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Updated: May 8, 2025
Razafil was instantly slung over the precipice, and held suspended there in the hope that the awful nature of his impending fate might cause his courage to fail, while the executioner knelt, knife in hand, ready to cut the rope. "Once more, and for the last time," said the officer in command, "will you cease to pray?" The answer was an emphatic "No!"
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 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!"
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.
In a short time the door of the prison opened, and a party of armed men entered with Silver Spear, or Hater of Lies, at their head. An involuntary shudder ran through the group of captives as the man advanced and looked round. "Which is Razafil?" demanded Hater of Lies. The poet rose promptly. "Here I am," he said, looking boldly at the officer.
With something like a groan, Hockins turned a glance on his comrades and pointed to the men. They required no second glance to enlighten them, for there they plainly saw Ravonino heavily ironed by the neck to Laihova, and Razafil, the poet, chained to the chief, Voalavo. Many others whom they did not know were also there.
Next moment Razafil went shooting down headlong into the abyss. There was a projecting ledge of rock about fifty feet down the precipice. On this the body of the martyr struck, and, bounding off into space, reached the bottom with incredible violence, a shattered and mangled heap. With trembling hearts and straining gaze the other victims watched the descent.
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.
"Many things have happened since you left us," resumed Ramatoa. "Razafil, the poet, has come to stay with us, and Voalavo too." "Voalavo!" exclaimed Laihova in surprise, "is he not the chief of a tribe that does not love Jesus? And he was not a Christian when I saw him last." "He is a Christian now," returned the girl, quietly, "if I may judge him by his works.
But it rather perplexed the little maiden when these same men, having been gifted with inquiring minds, puzzled themselves over the question why the Prince of the country in The Pilgrim's Progress did not kill Apollyon at once and have done with him. "Or make him good," suggested Voalavo. "True, that would have been better, perhaps, than killing him," assented Razafil.
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