"It is too late," said Erirola. "Listen! He comes now."

Breaking through the thicket of brush, John Starhurst, with Narau
close on his heels, strode upon the scene. The famous boots, having
filled in wading the stream, squirted fine jets of water at every
step. Starhurst looked about him with flashing eyes. Upborne by an
unwavering trust, untouched by doubt or fear, he exulted in all he
saw. He knew that since the beginning of time he was the first white
man ever to tread the mountain stronghold of Gatoka.

The grass houses clung to the steep mountain side or overhung the
rushing Rewa. On either side towered a mighty precipice. At the best,
three hours of sunlight penetrated that narrow gorge. No cocoanuts nor
bananas were to be seen, though dense, tropic vegetation overran
everything, dripping in airy festoons from the sheer lips of the
precipices and running riot in all the crannied ledges. At the far end
of the gorge the Rewa leaped eight hundred feet in a single span,
while the atmosphere of the rock fortress pulsed to the rhythmic
thunder of the fall.

From the Buli's house, John Starhurst saw emerging the Buli and his
followers.

"I bring you good tidings," was the missionary's greeting.

"Who has sent you?" the Buli rejoined quietly.

"God."