"Orofena."

"That means a hill, or an island, or a hill in an island,"
whispered Bickley to me.

"Who is your God?" asked Bastin again.

The point seemed one upon which they were a little doubtful,
but at last the chief answered, "Oro. He who fights."

"In other words, Mars," said Bickley.

"I will give you a better one," said Bastin in the same slow
fashion.

Thinking that he referred to himself these children of Nature
contemplated his angular form doubtfully and shook their heads.
Then for the first time one of the men who was wearing a mask and
a wicker crate on his head, spoke in a hollow voice, saying:

"If you try Oro will eat you up."

"Head priest!" said Bickley, nudging me. "Old Bastin had better
be careful or he will get his teeth into him and call them
Oro's."

Another pause, after which the man in a feather cloak with the
growth on his neck that a servant was supporting, said: