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flaring fires and cannibal feasts, and the bloody altars of abysmal tribal gods.
    “Kirby Buckner!” She seemed to caress the syllables with her red tongue, yet the very intonation was an obscene insult. “Why did you not enter Saul Stalk’s cabin? It was not locked! Did you fear what you might see there? Did you fear you might come out with your hair white like an old man’s, and the drooling lips of an imbecile?”
    “What’s in that hut?” I demanded.
    She laughed in my face, and snapped her fingers with a peculiar gesture.
    “One of the ones which come oozing like black mist out of the night when Saul Stark beats the ju-ju drum and shrieks the black incantation to the gods that crawl on their bellies in the swamp.”
    “What is he doing here? The black folk were quiet until he came.”
    Her red lips curled disdainfully. ‘“Those black dogs? They are his slaves. If they disobey he kills them, or puts them in the swamp. For long we have looked for a place to begin our rule. We have chosen Canaan. You whites must go. And since we know that white people can never be driven away from their land, we must kill you all.”
    It was my turn to laugh, grimly.
    “They tried that, back in ’45.”
    “They did not have Saul Stark to lead them, then,” she answered calmly.
    “Well, suppose they won? Do you think that would be the end of it? Other white men would come into Canaan and kill them all.”
    “They would have to cross water,” she answered. “We can defend the rivers and creeks. Saul Stark will have many servants in the swamps to do his bidding. He will be king of black Canaan. No one can cross the waters to come against him. He will rule his tribe, as his fathers ruled their tribes in the Ancient Land.”
    “Mad as a loon!” I muttered. Then curiosity impelled me to ask: “Who is this fool? What are you to him?”
    “He is the son of a Kongo witch-finder, and he is the greatest voodoo priest out of the Ancient Land,” she answered, laughing at me again. “I? You shall learn who I am, tonight in the swamp, in the House of Damhallah.”
    “Yes?” I grunted. “What’s to prevent me from taking you into Grimesville with me? You know the answers to questions I’d like to ask.”
    Her laughter was like the slash of a velvet whip.
    “ You drag me to the village of the whites? Not all death and Hell could keep me from the Dance of the Skull, tonight in the House of Damballah. You are my captive, already.” She laughed derisively as I started and glared into the shadows about me. “No one is hiding there. I am alone, and you are the strongest man in Canaan. Even Saul Stark fears you, for be sent me with three men to kill you before you could reach the village. Yet you are my captive. I have but to beckon, so” — she crooked a contemptuous finger — “and you will follow to the fires of Dumallah and the knives of the torturers.”
    I laughed at her, but my mirth rang hollow. I could not deny the incredible magnetism of this brown enchantress; it fascinated and impelled, drawing me toward her, beating at my willpower. I could not fail to recognize it any more than I could fail to recognize the peril in the ju-ju hut.
    My agitation was apparent to her, for her eyes flashed with unholy triumph.
    “Black men are fools, all but Saul Stark,” she laughed. “White men are fools, too. I am the daughter of a white man, who lived in the hut of a black king and mated with his daughters. I know the strength of white men, and their weakness. I failed last night when I met you in the woods, but now I cannot fail!” Savage exultation thrummed in her voice. “By the blood in your veins I have snared you. The knife of the man you killed scratched your hand — seven drops of blood that fell on the pine needles have given me your soul! I took that blood, and Saul Stark gave me the man who ran away. Saul Stark hates cowards. With his hot, quivering heart, and seven drops of your blood, Kirby Buckner, deep in