When he heard, therefore, that the food was cooked, he rose up and, taking his wooden sword in his hand, he drew near to the woman and severed her head from her body. Then, sitting down, he ate of her flesh, and with it the taro she had scraped after roasting it. Thus were the words of the wagtail fulfilled which he sang on the bough of the tree.
Now the man, having eaten, would no longer work in the garden, and went home, saying to his wives that he was ill and for that cause he had returned while the sun was yet high in the heaven, but that the woman, who had set out with him, would sleep at the gardens that night. Then he bade them light a fire that he might warm himself and sleep. So well did he feign illness, that the women kept silence in the house and watched over him till morning.
But on the morrow, he hungered once more for flesh meat, and called to his second wife that she should go with him to the gardens. She arose like unto the other, and the other women sent greetings by her to the first wife who, they thought, was yet alive. And at the gardens the man did even as he had done on the day before. He brought taro to the woman, and bade her roast it that they might eat. "Shall I roast some for thine other wife, lord?" asked the woman.
"She will have food of her own," said the man. "Cook but for me and for thee."
Then the woman roasted the taro, and when it was cooked, she took a piece from the fire to scrape it.
