ON THE ISLAND.

At Tanaki meanwhile, as we afterwards learned by inquiry among the islanders, things had been going on with the unhappy missionary very much as our worst fears had led us to expect. Though I wasn't there at the time to see for myself, I got to know what happened a little later almost as well as if I'd been on the spot; so I shall take the liberty once more—not being one of these book-making chaps—of telling my story my own way, and explaining how matters went in rough sailor fashion, without trying to let you know in detail how we found it all out till I come to explain the upshot of our present adventures.

Well, on the night when Martin and Jack stole away from the hut and got clear off on their venturesome journey in the mission boat, their father and mother, with little Calvin, who was eight years old, and Miriam, who was a pretty wee lassie of three, were heavily guarded by half a dozen desperate and drunken savages in the temple-tomb of the deceased Taranaka. It was a thatched native grass-house, with a bare mud floor, and a rough altar-slab raised high on the threshold, which covered the remains of the blood-thirsty old chieftain—the man who in his early youth had seen "Capitaney Cook" when he discovered the islands. The Melanesian natives, I ought to tell you, regard their dead ancestors as a sort of gods or guardian spirits, and frequently offer up food and drink at their graves as presents to appease them. Every morning gifts of taro, bread-fruit, and plantain were laid on the altar by Taranaka's tomb; and once every ten days a little square gin, mixed with cocoa-milk, was poured out upon the rude slab of unsculptured stone, that the dead chief's ghost might come to drink of it and be satisfied. Wednesday the tenth was the anniversary of Taranaka's death (he had been killed in a fight with some neighboring islanders, who fell out with him over the wreck of an American whaling vessel), and it was on that festival day that the chief proposed offering up the blood of our fellow-countrymen as an expiation to the shades of his departed relative.

Macglashin and his wife never even knew that the boys had escaped. If they had, those long days of suspense might have been even worse for them. They might have been looking forward with mad hope to some miracle of rescue such as that which the Albatross had so boldly planned, and which had been so cruelly interfered with by the breakdown of our machinery. As it was, the savages carefully kept from them all knowledge of their boys' escape. They never even breathed a hint of that desperate voyage. Every day, on the contrary, when they brought the unhappy missionary and his wife their daily rations of yam and banana, they taunted them with threats of what tortures the Chief had still in store for Jack and Martin. They were fatting them up, they said, for Taranaka to feed upon. On Taranaka's day they would be offered up as victims on the cannibal altar.

But the most terrible part of all the poor father and mother's sufferings was the fact that they couldn't keep the knowledge of that awful fate in store for them even from Calvin and pretty little Miriam. Macglashin's diary, which I read later on, was just heartrending about the children. Those helpless mites cowered all day long on the bare mud floor of that hideous temple, awaiting the horrible doom that the savages held out before them with the painful resignation of innocent childhood. They were too frightened to cry over it; too frightened to talk of it; they only crouched pale and terrified by their mother's side, and dragged out the long day in horrible apprehensions. They knew they must die, and they sat there watching for that inevitable sentence to be carried out with the stoical fortitude of utter childish helplessness. Well, there—I'm an old hand on the sea, you know, and I don't mind the dangers of the wind and waves for grown men and boys that can look after themselves, any more than most of you land-folks mind dodging about in the Strand at Charing Cross on a crowded afternoon in the London season; but I can't bear to talk or even to think of what those poor children suffered all those terrible days in the heathen tomb-house. There are things that make a man's blood run cold to speak about. That makes mine run cold: I can't dwell on it any longer; it's too ghastly to realize.

So there—the days went by, one after another; and Monday the eighth came, and Tuesday the ninth, and still no chance of escape or rescue. Up to the last moment, Macglashin hoped (as he says in the diary) that some miracle might occur to set them free, some interposition of Providence on their behalf to prevent the last misfortune from overtaking his poor pallid little Miriam. Perhaps the mission ship, that went her rounds twice a year, might happen to put in, out of due season, with some special message or under stress of weather; or perhaps some whaling vessel or some English gunboat might arrive in the nick of time in the little harbor of Tanaki. But when Tuesday evening came, and no help had arrived, the unhappy man's heart sank within him. He gave up that last wild hope of a rescue at the eleventh hour, and addressed himself to die with what courage he could muster.

Ah yes, to die one's self is all easy enough; nobody worth his salt minds that; but to see one's wife and children murdered before one's eyes—there, I'm a rough sort of sailor-body, as I said before, but you must excuse my breaking off. I haven't got the strength to hold my pen and write about it. Why, I've a boy of my own at school at Sydney, and my Mary's in England, bless her little heart! at a lady's college they call it nowadays; and I know what it means; I know what it means, gentlemen. I'd no more expose those two dear children in the places I've been among the islands myself, than—well, than I'd send them to sea alone in a cock-boat. And my heart just bleeds for that poor father at Tanaki, when I read his diary over again, though I haven't got the skill to put it all down in words at full length as one of those fellows would do that write for the newspapers.

However, on Tuesday night, neither Macglashin himself nor Mrs. Macglashin could get a wink of sleep, as you may easily imagine. They sat up in the temple, with their backs against the wall, and relays of black fellows, armed with Sniders, and smeared with red paint, watching them closely all the while, to see they didn't escape or try to do away with themselves. But Calvin fell asleep out of pure fatigue on his mother's lap, and Miriam, poor little soul, lay against her father's shoulder, dozing as peacefully as ever she dozed in her own small cot at the mission-house, where she was born. Once the thought came into her father's mind, oughtn't he to twist his handkerchief round her soft little throat, as she lay there all unconscious in his circling arms, to save her from the tender mercies of those cruel black savages? How could he tell what torments they might inflict upon her? Wasn't it better she should be spared all that horror of fear? Wasn't it better she should just sleep away her dear little life without ever knowing it, till she woke next morning in a happier and a brighter country? But in another minute his heart recoiled from the terrible thought. While there was still one chance of safety he must let things take their course. Perhaps even those black monsters might have pity at the last on that one ewe lamb. Perhaps they might spare his Miriam's life, and make her over to the mission-ship when it next arrived on its rounds at the island.

All that night long the savages, for their part, were holding a sing-sing, as they call it, close by, and the hideous noise of their heathenish revels could be distinctly heard by the watchers in the temple. They danced to the music of their hollow drums, while the shells upon their ankles resounded in unison. At times the echo of horrible laughter fell harsh upon the ear. The natives, covered with red feathers and smeared with blood, were keeping high festival, as is their horrid custom. And as the long hours wore away, the din of their revelry became more wild in their orgies each moment.

Morning dawned at last—the morning of Wednesday the tenth, when that awful deed of bloodshed was to be done before the open eye of heaven; and with the first streak of light the poor children awoke and gazed around them blankly at their temple prison. The black watchers brought them yam and mammee-apples once more, but they couldn't eat; they sat bewildered and mute, with their hands clasped in their parents' palms, waiting for the end, and too dazed and terrified almost to know what was passing.

About six o'clock the Chief came down to the temple, with bloodshot eyes and tottering feet, attended by half a dozen naked black followers. They had all been drinking the greater part of the night at the sing-sing, for the Frenchmen had left plenty of square gin behind; and they rollicked in the cruel good-humor of the born savage.

"How do, Macglashin?" the Chief inquired with a hateful leer. "How do, white woman? Taranaka day come at last. How you like him this morning? What for you no tell man a Tanaki sooner you don't know Englishman? Ha! ha! dat true; so him see. Queenie England no care for Scotchman."

"If you dare to touch a hair of our heads," Macglashin cried in his despair, rising up and facing the savage angrily, "sooner or later, I tell you, the Queen of England will hear of it, and she'll send a gunboat to punish you for our death, and her sailors'll shoot you all down for your part in this murder."

The Chief laughed—a wild, horrible, barbaric laugh. "Ha! ha!" he answered. "Dat all very fine for try frighten me. But man a oui-oui tell me you no true Englishman. You speakee English, but you Scotchman born. All samee American. Queenie England no care for American, no care for Scotch; no send her gunboat for look after Scotchman. Man a Tanaki go for eat you to-day, for do honor to ghost a Taranaka."

Macglashin saw that words would produce no effect upon the tipsy and excited wretch; he must make up his mind for the worst. There was no help for it.

"At least," he cried, "Chief, you'll let us say good-by to our boys before we die? You'll bring them in for their mother and me to take our last farewell of them?"

The Chief shook his head and made a hideous grimace. "No say good-by to boys," he said, with horrible glee. "Man a Tanaki kill pig all night; kill Scotchman in morning. Kill baby first; then boy; then mother. Last of all, kill you yourself, Macglashin. Taranaka very much love white man's blood. Great day to-day for feast for Taranaka." And he went off again, grinning in hideous buffoonery, while Macglashin's soul seethed in speechless indignation.

For half an hour more they were left undisturbed. Then the Chief appeared at the door once more, and beckoning with his long black forefinger, called to the missionary—

"Come out, Macglashin!"

The unhappy man strode out with little Miriam half-fainting in his arms.

"Come out, white woman!" the savage cried once more.

The pale mother, almost unable to totter with terror, made her way to the door, with Calvin's fingers intertwined in her own.

"Now, white people, we going to shoot you," the savage continued, unabashed. "You make too much trouble for man a Tanaki. Interfere too much with man who sell him boy or him woman. Me don't going to kill you with axe, like Taranaka kill first missionary that come a Tanaki. Man a oui-oui sell me plenty Snider. Man a Tanaki want to try him shooting-irons. Set you up to run, and then go fire at you."

At the word he nodded, and four stalwart savages caught Macglashin in their arms and held him to a line drawn lightly in the dust by the Chief's stick. At the same moment four others caught his unhappy wife, and dragged her, half senseless, to the self-same line. The two children were ranged by their sides, pale and white with terror. Then the Chief walked forward, and drew another line some forty yards in front of them with his stick again. "When Chief call 'go,'" he called out, "man a Tanaki let go missionary, and boy, and white woman. Missionary run till him reach dis line. Man a Tanaki no shoot till missionary pass dis line. Den man a Tanaki fire; missionary run; man a Tanaki run after missionary to kill him. Whoever shoot missionary or white woman first, give him body up in temple to Taranaka."

As he spoke, the savages ranged themselves behind, Sniders in hand. The Chief placed himself in order at their head on the right. Then he called out in Kanaka, "When I give the word—'one, two, three'—loose them! When I give the word Fire! off with your rifles at them."

There was a deadly pause. All was still as death. Then the Chief cried aloud, "One—two—three—loose them!" and the savages loosed the poor terrified Europeans.

Even in that supreme moment of agony and doubt, however, one thought kept rising ever in the father's and mother's heart. What had become of Jack and Martin?