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.”
“For I am the champion of my land.”
“Give thanks! Give thanks! Give thanks!”
Next, a single voice arose out of the din, asking:
“Where is the brave man?”
A hundred voices bellowed the answer:
“Gone to be dragged into the oven and cooked.”
“Where is the coward?” the single voice demanded.
“Gone to report!” the hundred voices bellowed back. “Gone to report! Gone to report!”
Narau groaned in anguish of spirit. The words of the old song were true. He was the coward, and nothing remained to him but to go and report.
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