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    Chapter 6 - Page 2

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    when it came to the last, some of these unfortunates went
    joyfully to their doom, declaring that they gloried to die in the
    service of holy Doleema; still, were there others, who audaciously
    endeavored to shun their fate; upon the approach of a festival,
    fleeing to the innermost wilderness of the island. But little availed
    their flight. For swift on their track sped the hereditary butler of
    the insulted god, one Xiki, whose duty it was to provide the
    sacrifices. And when crouching in some covert, the fugitive spied
    Xiki's approach, so fearful did he become of the vengeance of the
    deity he sought to evade, that renouncing all hope of escape, he would
    burst from his lair, exclaiming, "Come on, and kill!" baring his
    breast for the javelin that slew him.

    The chronicles of Maramma were full of horrors.

    In the wild heart of the island, was said still to lurk the remnant of
    a band of warriors, who, in the days of the sire of the present
    pontiff, had risen in arms to dethrone him, headed by Foni, an upstart
    prophet, a personage distinguished for the uncommon beauty of his
    person. With terrible carnage, these warriors had been defeated; and
    the survivors, fleeing into the interior, for thirty days were pursued
    by the victors. But though many were overtaken and speared, a number
    survived; who, at last, wandering forlorn and in despair, like
    demoniacs, ran wild in the woods. And the islanders, who at times
    penetrated into the wilderness, for the purpose of procuring rare
    herbs, often scared from their path some specter, glaring through the
    foliage. Thrice had these demoniacs been discovered prowling about the
    inhabited portions of the isle; and at day-break, an attendant of the
    holy Morai once came upon a frightful figure, doubled with age,
    helping itself to the offerings in the image of Doleema. The demoniac
    was slain; and from his ineffaceable tatooing, it was proved that this
    was no other than Foni, the false prophet; the splendid form he had
    carried into the rebel fight, now squalid with age and misery.
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