Then, having
done so, they never strove for a moment to stanch the wound, but let
the red drops fall as they would on to the dust at their feet, without
seeming even to be conscious at all of the fact that they were flowing.
Tu-Kila-Kila smiled once more, a ghastly self-satisfied smile of
unquestioned power. "It is well," he went on. "My people love me. They
know my strength, how I can wither them up. They give me their blood to
drink freely. So I will be merciful to them. I will make my sun shine and
my rain drop from heaven. And instead of taking _all_, I will choose one
victim." He paused, and glanced along their line significantly.
"Choose, Tu-Kila-Kila," the men answered, without a moment's hesitation.
"We are all your meat. Choose which one you will take of us."
Tu-Kila-Kila walked with a leisurely tread down the lines and surveyed
the men critically. They were all drawn up in rows, one behind the other,
according to tribes and families; and the god walked along each row,
examining them with a curious and interested eye, as a farmer examines
sheep fit for the market. Now and then, he felt a leg or an arm with his
finger and thumb, and hesitated a second. It was an important matter,
this choosing a victim. As he passed, a close observer might have noted
that each man trembled visibly while the god's eye was upon him, and
looked after him askance with a terrified sidelong gaze as he passed on
to his neighbor.
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