The land sloped very
gradually upward, and all signs of marsh vanished. *       *       *       *       *

The trail widened, showing signs of frequent use. McGrath became
nervous. At any moment he might meet someone. He took to the thick
woods alongside the trail, and forced his way onward, each movement
sounding cannon-loud to his whetted ears. Sweating with nervous
tension, he came presently upon a smaller path, which meandered in the
general direction he wished to go. The pinelands were crisscrossed by
such paths. He followed it with greater ease and stealth, and presently, coming to
a crook in it, saw it join the main trail. Near the point of junction
stood a small log cabin, and between him and the cabin squatted a big
black man. This man was hidden behind the bole of a huge pine beside
the narrow path, and peering around it toward the cabin. Obviously
he was spying on someone, and it was quickly apparent who this was,
as John De Albor came to the door and stared despairingly down the
wide trail. The black watcher stiffened and lifted his fingers to his
mouth as if to sound a far-carrying whistle, but De Albor shrugged his
shoulders helplessly and turned back into the cabin again. The negro
relaxed, though he did not alter his vigilance. What this portended, McGrath did not know, nor did he pause to
speculate. At the sight of De Albor a red mist turned the sunlight to
blood, in which the black body before him floated like an ebony goblin. A panther stealing upon its kill would have made as much noise as
McGrath made in his glide down the path toward the squatting black. He was aware of no personal animosity toward the man, who was but an
obstacle in his path of vengeance. Intent on the cabin, the black man
did not hear that stealthy approach. Oblivious to all else, he did not
move or turn--until the pistol butt descended on his woolly skull with
an impact that stretched him senseless among the pine needles. McGrath crouched above his motionless victim, listening. There was no
sound near by--but suddenly, far away, there rose a long-drawn shriek
that shuddered and died away. The blood congealed in McGrath's veins. Once before he had heard that sound--in the low forest-covered hills
that fringe the borders of forbidden Zambebwei; his black boys had
turned the color of ashes and fallen on their faces. What it was he did
not know; and the explanation offered by the shuddering natives had
been too monstrous to be accepted by a rational mind. They called it
the voice of the god of Zambebwei. Stung to action, McGrath rushed down the path and hurled himself
against the back door of the cabin. He did not know how many blacks
were inside; he did not care. He was berserk with grief and fury. The door crashed inward under the impact. He lit on his feet inside,
crouching, gun leveled hip-high, lips asnarl. But only one man faced him--John De Albor, who sprang to his feet with
a startled cry. The gun dropped from McGrath's fingers. Neither lead
nor steel could glut his hate now. It must be with naked hands, turning
back the pages of civilization to the red dawn days of the primordial. With a growl that was less like the cry of a man than the grunt of
a charging lion, McGrath's fierce hands locked about the octoroon's
throat. De Albor was borne backward by the hurtling impact, and the men
crashed together over a camp cot, smashing it to ruins. And as they
tumbled on the dirt floor, McGrath set himself to kill his enemy with
his bare fingers. The octoroon was a tall man, rangy and strong. But against the berserk
white man he had no chance. He was hurled about like a sack of straw,
battered and smashed savagely against the floor, and the iron fingers
that were crushing his throat sank deeper and deeper until his tongue
protruded from his gaping blue lips and his eyes were starting from
his head. With death no more than a hand's breadth from the octoroon,
some measure of sanity returned to McGrath. He shook his head like a dazed bull; eased his terrible grip a trifle,
and snarled: "Where is the girl? Quick, before I kill you!" De Albor retched and fought for breath, ashen-faced. "The blacks!" he
gasped. "They have taken her to be the Bride of Zemba! I could not
prevent them. They demand a sacrifice. I offered them you, but they
said you were paralyzed and would die anyway--they were cleverer than I
thought. They followed me back to the Manor from the spot where we left
the Arab in the road--followed us from the Manor to the island. "They are out of hand--mad with blood-lust. But even I, who know black
men as none else knows them, I had forgotten that not even a priest
of Zambebwei can control them when the fire of worship runs in their
veins. I am their priest and master--yet when I sought to save the
girl, they forced me into this cabin and set a man to watch me until
the sacrifice is over. You must have killed him; he would never have
let you enter here." With a chill grimness, McGrath picked up his pistol. *       *       *       *       *

"You came here as Richard Ballville's friend," he said unemotionally. "To get possession of Constance Brand, you made devil-worshippers out
of the black people. You deserve death for that. When the European
authorities that govern Africa catch a priest of Zambebwei, they hang
him. You have admitted that you are a priest. Your life is forfeit
on that score, too. But it is because of your hellish teachings that
Constance Brand is to die, and it's for that reason that I'm going to
blow out your brains." John De Albor shriveled. "She is not dead yet," he gasped, great drops
of perspiration dripping from his ashy face. "She will not die until
the moon is high above the pines. It is full tonight, the Moon of
Zambebwei. Don't kill me. Only I can save her. I know I failed before. But if I go to them, appear to them suddenly and without warning,
they'll think it is because of supernatural powers that I was able to
escape from the hut without being seen by the watchman. That will renew
my prestige. "You can't save her. You might shoot a few blacks, but there would
still be scores left to kill you--and her. But I have a plan--yes, I am
a priest of Zambebwei. When I was a boy I ran away from my Arab master
and wandered far until I came to the land of Zambebwei. There I grew to
manhood and became a priest, dwelling there until the white blood in
me drew me out in the world again to learn the ways of the white men. When I came to America I brought a _Zemba_ with me--I can not tell you
how....

"Let me save Constance Brand!" He was clawing at McGrath, shaking as if
with an ague. "I love her, even as you love her. I will play fair with
you both, I swear it! Let me save her! We can fight for her later, and
I'll kill you if I can." The frankness of that statement swayed McGrath more than anything else
the octoroon could have said. It was a desperate gamble--but after all,
Constance would be no worse off with John De Albor alive than she was
already.