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 the tiger sharks cruising around it. This morning there were no sharks visible.

Rantan was reserved for a worse fate; for, as Aioma, standing by the boat, called on the people to take their vengeance, the woman Nanu, still holding her dead child in her arms stepped up to him followed by Ona.

“He is ours,” said Nanu.

Aioma turned on her like a savage old dog—he was about to push her back amongst the crowd when Ona advanced a step.

“He is ours,” said Ona, glancing at the form in the boat as though it were a parcel she was claiming, whilst the crowd, reaching to the woods, broke in, speaking almost with one voice.

“He is theirs, he has slain their children, let them have him for a child.”

“So be it,” said Aioma, too much of a diplomat to oppose the mob on a matter of sentiment, and curious as to what gory form of vengeance the women would adopt. “So be it, and now what will you do with him?”

“We will take him to the southern beach with us. We alone,” said Nanu.

“We would be alone with him,” said Ona, shifting her dead child from her right to her left arm as one might shift a parcel.

“But how will you take him?” asked the old man.

“In a canoe,” said Nanu.

“Then go and build it,” said the canoe-builder.