After Zeppa had remained a short time in his new quarters, he began to take an interest in the children of his savage¹ friends. At first the mothers of the village were alarmed when they saw their little ones in his strong arms, playing with his beard, which had by that time grown long and shaggy, as well as grey like his curly locks; but soon perceiving that the children had nothing to fear from the strange white man, they gave themselves no further concern on the subject.  
If Zeppa had been in his right mind when the savages² first found him, it is probable that they would have hunted him down and slain³ him without remorse—for it is well known that many of the South Sea Islanders regard shipwrecked persons as victims who have no claim on their hospitality, but are a sort of windfall to be killed and devoured⁴. Their treatment of Zeppa, therefore, must have been owing to some feeling of respect or awe⁵, inspired by his obvious insanity⁶, coupled, no doubt, with his commanding size and presence as well as his singular conduct on the occasion of their first meeting.
 
Whatever the reason, it is certain that the natives amongst whom the poor madman’s lot had thus been cast, treated him in an exceptional manner, and with an amount of respect that almost amounted to reverence⁷. At first Ongoloo made a slight attempt to ascertain⁸ where his guest had come from, and what was his previous history, but as Zeppa always met such inquiries⁹ with one of his sweetest smiles, and with no verbal reply whatever, the chief felt unusually perplexed¹⁰, dropped the subject, and began to regard the madman as a species of demigod. Of course no one else dared to question him, so that ever afterwards he remained in the eyes of his entertainers as a “Great Mystery.”
 
By degrees Zeppa became intimately acquainted with the little boys and girls of the village, and took much pleasure in watching them at play. They soon found out that he was fond of them, and might have become rather troublesome in their attentions to him, if he had been a busy man, but as he had nothing whatever to do except follow his own inclinations¹¹, and as his inclinations led him to sympathise with childhood, he was never ruffled¹² by their familiarities or by their wild doings around his tent. He even suffered a few of the very smallest of the brown troop to take liberties with him, and pull his beard.
 
One brown mite¹³ in particular—a female baby of the smallest conceivable dimensions, and the wildest possible spirit—became an immense favourite with him. Her name was Lippy, or some sound which that combination of letters produces.
 
Lippy’s mother, a large-eyed, good-looking young woman, with insufficient¹⁴ clothing—at least in the estimate of a Ratingaite—was transfixed the first time she saw her little one practise her familiarities on their demigod.
 
Zeppa was lying on his back at the time, in front of his hut, when Lippy prowled cautiously towards him, like a very small and sly kitten about to pounce¹⁵ on a very huge dog. She sprang, just as her mother caught sight of her, and was on his broad chest in a moment. The mother was, as we have said, transfixed with alarm. The human kitten seized Zeppa by the beard and laughed immoderately. Zeppa replied with a gentle smile—he never laughed out now—and remained quite still.
 
Having finished her laugh, Lippy drew herself forward until she was close to her human dog’s  chin. At this point her mother would have rushed to the rescue, but she was still paralysed! Having reached the chin Lippy became more audacious, stretched forth¹⁶ one of her little hands, and seized Zeppa’s nose. Still he did not move, but when the little brown kitten proceeded to thrust a thumb into one of his eyes, he roused himself, seized the child in his powerful hands, and raised her high above his head; then, lowering her until her little mouth was within reach, he kissed her.
 
This sufficed to relieve the mother’s fears, so she retired¹⁷ quietly from the scene.
 
She was not so easily quieted, however, some weeks later, when she beheld¹⁸ Zeppa, after amusing himself one day with Lippy for half an hour, start up, place her on his shoulder, and stalk off towards the mountains. He absented himself for three days on that occasion. Lippy’s mother at first became anxious, then terrified, then desperate. She roused Ongoloo to such a pitch that he at last called a council of war. Some of the head men were for immediate¹⁹ pursuit of the madman; others were of opinion that the little brat²⁰ was not worth so much trouble; a few wretches²¹ even expressed the opinion that they were well rid of her—there being already too many female babies in the community!
 
While the conflict of opinions was at its fiercest, Zeppa stalked into the midst of them with Lippy on his shoulder, looked round with a benignant expression of countenance²², delivered the child to her mother, and went off to his hut without uttering a word. The council immediately dissolved itself and retired humiliated²³.
 
It was during one of Zeppa’s occasional absences that the Ratura tribe of natives, as before mentioned, decided²⁴ to have another brush with the Mountain-men, as they styled their foes²⁶.
 
We are not sure that the word used in the Ratura language was the exact counterpart of the words “brush” and “scrimmage” in ours, but it meant the same thing, namely, the cutting of a number of throats, or the battering²⁷ in of a number of human skulls²⁸ unnecessarily.
 
Of course there was a casus belli. There always is among savage as well as civilised nations, and it is a curious coincidence that the reasons given for the necessity for war are about as comprehensible among the civilised as the savage. Of course among civilised nations these reasons for war are said to be always good. Christians²⁹, you know, could not kill each other without good reasons; but is it not strange that among educated people, the reasons given for going to war are often very much the reverse of clear?
 
The origin of the war which was about to be revived, besides being involved in the mists of antiquity³⁰, was somewhat shrouded³¹ in the clouds of confusion. Cleared of these clouds, and delivered from those mists, it would have been obviously a just—nay, even a holy war—so both parties said, for they both wanted to fight. Unfortunately no living man could clear away the clouds or mists; nevertheless, as they all saw plainly the exceeding righteousness of the war, they could not in honour, in justice, or in common sense, do otherwise than go at it.
 
At some remote period of antiquity—probably soon after the dispersion at Babel—it was said that the Mountain-men had said to the Raturans, that it had been reported to them that a rumour³² had gone abroad that they, the men of Ratura, were casting covetous³³ eyes on the summit of their mountain. The Raturans replied that it had never entered into their heads either to covet³⁴ or to look at the summit of their mountain, but that, if they had any doubts on the subject, they might send over a deputation to meet a Ratura deputation, and hold a palaver³⁵ to clear the matter up.
 
The deputations were sent. They met. They palavered for about half-an-hour with an air of sententious sincerity³⁶, then the leading chief of the mountaineer deputation cracked the crown of the leading chief of the Raturan deputation, and the two deputations spent the remainder of that day in fighting. Reinforcements came up on both sides. The skirmish became a pitched battle. Blood was shed lavishly³⁷, heads were broken beyond repair, and women, coming to the help of the men with the baskets of stones, were slain in considerable numbers, as well as little children who had an inconvenient³⁸ but not uncommon³⁹ habit of getting in the way of the combatants. At last the Raturans were driven into the impregnable swamps that bordered part of their country; their villages and crops were burned, and those of their women and children who had not escaped to the swamps were carried into slavery, while the aged⁴⁰ of both sexes were slaughtered⁴¹ in cold blood.
 
It was a complete victory. We are inclined to think that the Mountain-men called it a “glorious” victory. Judging from the world’s history they probably did, and the mountain women ever afterwards were wont⁴² to tell their little ones of the prowess of their forefathers—of the skulls battered⁴³ in and other deeds of heroism⁴⁴ done—in that just and reasonable war!
 
As centuries rolled on, the old story came to be repeated again, and over again, with slight variations to suit the varying ages. In particular it came to be well understood, and asserted, that that unconquerable desire of the Raturans to take possession of the mountain-top was growing apace and had to be jealously watched and curbed⁴⁵.
 
In one of the centuries—we are not sure which—the Raturan savages made some advances into their swampy⁴⁶ grounds and began to improve them. This region lay very remote from the Mountain-men’s villages, but, as it approached the mountain base in a round-about manner, and as the mountain-tops could be distinctly seen from the region, although well-nigh impassable swamps still lay between the reclaimed⁴⁷ lands and the mountain base, these advances were regarded as another casus belli, and another war was waged, with practically the same results—damage to everybody concerned, and good to no one.
 
Thus was the game kept up until the chief Ongoloo began to strut⁴⁸ his little hour upon the stage of time.
 
There are always men, savage as well as civilised, in every region and age, who march in advance of their fellows, either because of intellectual capacity or moral rectitude or both. Ongoloo was one of these. He did not believe in “war at any price.” He thought it probable that God lived in a state of peace, and argued that what was best for the Creator must naturally be best for the creature.
 
He therefore tried to introduce a peace-policy into Sugar-loaf Island. His efforts were not successful. The war-party was too strong for him. At last he felt constrained⁴⁹ to give in to the force of public opinion and agreed to hold an unarmed palaver with the men of Ratura. The war-at-any-price party would have preferred an armed palaver, but they were overruled.
 
The Raturans chanced at this time to be in somewhat depressed⁵⁰ circumstances, owing to a sickness which had carried off many of their best warriors⁵¹ and left their lands partly waste, so that their finances, if we may so express it were in a bad condition.
 
“Now is our chance—now or never,” thought the war-party, and pushed matters to extremity⁵².
 
On the day appointed for the palaver, one of the most pugnacious⁵³ of the Mountain-men got leave to open the deliberations.
 
“You’re a low-minded, sneaking⁵⁴ son of an ignorant father,” he said to the spokesman of the Raturans.
 
“You’re another,” retorted his foe²⁵.
 
Having disposed of these preliminary compliments, the speakers paused, glared, and breathed hard.
 
Of course we give the nearest equivalent in English that we can find for the vernacular⁵⁵ used.
 
“You and your greedy forefathers,” resumed the Mountain-man, “have always kept your false eyes on our mountain-top, and you are looking at it still.”
 
“That’s a lie,” returned the man of Ratura with savage simplicity⁵⁶.
 
Had they been armed, it is probable that the palaver would have closed abruptly⁵⁷ at this point.
 
Seeing that the relations between the parties were “strained” almost to the breaking-point, one of the less warlike among the Ratura chiefs caught his own spokesman by the nape of the neck, and hurled⁵⁸ him back among his comrades.
 
“We have not, O valiant⁵⁹ men of the Mountain,” he said, in a gentle tone, “looked upon your hill-tops with desire. We only wish to improve our swamps, increase our sweet-potato grounds, and live at peace.”
 
“That is not true,” retorted the fiery⁶⁰ Mountain-man, “and we must have a promise from you that you will let the swamps alone, and not advance one step nearer to the top of our mountain.”
 
“But the swamps are not yours,” objected the other.
 
“No matter—they are not yours. They are neutral ground, and must not be touched.”
 
“Well, we will not touch them,” said the peaceful Raturan.
 
This reply disconcerted the fiery mountaineer, for he was anxious to fight.
 
“But that is not enough,” he resumed, as a bright idea struck him, “you must promise not even to look at our mountain.”
 
The man of Ratura reflecting how ill able his tribe was to go to war just then, agreed not even to look at the mountain!
 
“More than that” resumed the mountaineer, “you must not even wink⁶¹ at it.”
 
“We will not even wink at it,” replied his foe. “Still further,” continued the warlike mountaineer in sheer desperation, “you must not even think of it.”
 
“We will not think of it” answered the accommodating man of Ratura.
 
“Bah! you may go—you peace-loving cowards,” said the disappointed mountaineer, turning on his heel in bitter disappointment.
 
“Yes, you may go—in peace!” said Ongoloo with sententious gravity, waving his band grandly to the retiring men of Ratura, and walking off with an air of profound solemnity, though he could not help laughing—in his arm, somewhere, as he had not a sleeve to do it in.
 
But the Raturans did not go in peace. They went away with bitter animosity in their hearts, and some of them resolved to have a brush with their old foes, come what might.
 
Savages do not, as a rule, go through the formality of declaring war by withdrawing ambassadors. They are much more prone⁶² to begin war with that deceptive⁶³ act styled “a surprise.”
 
Smarting under the taunts⁶⁴ of their foes, the Raturans resolved to make an attack on the enemy’s village that very night, but Ongoloo was more than a match for them. Suspecting their intentions, he stalked them when the shades of evening fell, heard all their plans while concealed⁶⁵ among the long grass, and then, hastening home, collected his warriors.
 
It chanced that Zeppa had returned from one of his rambles⁶⁶ at the time and was lying in his hut.
 
“Will you come out with us and fight?” demanded Ongoloo, entering abruptly.
 
The mention of fighting seemed to stir some chord which jarred in Zeppa’s mind, for he shook his head and frowned. It is possible that, if the savage had explained how matters stood, the poor madman might have consented, but the chief had not the time, perhaps not the will, for that. Turning quickly round, therefore, he went off as abruptly as he had entered.
 
Zeppa cared nothing for that. Indeed he soon forgot the circumstance, and, feeling tired, lay down to sleep.
 
Meanwhile Ongoloo marched away with a body of picked men to station himself in a narrow pass through which he knew that the invading foe would have to enter. He was hugely disgusted to be thus compelled to fight, after he had congratulated himself on having brought the recent palaver to so peaceful an issue. He resolved, however, only to give his enemies a serious fright, for he knew full well that if blood should flow, the old war-spirit would return, and the ancient suspicion and hatred⁶⁷ be revived and intensified⁶⁸. Arranging his plans therefore, with this end in view, he resolved to take that peaceful, though thieving, humorist Wapoota, into his secret councils.
 
Summoning him, after the ambush⁶⁹ had been properly arranged and the men placed, he said,—“Come here, you villain⁷⁰.”
 
Wapoota knew that Ongoloo was not displeased⁷¹ with him by the nature of his address. He therefore followed, without anxiety, to a retired spot among the bush-covered rocks.
 
“You can screech⁷², Wapoota?”
 
“Yes, chief,” answered the ex-thief in some surprise, “I can screech like a parrot the size of a whale.”
 
“That will do. And you love peace, like me, Wapoota, and hate bloodshed, though you love thieving.”
 
“True, chief,” returned the other, modestly.
 
“Well then, listen—and if you tell any one what I say to you, I will squeeze the eyes out of your head, punch the teeth from your jaws⁷³, and extract the oil from your backbone⁷⁴.”
 
Wapoota thought that this was pretty strong for a man who had just declared his hatred of bloodshed, but he said nothing.
 
“You know the rock, something in shape like your own nose, at the foot of this pass?” said Ongoloo.
 
“I know it, chief.”
 
“Well, go there; hide yourself, and get ready for a screech. When you see the Ratura dogs come in sight, give it out—once—only once,—and if you don’t screech well, I’ll teach you how to do it better afterwards. Wait then till you hear and see me and my men come rushing down the track, and then screech a second time. Only once, mind! but let it be long and strong. You understand? Now—away!”
 
Like a bolt from a crossbow Wapoota sped. He had not been in hiding two minutes when the Ratura party came stealthily towards the rock before mentioned. Wapoota gathered himself up for a supreme⁷⁵ effort. The head of the enemy’s column appeared in view—then there burst, as if from the bosom⁷⁶ of silent night, a yell such as no earthly parrot ever uttered or whale conceived. The very blood in the veins⁷⁷ of all stood still. Their limbs refused to move. Away over the rolling plain went the horrid⁷⁸ sound till it gained the mountain where, after being buffeted⁷⁹ from cliff to crag, it finally died out far up among the rocky heights.
 
“A device of the Ratura dogs to frighten us,” growled⁸⁰ Ongoloo to those nearest him. “Come, follow me, and remember, not a sound till I shout.”
 
The whole party sprang up and followed their chief at full gallop⁸¹ down the pass. The still petrified⁸² Raturans heard the sound of rushing feet. When Wapoota saw the dark forms of his comrades appear, he filled his chest and opened his mouth, and the awful skirl arose once again, as if to pollute the night-air. Then Ongoloo roared. With mingled⁸³ surprise and ferocity his men took up the strain, as they rushed towards the now dimly visible foe.
 
Savage nerves could stand no more. The Raturans turned and fled as one man. They descended⁸⁴ the pass as they had never before descended it; they coursed over the plains like grey-hounds; they passed through their own villages like a whirlwind; drew most of the inhabitants after them like the living tail of a mad comet, and only stopped when they fell exhausted⁸⁵ on the damp ground in the remotest depths of their own dismal⁸⁶ swamps.

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