“Eat them all!” these cried. “They are the enemies of Oro and have worked sacrilege!” Moreover, to judge from their demeanour, the bulk of the people seemed to agree with them. Things began to look very ugly. The priests rushed forward, threatening us with their wooden weapons, and one of them even aimed a blow at Bickley, which only missed him by an inch or two. “Look here, my friend,” called the doctor whose temper was rising, “you name me the Great Priest or Great Healer, do you not? Well, be careful, lest I should show you that I can kill as well as heal!” Not in the least intimidated by this threat the man, a great bedizened fellow who literally was foaming at the mouth with rage, rushed forward again, his club raised, apparently with the object of dashing out Bickley’s brains. Suddenly Bickley lifted his revolver and fired. The man, shot through the heart, sprang into the air and fell upon his face—stone dead. There was consternation, for these people had never seen us shoot anything before, and were quite unacquainted with the properties of firearms, which they supposed to be merely instruments for making a noise. They stared, they gasped in fear and astonishment, and then they fled, pursued by Tommy, barking, leaving us alone with the two dead men. “It was time to teach them a lesson,” said Bickley as he replaced the empty cartridge, and, seizing the dead man, rolled him into the burning pit. “Yes,” I answered; “but presently, when they have got over their fright, they will come back to teach us one.” Bastin said nothing; he seemed too dazed at the turn events had taken. “What do you suggest?” asked Bickley. “Flight,” I answered. “Where to—the ship? We might hold that.” “No; that is what they expect. Look! They are cutting off our road there. To the island in the lake where they dare not follow us, for it is holy ground.” “How are we going to live on the island?” asked Bickley. “I don’t know,” I replied; “but I am quite certain that if we stay here we shall die.” “Very well,” he said; “let us try it.” While we were speaking I was cutting Bastin’s bonds. “Thank you,” he said. “It is a great relief to stretch one’s arms after they have been compressed with cords. But at the same time, I do not know that I am really grateful. The martyr’s crown was hanging above me, so to speak, and now it has vanished into the pit, like that man whom Bickley murdered.” “Look here,” exclaimed the exasperated Bickley, “if you say much more, Bastin, I’ll chuck you into the pit too, to look for your martyr’s crown, for I think you have done enough mischief for one morning.” “If you are trying to shift the responsibility for that unfortunate man’s destruction on to me—” “Oh! shut it and trot,” broke in Bickley. “Those infernal savages are coming with your blessed converts leading the van.”