again and renew their paroxysms of
ungainly prayer. From the hands of the orchid-bearers they took the
heaps of blooms, and piled them at a distance from the shrine. The young
men who had been so signally honored withdrew from the holy of holies.
Only the high priests and the king were left with me in the sacred
arena.

For a time I stood dumbly looking on, then the idea percolated into my
confused understanding. I realized that at best I was only a demi-god,
perhaps a sort of super-high-priest, but no god. These ambassadors
extraordinary had come not to me but to The Lady of the Portrait.

I lifted up my voice for attention, and from their kneeling postures
they regarded me with grave reverence. I took my place, with bowed head,
before the portrait and addressed the lady in tones of deep solemnity.
It seemed to me that her delicate mouth line quivered with amusement, as
though she and I had between us a delicious secret.

"Frances! Frances! Frances!" I declaimed with the deep profundity of a
ritual. "I have failed totally and signally at the god job. There is in
all this world of sky and sea and of my heart but one deity. It was you
who struck down with a thunderbolt the sacrilegious, false priest. It
was you who saved me from death and raised me to the high estate of your
vicegerent." I paused and went on more seriously: "It is you whom these
people worship with idolatry--and of them all, none worships you so
wholly as I, your priest!" And though I was declaiming before a lifeless
image to impress ignorant cannibals, I meant it. When I had finished
there rose a devout murmur from the blacks, and with a motion to them to
remain, I went into the cave and came out again with the small Japanese
burner and a taper of incense. As the heavy fragrance of the burning
stuff spread itself upon the air, their wonder grew.

[Illustration: "Frances! Frances! Frances!" I declaimed with the deep
profundity of a ritual.]

At length I wheeled and pointed back to the jungle. Slowly, reluctantly,
but with perfect obedience, the wild bush men took up their backward
journey to relate the unbelievable tale of their reception.

CHAPTER XII

PORT AND STARBOARD LIGHTS

There are men whose lives develop in gradations of gentle growth. Decade
merges into decade by unstartling evolution. Variations of thread and
color run smoothly into the life-pattern. With me it has been otherwise.
The constantly recurring dream of the portal