be the value of the bird's disclosures,
came forward and stroked poor Methuselah with his caressing hand. But
Methuselah was incapable now of any further effort. He opened his blind
eyes sleepily for the last, last time, and stared around him with a blank
stare at the fading universe. "God save the king!" he screamed aloud with
a terrible gasp, true to his colors still. "God save the king, and to
hell with all papists!"

Then he fell off his perch, stone dead, on the ground. They were never to
hear the conclusion of that strange, quaint message from a forgotten age
to our more sceptical century.

Felix looked at Muriel, and Muriel looked at Felix. They could hardly
contain themselves with awe and surprise. The parrot's words were so
human, its speech was so real to them, that they felt as though the
English Tu-Kila-Kila of two hundred years back had really and truly
been speaking to them from that perch; it was a human creature indeed
that lay dead before them. Felix raised the warm body from the ground
with positive reverence. "We will bury it decently," he said in French,
turning to M. Peyron. "He was a plucky bird, indeed, and he has carried
out his master's intentions nobly."

As they spoke, a little rustling in the jungle hard by attracted their
attention. Felix turned to look. A stealthy brown figure glided away in
silence through the tangled brushwood. M. Peyron started. "We are
observed, monsieur," he said. "We must look out for squalls! It is one
of the Eyes of Tu-Kila-Kila!"

"Let him do his worst!" Felix answered. "We know his secret now, and can
protect ourselves against him. Let us return to the shade, monsieur, and
talk this all over. Methuselah has indeed given us something to-day very
serious to think about."

CHAPTER XXV.

TU-KILA-KILA STRIKES.

And yet, when all was said and done, knowledge of Tu-Kila-Kila's secret
didn't seem to bring Felix and Muriel much nearer a solution of their own
great problems than they had been from the beginning. In spite of all
Methuselah had told them, they were as far off as ever from securing
their escape, or even from the chance of sighting an English steamer.

This last was still the main hope and expectation of all three Europeans.
M. Peyron, who was a bit of a mathematician, had accurately calculated
the time, from what Felix told him, when the Australasian would pass
again on her next homeward voyage; and, when that time arrived, it was
their unite