Then suddenly Bastin took up his parable in the Polynesian tongue which--to a certain extent--he had acquired with so much pains.
"What is this place called ?" he asked slowly and distinctly, pausing between each word.
His audience shook their heads and he tried again, putting the accents on different syllables.

Behold! some bright spirit understood him and answered: "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: "I am Marama, the chief of Orofena.