grunt. Zalu Zako had remained upon the ground,
green with terror. Bakahenzie stood upright, his scarlet feather
fluorescent in the fire-glow. The anthem of the forest was only broken by
the rustle of branches and the breathing of Zalu Zako and Bakahenzie. A
harsh voice cried:

"Begone, Bakahenzie, son of a dog! Lest we take thy soul to be with us!"

The eyes appeared to float nearer; hands pointed menacingly. Bakahenzie
boggled; hesitated; then the dignity of his pose melted into the graceful
bounds of a fleeing leopard. Even for the professional ghost manipulator,
such a phenomenon of the spirits, with whom he was supposed to be on
familiar terms, was demoralizing. But half-way through a thicket of
undergrowth, where he could no longer see the horrific eyes, his courage
began to return.

To his ears came a new voice chanting:

"Sweeter than warm honey is the scent of my man!
Fiercer than scorpions is the grip of his hand!
Whiter than a spear flash is the gleam of his teeth!
Smoother than river stone is the feel of his chest!
Bakuma rejoices!"

Peering through the interstices Bakahenzie could see the gleam of the fire
upon the bangles of the Son-of-the-Snake and the blue flash upon his spear
as he melted into the forest wall.

CHAPTER 20

The actual sight of spirits from ghostland, of which hitherto they had
only heard, had been too much for the nerves of the tribe already
overstrung by the overthrow of the idol and the magic and slaughter of zu
Pfeiffer; the warriors had fled like scared poultry to the jungle, up
trees, in the undergrowth and in their huts, where they cowered among
their women and slaves, reading awful omens and portents in every sound of
the forest.

The phenomenon had been just as startling and awe-inspiring to Bakahenzie
as it had been to his most ignorant dupe. His belief in ghostland was
implicit, but now he had seen what, professionally, he was supposed to see
and converse with on familiar terms. As Zalu Zako disappeared he continued
to listen intently. Above the slight rustle of the bushes as the
Son-of-the-Snake moved through the undergrowth rose a feminine laugh.
Bakahenzie's liver was squeezed by that sardonic chuckle; for, as is well
known, female demons are much more malignant than the male. For the space
of a chant he remained crouching there, curiosity and the dread of
revealing his terror to his fellows tugging