She would be dead before midnight unless something was done
swiftly. "Where is the place of sacrifice?" asked McGrath. "Three miles away, in an open glade," answered De Albor. "South, on
the trail that runs past my cabin. All the blacks are gathered there
except my guard and some others who are watching the trail below the
cabin. They are scattered out along it, the nearest out of sight of my
cabin, but within sound of the loud, shrill whistle with which these
people signal one another. "This is my plan. You wait here in my cabin, or in the woods, as you
choose. I'll avoid the watchers on the trail, and appear suddenly
before the blacks at the House of Zemba. A sudden appearance will
impress them deeply, as I said. I know I can not persuade them to
abandon their plan, but I will make them postpone the sacrifice until
just before dawn. And before that time I will manage to steal the girl
and flee with her. I'll return to your hiding-place, and we'll fight
our way out together." McGrath laughed. "Do you think I'm an utter fool? You'd send your
blacks to murder me, while you carried Constance away as you planned. I'm going with you. I'll hide at the edge of the clearing, to help you
if you need help. And if you make a false move, I'll get you, if I
don't get anybody else." The octoroon's murky eyes glittered, but he nodded acquiescence. "Help me bring your guard into the cabin," said McGrath. "He'll be
coming to soon. We'll tie and gag him and leave him here." The sun was setting and twilight was stealing over the pinelands as
McGrath and his strange companion stole through the shadowy woods. They had circled to the west to avoid the watchers on the trail, and
were now following on the many narrow footpaths which traced their
way through the forest. Silence reigned ahead of them, and McGrath
mentioned this. "Zemba is a god of silence," muttered De Albor. "From sunset to sunrise
on the night of the full moon, no drum is beaten. If a dog barks, it
must be slain; if a baby cries, it must be killed. Silence locks the
jaws of the people until Zemba roars. Only _his_ voice is lifted on the
night of the Moon of Zemba." McGrath shuddered. The foul deity was an intangible spirit, of course,
embodied only in legend; but De Albor spoke of it as a living thing. A few stars were blinking out, and shadows crept through the thick
woods, blurring the trunks of the trees that melted together in
darkness. McGrath knew they could not be far from the House of Zemba. He sensed the close presence of a throng of people, though he heard
nothing. De Albor, ahead of him, halted suddenly, crouching. McGrath stopped,
trying to pierce the surrounding mask of interlacing branches. "What is it?" muttered the white man, reaching for his pistol. De Albor shook his head, straightening. McGrath could not see the stone
in his hand, caught up from the earth as he stooped. "Do you hear something?" demanded McGrath. De Albor motioned him to lean forward, as if to whisper in his ear. Caught off his guard, McGrath bent toward him--even so he divined the
treacherous African's intention, but it was too late. The stone in
De Albor's hand crashed sickeningly against the white man's temple. McGrath went down like a slaughtered ox, and De Albor sped away down
the path to vanish like a ghost in the gloom. _5. The Voice of Zemba_


In the darkness of the woodland path McGrath stirred at last, and
staggered groggily to his feet. That desperate blow might have crushed
the skull of a man whose physique and vitality were not that of a
bull. His head throbbed and there was dried blood on his temple; but
his strongest sensation was burning scorn at himself for having again
fallen victim to John De Albor. And yet, who would have suspected that
move? He knew De Albor would kill him if he could, but he had not
expected an attack _before_ the rescue of Constance. The fellow was
dangerous and unpredictable as a cobra. Had his pleas to be allowed to
attempt Constance's rescue been but a ruse to escape death at the hands
of McGrath? McGrath stared dizzily at the stars that gleamed through the ebon
branches, and sighed with relief to see that the moon had not yet
risen. The pinewoods were black as only pinelands can be, with a
darkness that was almost tangible, like a substance that could be cut
with a knife. McGrath had reason to be grateful for his rugged constitution. Twice
that day had John De Albor outwitted him, and twice the white man's
iron frame had survived the attack. His gun was in his scabbard, his
knife in its sheath. De Albor had not paused to search, had not paused
for a second stroke to make sure. Perhaps there had been a tinge of
panic in the African's actions. Well, this did not change matters a great deal. He believed that De
Albor would make an effort to save the girl. And McGrath intended to be
on hand, whether to play a lone hand, or to aid the octoroon. This was
no time to hold grudges, with the girl's life at stake. He groped down
the path, spurred by a rising glow in the east. He came upon the glade almost before he knew it. The moon hung in the
low branches, blood-red, high enough to illumine it and the throng of
black people who squatted in a vast semicircle about it, facing the
moon. Their rolling eyes gleamed milkily in the shadows, their features
were grotesque masks. None spoke. No head turned toward the bushes
behind which he crouched. He had vaguely expected blazing fires, a blood-stained altar, drums and
the chant of maddened worshippers; that would be voodoo. But this was
not voodoo, and there was a vast gulf between the two cults. There were
no fires, no altars. But the breath hissed through his locked teeth. In
a far land he had sought in vain for the rituals of Zambebwei; now he
looked upon them within forty miles of the spot where he was born. In the center of the glade the ground rose slightly to a flat level. On
this stood a heavy iron-bound stake that was indeed but the sharpened
trunk of a good-sized pine driven deep into the ground. And there was
something living chained to that stake--something which caused McGrath
to catch his breath in horrified unbelief. He was looking upon a god of Zambebwei. Stories had told of such
creatures, wild tales drifting down from the borders of the forbidden
country, repeated by shivering natives about jungle fires, passed along
until they reached the ears of skeptical white traders. McGrath had
never really believed the stories, though he had gone searching for the
being they described. For they spoke of a beast that was a blasphemy
against nature--a beast that sought food strange to its natural species. The thing chained to the stake was an ape, but such an ape as the world
at large never dreamed of, even in nightmares. Its shaggy gray hair was
shot with silver that shone in the rising moon; it looked gigantic as
it squatted ghoulishly on its haunches. Upright, on its bent, gnarled
legs, it would be as tall as a man, and much broader and thicker.