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The villagers and their guests were still in the midst of the feast, and the arrack had not yet begun to stimulate their imaginations, so that the deeds of their ancestors—which formed the chief subject of conversation—were still being recounted with some regard to modesty and truth, when Voalavo said to the assemblage, with a beaming countenance, that he had a treat in store for them.
 
“You are all fond of music,” he said. “Who does not know that the Malagasy are good singers? The songs you have already sung have delighted my ears, and the clapping of your hands has been in the best of time; but you shall soon have music such as the idols would enjoy, I have no doubt, when in a merry mood.”
 
The chief uttered the last sentence with an air of good-natured contempt, for he was what we may style an unbeliever in all gods—not an uncommon state of mind in men of superior intelligence when they think seriously of the debasing absurdities of idolatry.
 
“Now, my friend,” he said, turning to John Hockins, with an air and tone of command, “let them hear the little pipe on which you—you—tootle-ootle.”
 
Hockins had much ado to keep his gravity as he drew out the flageolet, and every eye was instantly fixed on him in glaring expectancy.
 
It need hardly be said that the effect of the sweet instrument was very powerful, and it is probable that the party of admirers might have taxed the seaman’s powers of performance to the uttermost, if they had not been suddenly interrupted by the entrance of a tall wild-looking man, who was evidently in a state of tremendous excitement.
 
He wore the usual cloth round the loins, and the lamba, which was thrown like a Scottish chieftain’s plaid over his left shoulder—but these garments bore evidence of rough usage and hard travel. The man was not a stranger, for, as he suddenly stood panting vehemently in the midst of the party, with his long arms outstretched, Voalavo addressed him in tones of surprise.
 
“Razafil!” he exclaimed. “Glad are we to see the Bard of Imarina. Your coming is well-timed. We are feasting, and singing, and story-telling. Words from the poet will be welcome.”
 
Notwithstanding the friendly reception thus accorded to the Bard of Imarina, it was evident that the words were thrown away upon him, for he continued for some time to glare and pant while perspiration rolled down his face, and it became clear to every one that something was wrong with him. At last he spoke in a kind of low singing tone which harmonised with his appearance—
 
    “Vain man! Observ’st thou not the dead?
    The morning warmth from them has fled,
    Their mid-day joy and toil are o’er,
    Though near, they meet fond friends no more.”
 
He paused and looked wildly yet tremblingly round, as if in search of some one, but took no notice of his friends, many of whom were present at the gathering. Then he continued in the same strain—
 
    “A gate of entrance to the tomb we see,
    But a departure thence there ne’er shall be.
        The living waves his signal high,
        But where’s the loved one’s fond reply?
        Ah! where are those thus doomed to die?
     
    “Vain man! observ’st thou not the dead?
    No more their homeward path they tread.
    The freeman lost may ransom’d be,
    By silver’s magic power set free;
    But, once the deadly hand has laid them low,
    No voice can move them, for they cease to know.
        Regardless of our love they lie;
        Unknown the friends that o’er them sigh;
        Oh! where are those thus doom’d to die?”
 
Again the poor man paused, and gasped as if some terrible agony were rending his bosom, yet no tear moistened his eyes, from which there seemed to gleam the wild light of insanity. His appearance and words had sunk like a pall upon the festive party, but no one spoke or moved. It was as if they were spell-bound. Once more the poet spoke, and this time in tones of deepest pathos—
 
    “Vain man! why groan ye for the dead?
    To be with Jesus they have fled,
    With shattered limbs—’mid scorching flame,
    They sang the praises of His name;
    Now, joy unspeakable, they tread the shore
    Whence ransom’d sinners shall depart no more.
        But ah! while mangled corpses lie,
        Our trembling, riven hearts will cry—
        ‘Why, why were those thus doom’d to die?’”
 
The man ceased; his arms fell listlessly by his side, and his chin sank on his breast.
 
“I fear much,” whispered Ravonino to Mark, “that I understand but too well what he means.”
 
Without waiting for a reply the guide rose. Going up to Razafil he laid his hand gently on his arm, and said—
 
“My brother!”
 
The bard looked at him earnestly for a few seconds, then, grasped him by the wrist as with a grip of iron.
 
“Ravoninohitriniony,” he said, fiercely, “my little one is dead! She is gone! They took her—a mere child—they tortured her, but she would not yield. Hear what I say. You knew her well—the soft one; the tender one, who was always so pliable, so unselfish, so easily led,—she would not yield! They led her to the place of execution; they tied her to a stake and kindled the fire about her beautiful limbs,—my little child, Raniva! I saw the skin upon her flesh blacken and crack and blaze. But she sang! sang loud and clear! I would have rushed into the fire to her but they held me back—four strong men held me! When she was consumed they led me away to the torture—but I burst from them—escaped—I know not how—I care not! for my little one is lost!—lost!—”
 
“Nay, Razafil—not lost!” said Ravonino, in a quiet but firm tone, for he saw the gleam increasing in the poor father’s eyes. “Did you not say just now that she is singing with joy unspeakable the praises of His name?”
 
The words were fitly spoken. The father’s agonised soul was quieted, but as quietness partly returned to him, a new expression appeared on his countenance.
 
“Listen,” he said, still holding the guide’s wrist in his powerful grasp. “I go to my poor wife. She is safe in the cave with Réni-Mamba—”
 
“Not in the cave you think of,” interrupted the guide, explaining the change of abode which had been recently made by the Christian fugitives.
 
“No matter,” returned the bard, “I know all the caves, and can find the one she has gone to. But now I must warn you—warn all of you who are Christians,” he added, with emphasis, looking round upon the natives, “if there be any such among you—that Queen Ranavalona has got one of her bad fits again. She has ordered that no one is to sing or pray to Jesus, or to read the Word of God, on pain of imprisonment, death, or being sold into slavery. Many have been sold already, and some have died. Things would have been even worse, for the English missionary has left Antananarivo, but Prince Rakota remains our friend. Still, he cannot save every one. He could not save my Raniva! Now,” he added, turning to the guide abruptly, as if anxious to keep his mind from dwelling on his terrible bereavement, “you must go to Antananarivo with all haste if you would save Rafaravavy, for she is in great danger.”
 
The bard had touched a cord in Ravonino’s breast which vibrated sensitively.
 
“She has not confessed? She is not in prison?” he asked, quickly, with emotion which was too powerful to be entirely suppressed.
 
“As to confessing,” returned Razafil, “there is no need for her to do that, for it is well-known that she is a Christian; but the queen is fond of her and wishes to spare her. Nevertheless, she is so exceeding mad against us just now, that there is no saying when her forbearance may come to an end. If you would save Rafaravavy, you must get her out of the palace without delay.”
 
The guide did not reply for a few seconds. It was evident, from the knitted brows and the pallor of his countenance, that he was endeavouring to make up his mind to some course of action. Suddenly the frown passed from his brow, his countenance became perfectly calm, and his eyes closed.
 
“He is speaking with God,” whispered Laihova to one who sat near him.
 
Laihova may have been right. If so, the prayer was a very brief one, for the guide turned almost immediately to Voalavo and explained that in the circumstances it was absolutely necessary for him and his comrades to depart at once for the capital.
 
The chief, being a sympathetic as well as a hilarious soul, made no objection, but rather urged him to make haste.
 
Ravonino then turned to his white companions, who could, of course, only guess at the meaning of all that had been said, and explained to them the whole matter. They rose at once, and, having no preparations to make, professed to be ready to start there and then.
 
Now, while they were yet speaking, the festive party received another surprise, or alarm, which was even more exciting than the previous one.
 
A young man suddenly burst into the village with the announcement that a body of the Queen’s soldiers were close at hand. They had been sent off in pursuit of Razafil, with directions to scour the country, and bring in as many Christian fugitives as possible, and he—the young man—being a fast runner, had been sent in advance by some friends of the bard to warn him of his danger.
 
“I would not try to avoid them if I stood alone,” said Razafil, softly. “Should I shrink from dying for Jesus, after seeing my Raniva go to Him in a chariot of fire? But I stand not alone. My wife claims my support, and my little boy.”
 
While he ............