Too-Keela-Keela. Whoever, then, being a full Korong,
breaks this off, hath thus possessed himself of the very god in person.
This, however, he must do by exceeding stealth; for Too-Keela-Keela,
or rather the man that bears that name, being the guardian and defender
of the great god, walks ever up and down, by day and by night, in
exceeding great cunning, armed with a spear and with a hatchet of stone,
around the root of the tree, watching jealously over the branch which is,
as he believes, his own soul and being. I, therefore, being warned of the
Taboo by the woman that was my consort, did craftily, near the appointed
time for my own death, creep out of my hut, and my consort, having
induced one of the wives of Too-Keela-Keela to make him drunken with too
much of that intoxicating drink which they do call kava, did proceed--did
proceed--did proceed--In the nineteenth year of the reign of his most
gracious majesty, King Charles the Second--"

Muriel bent forward once more in an agony of suspense. "Oh, go on, good
Poll!" she cried. "Go on. Remember it. Did proceed to--"

The single syllable helped Methuselah's memory. "--Did proceed to
stealthily pluck the bough, and, having shown the same to Fire and Water,
the guardians of the Taboo, did boldly challenge to single combat the
bodily tenement of the god, with spear and hatchet, provided for me in
accordance with ancient custom by Fire and Water. In which combat,
Heaven mercifully befriending me against my enemy, I did coom out
conqueror; and was thereupon proclaimed Too-Keela-Keela myself, with
ceremonies too many and barbarous to mention, lest I raise your gorge at
them. But that which is most important to tell you for your own guidance
and safety, O mariner, is this--that being the sole and only end I have
in imparting this history to so strange a messenger--that after you have
by craft plucked the sacred branch, and by force of arms over-cootn
Too-Keela-Keela, it is by all means needful, whether you will or not,
that submitting to the hateful and gentile custom of this people--of this
people--Pretty Poll! Pretty Poll! God save--God save the king! Death
to the nineteenth year of the reign of all arrant knaves and roundheads."

He dropped his head on his breast, and blinked his white eyelids more
feebly than ever. His strength was failing him fast. The Soul of all dead
parrots was wearing out. M. Peyron, who had stood by all this time, not
knowing in any way what might