“The price is, O Kalubi, that you hand over to us to be taken away the white woman who is called Mother of the Holy Flower, with her daughter——”
“And,” interrupted Stephen, to whom I had been interpreting, “the Holy Flower itself, all of it dug up by the roots.”
When he heard these modest requests the poor Kalubi became like one upon the verge of madness.
“Do you understand,” he gasped, “do you understand that you are asking for the gods of my country?”
“Quite,” replied Brother John with calmness; “for the gods of your country—nothing more nor less.”
The Kalubi made as though he would fly from the hut, but I caught him by the arm and said:
“See, friend, things are thus. You ask us, at great danger to ourselves, to kill one of the gods of your country, the highest of them, in order to save your life. Well, in payment we ask you to make a present of the remaining gods of your country, and to see us and them safe across the lake. Do you accept or refuse?”
“I refuse,” answered the Kalubi sullenly. “To accept would mean the last curse upon my spirit; that is too horrible to tell.”
“And to refuse means the first curse upon your body; namely, that in a few hours it must be broken and chewed by a great monkey which you call a god. Yes, broken and chewed, and afterwards, I think, cooked and eaten as a sacrifice. Is it not so?”
The Kalubi nodded his head and groaned.