She posed derisively before me, not in allure, but in mockery. Triumphant malice blazed in her dark eyes; her red lips curled with cruel mirth. Looking at her then I found it easy to believe all the tales I had heard of torture and mutilations inflicted by the women of savage races on wounded enemies. She was alien, even in this primitive setting; she needed a grimmer, more bestial background, a background of steaming jungle, reeking black swamps, 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 Stark'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 Damballah." "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.