Now cold was at many a heart, and shaking in many a seat; For there were the empty baskets, but who was to furnish the meat? For here was the nation assembled, and there were the ovens anigh, And out of a thousand singers nine were numbered to die. Till, of a sudden, a shock, a mace in the air, a yell, And, struck in the edge of the crowd, the first of the victims fell. {78} Terror and horrible glee divided the shrinking clan, Terror of what was to follow, glee for a diet of man. Frenzy hurried the chaunt, frenzy rattled the drums; The nobles, high on the terrace, greedily mouthed their thumbs; And once and again and again, in the ignorant crowd below, Once and again and again descended the murderous blow. Now smoked the oven, and now, with the cutting lip of a shell, A butcher of ninety winters jointed the bodies well. Unto the carven lodge, silent, in order due, The grandees of the nation one after one withdrew; And a line of laden bearers brought to the terrace foot, On poles across their shoulders, the last reserve of fruit. The victims bled for the nobles in the old appointed way; The fruit was spread for the commons, for all should eat to-day. And now was the kava brewed, and now the cocoa ran, Now was the hour of the dance for child and woman and man; And mirth was in every heart, and a garland on every head, And all was well with the living and well with the eight who were dead. Only the chiefs and the priest talked and consulted awhile: “To-morrow,” they said, and “To-morrow,” and nodded and seemed to smile: “Rua the child of dirt, the creature of common clay, Rua must die to-morrow, since Rua is gone to-day.” Out of the groves of the valley, where clear the blackbirds sang. Sheer from the trees of the valley the face of the mountain sprang; Sheer and bare it rose, unscalable barricade, Beaten and blown against by the generous draught of the trade. Dawn on its fluted brow painted rainbow light, Close on its pinnacled crown trembled the stars at night. Here and there in a cleft clustered contorted trees, Or the silver beard of a stream hung and swung in the breeze. High overhead, with a cry, the torrents leaped for the main, And silently sprinkled below in thin perennial rain. Dark in the staring noon, dark was Rua’s ravine, Damp and cold was the air, and the face of the cliffs was green. Here, in the rocky pit, accursed already of old, On a stone in the midst of a river, Rua sat and was cold. “Valley of mid-day shadows, valley of silent falls,” Rua sang, and his voice went hollow about the walls, “Valley of shadow and rock, a doleful prison to me, What is the life you can give to a child of the sun and the sea?”