Finally there was myself, a bronzed and tattered individual, and the dirty, abject-looking Hans holding in his hand that absurd box of matches which finally he deposited in the exact middle of the stone table about six inches from the swollen body of the aboriginal whom he had shot in the river. In those vast surroundings this box looked so lonely and so small that the sight of it moved me to internal convulsions. Shaking with hysterical laughter I returned to my seat as quickly as I could, dragging Hans after me, for I saw that his case was the same, although fortunately it is not the custom of Hottentots to burst into open merriment. “What will Heu-Heu do with the matches, Baas?” asked Hans. “Surely there must be plenty of fire where he is, Baas.” “Yes, lots,” I replied with energy, “but perhaps of another sort.” Then I observed that Dacha was pointing to the right and that the eyes of all present were fixed in that direction. “The sacrifice comes,” murmured Dramana, and as she spoke a woman appeared, a tall woman covered with a white robe or veil, who was led forward by two of the Hairy People. She was brought to the front of the table on which lay the body and the matches, and there stood quite still. “Who is this?” I asked. “Last year’s bride, with whom the priest has done and passes on into the keeping of the god,” answered Dramana with a stony smile. “Do you mean that they are going to kill the poor thing?” I said, horrified. “The god is about to take her into his keeping,” she replied enigmatically. At this moment one of the savage attendants snatched away the veil which draped the victim, revealing a very beautiful woman clad in a white kirtle which was cut low upon her breast and reached to her knees. Tall and stately, she stood quite still before us, her black hair streaming down upon her shoulders. Then, as though at some signal, all the women in the audience stood up and screamed: “Wed her to the god! Wed her to the god and let us drink of the cup that through her unites us to the god!” Two of the Hairy Folk drew near to the girl, each of whom had something in his hand, though what it was at the moment I could not see, and stood still, as though waiting for a sign. Then followed a pause during which I glanced about me at the faces of the women, made hideous by the unholy passions that raged within them, who stood with outstretched arms pointing at the victim. They looked horrible, and I hated them, all except Dramana, who, I noted with relief, had not cried aloud and did not stretch out her hands like the rest. What was I about to see? Some dreadful act of voodooism such as negroes practise in Hayti and on the West Coast? Perhaps. If so I could not bear it. Whatever the risk might be I could not bear it; almost automatically my hand grasped the stock of my revolver.