Like a ghostly whisper I seemed to hear the voice of the
African witch: "_He puts them in the swamp!_"

Stark's deep voice rolled out across the narrow water: "And now the
Dance of the Skull, to make the conjer sure!" What had the witch said? "_Hidden among the trees you shall watch the
dance of the Skull!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

The drum struck up again, growling and rumbling. The blacks swayed on
their haunches, lifting a wordless chant. Saul Stark paced measuredly
about the figure on the sand, his arms weaving cryptic patterns. Then
he wheeled and faced toward the other end of the glade. By some sleight
of hand he now grasped a grinning human skull, and this he cast upon
the wet sand beyond the body. "Bride of Damballah!" he thundered. "The
sacrifice awaits!" There was an expectant pause; the chanting sank. All eyes were glued
on the farther end of the glade. Stark stood waiting, and I saw him
scowl as if puzzled. Then as he opened his mouth to repeat the call, a
barbaric figure moved out of the shadows. At the sight of her a chill shuddering shook me. For a moment she stood
motionless, the firelight glinting on her gold ornaments, her head
hanging on her breast. A tense silence reigned and I saw Saul Stark
staring at her sharply. She seemed to be detached, somehow, standing
aloof and withdrawn, head bent strangely. Then, as if rousing herself, she began to sway with a jerky rhythm,
and presently whirled into the mazes of a dance that was ancient when
the ocean drowned the black kings of Atlantis. I cannot describe it. It was bestiality and diabolism set to motion, framed in a writhing,
spinning whirl of posturing and gesturing that would have appalled a
dancer of the Pharaohs. And that cursed skull danced with her; rattling
and clashing on the sand, it bounded and spun like a live thing in time
with her leaps and prancings. [Illustration: "And that cursed skull danced with her, rattling and
clashing on the sand."] But there was something amiss. I sensed it. Her arms hung limp,
her drooping head swayed. Her legs bent and faltered, making her
lurch drunkenly and out of time. A murmur rose from the people, and
bewilderment etched Saul Stark's black countenance. For the domination
of a conjure man is a thing hinged on a hair-trigger. Any trifling
dislocation of formula or ritual may disrupt the whole web of his
enchantment. As for me, I felt the perspiration freeze on my flesh as I watched
the grisly dance. The unseen shackles that bound me to that gyrating
she-devil were strangling, crushing me. I knew she was approaching a
climax, when she would summon me from my hiding-place, to wade through
the black waters to the House of Damballah, to my doom. Now she whirled to a floating stop, and when she halted, poised on her
toes, she faced toward the spot where I lay hidden, and I knew that she
could see me as plainly as if I stood in the open; knew, too, somehow,
that only she knew of my presence. I felt myself toppling on the edge
of the abyss. She raised her head and I saw the flame of her eyes,
even at that distance. Her face was lit with awful triumph. Slowly she
raised her hand, and I felt my limbs begin to jerk in response to that
terrible magnetism. She opened her mouth----

But from that open mouth sounded only a choking gurgle, and suddenly
her lips were dyed crimson. And suddenly, without warning, her knees
gave way and she pitched headlong into the sands. And as she fell, so I too fell, sinking into the mire. Something burst
in my brain with a shower of flame. And then I was crouching among
the trees, weak and trembling, but with such a sense of freedom and
lightness of limb as I never dreamed a man could experience. The black
spell that gripped me was broken; the foul incubus lifted from my soul. It was as if light had burst upon a night blacker than African midnight. At the fall of the girl a wild cry arose from the blacks, and they
sprang up, trembling on the verge of panic. I saw their rolling white
eyeballs, their bared teeth glistening in the firelight. Saul Stark had
worked their primitive natures up to a pitch of madness, meaning to
turn this frenzy, at the proper time, into a fury of battle. It could
as easily turn into an hysteria of terror. Stark shouted sharply at
them. But just then the girl in a last convulsion, rolled over on the wet
sand, and the firelight shone on a round hole between her breasts,
which still oozed crimson. Jim Braxton's bullet had found its mark. *       *       *       *       *

From the first I had felt that she was not wholly human; some black
jungle spirit sired her, lending her the abysmal subhuman vitality that
made her what she was. She had said that neither death nor hell could
keep her from the Dance of the Skull. And, shot through the heart and
dying, she had come through the swamp from the creek where she had
received her death-wound to the House of Damballah. And the Dance of
the Skull had been her death dance. Dazed as a condemned man just granted a reprieve, at first I hardly
grasped the meaning of the scene that now unfolded before me. The blacks were in a frenzy. In the sudden, and to them inexplicable,
death of the sorceress they saw a fearsome portent. They had no way
of knowing that she was dying when she entered the glade. To them,
their prophetess and priestess had been struck down under their very
eyes, by an invisible death. This was magic blacker than Saul Stark's
wizardry--and obviously hostile to them. Like fear-maddened cattle they stampeded. Howling, screaming, tearing
at one another they blundered through the trees, heading for the neck
of land and the shore beyond. Saul Stark stood transfixed, heedless of
them as he stared down at the brown girl, dead at last. And suddenly
I came to myself, and with my awakened manhood came cold fury and the
lust to kill. I drew a gun, and aiming in the uncertain firelight,
pulled the trigger. Only a click answered me. The powder in the
cap-and-ball pistols was wet. Saul Stark lifted his head and licked his lips. The sounds of flight
faded in the distance, and he stood alone in the glade. His eyes rolled
whitely toward the black woods around him. He bent, grasped the
man-like object that lay on the sand, and dragged it into the hut. The
instant he vanished I started toward the island, wading through the
narrow channels at the lower end. I had almost reached the shore when a
mass of driftwood gave way with me and I slid into a deep hole. Instantly the water swirled about me, and a head rose beside me; a dim
face was close to mine--the face of a negro--_the face of Tunk Bixby_. But now it was inhuman; as expressionless and soulless as that of a
catfish; the face of a being no longer human, and no longer mindful of
its human origin. Slimy, misshapen fingers gripped my throat, and I drove my knife into
that sagging mouth.