"I leave the answer to my club," was the Buli's reply.

And to every point he made the same reply, at the same time watching
the missionary closely in order to forestall that cunning run-in under
the lifted club. Then, and for the first time, John Starhurst knew
that his death was at hand. He made no attempt to run in. Bareheaded,
he stood in the sun and prayed aloud--the mysterious figure of the
inevitable white man, who, with Bible, bullet, or rum bottle, has
confronted the amazed savage in his every stronghold. Even so stood
John Starhurst in the rock fortress of the Buli of Gatoka.

"Forgive them, for they know not what they do," he prayed. "O Lord!
Have mercy upon Fiji. Have compassion for Fiji. O Jehovah, hear us for
His sake, Thy Son, whom Thou didst give that through Him all men might
also become Thy children. From Thee we came, and our mind is that to
Thee we may return. The land is dark, O Lord, the land is dark. But
Thou art mighty to save. Reach out Thy hand, O Lord, and save Fiji,
poor cannibal Fiji."

The Buli grew impatient.

"Now will I answer thee," he muttered, at the same time swinging his
club with both hands.

Narau, hiding among the women and the mats, heard the impact of the
blow and shuddered. Then the death song arose, and he knew his beloved
missionary's body was being dragged to the oven as he heard the words:

"Drag me gently. Drag me gently."