Looking around, I noticed the broken-off sword which had been used in striking fire, and levered my-self in its direction. Holding it clumsily, I contrived to work my wrist-fetters against the edge. The blade was still fairly sharp and I soon had my hands free. After that it was no trick to untruss my legs.
The wine had worn off but there were many unemp-tied pots of it still around. I collected two or three, and put some of the spilled vegetables to roast amid the glowing coals. Then, waiting comfortably for the can-nibals’ return, I began to laugh.
I was washing down a well-baked taro root with the’ second pot of wine when the first of them crawled out of the woods and fell prostrate before me. I learned afterwards that they were deprecating my anger and were very sorry they had not recognized me as a god.
They have christened me in their own tongue. The–One-who-cannot-be-cooked.
I wish that Pegasus would return.