we do.  The most I have been able to gather for certain is this—­that on the discovery of the secret depend Tu-Kila-Kila’s life and power.  Every Boupari man knows this Great Taboo; it is communicated to him in the assembly of adults when he gets tattooed and reaches manhood.  But no Boupari man ever communicates it to strangers; and for that reason, perhaps, as I believe, Tu-Kila-Kila often chooses for Korong, as far as possible, those persons who are cast by chance upon the island.  It has always been the custom, so far as I can make out, to treat castaways or prisoners taken in war as gods, and then at the end of their term to kill them ruthlessly.  This plan is popular with the people at large, because it saves themselves from the dangerous honors of deification; but it also serves Tu-Kila-Kila’s purpose, because it usually elevates to Heaven those innocent persons who are unacquainted with that fatal secret which is, as the natives say, Tu-Kila-Kila’s death—­his word of dismissal.”

“Then if only we could find out this secret—­” Felix cried.

His new friend interrupted him.  “What hope is there of your finding it out, monsieur,” he exclaimed, “you, who have only a few months to live—­when I, who have spent nine long years of exile on the island, and seen two Tu-Kila-Kilas rise and fall, have been unable, with my utmost pains, to discover it? Tenez; you have no idea yet of the superstitions of these people, or the difficulties that lie in the way of fathoming them.  Come this way to my aviary; I will show you something that will help you to realize the complexities of the situation.”

He rose and led the way to another cleared space at the back of the hut, where several birds of gaudy plumage were fastened to perches on sticks by leathery lashes of dried shark’s skin, tied just above their talons.  “I am the King of the Birds, monsieur, you must remember,” the Frenchman said, fondling one of his screaming proteges.  “These are a few of my subjects.  But I do not keep them for mere curiosity.  Each of them is the Soul of the tribe to which it belongs.  This, for example—­my Cluseret—­is the Soul of all the gray parrots; that that you see yonder—­Badinguet, I call him—­is the Soul of the hawks; this, my Mimi, is the Soul of the little yellow-crested kingfisher.  My task as King of the Birds is to keep a representative of