“No,” said Etcham, “but he was talking some similar lingo. Hamed Burghash said he was talking Balunda. I know too little Balunda. I do not learn languages readily. Stone learned more Mang-Battu in a week than I could have learned in a year. But I seemed to hear words like Mang-Battu words. Anyhow the Mang-Battu bearers were scared.” “Scared?” Van Rieten repeated, questioningly. “So were the Zanzibar men, even Hamed Burghash, and so was I,” said Etcham, “only for a different reason. He talked in two voices.” “In two voices,” Van Rieten reflected. “Yes,” said Etcham, more excitedly than he had yet spoken. “In two voices, like a conversation. One was his own, one a small, thin, bleaty voice like nothing I ever heard. I seemed to make out, among the sounds the deep voice made, something like Mang-Battu words I knew, as _nedru_, _metebaba_, and _nedo_, their terms for ‘head,’ ‘shoulder,’ ‘thigh,’ and perhaps _kudra_ and _nekere_ (‘speak’ and ‘whistle’); and among the noises of the shrill voice _matomipa_, _angunzi_, and _kamomami_ (‘kill,’ ‘death,’ and ‘hate’). Hamed Burghash said he also heard those words. He knew Mang-Battu far better than I.” “What did the bearers say?” Van Rieten asked. “They said, ‘_Lukundoo, Lukundoo!_’” Etcham replied. “I did not know that word; Hamed Burghash said it was Mang-Battu for ‘leopard.’” “It’s Mang-Battu for ‘witchcraft,’” said Van Rieten. “I don’t wonder they thought so,” said Etcham. “It was enough to make one believe in sorcery to listen to those two voices.” “One voice answering the other?” Van Rieten asked perfunctorily. Etcham’s face went gray under his tan. “Sometimes both at once,” he answered huskily. “Both at once!” Van Rieten ejaculated. “It sounded that way to the men, too,” said Etcham. “And that was not all.” He stopped and looked helplessly at us for a moment. “Could a man talk and whistle at the same time?” he asked. “How do you mean?” Van Rieten queried. “We could hear Stone talking away, his big, deep-chested baritone rumbling along, and through it all we could hear a high, shrill whistle, the oddest, wheezy sound. You know, no matter how shrilly a grown man may whistle, the note has a different quality from the whistle of a boy or a woman or little girl. They sound more treble, somehow. Well, if you can imagine the smallest girl who could whistle keeping it up tunelessly right along, that whistle was like that, only even more piercing, and it sounded right through Stone’s bass tones.” “And you didn’t go to him?” Van Rieten cried. “He is not given to threats,” Etcham disclaimed. “But he had threatened, not volubly, nor like a sick man, but quietly and firmly, that if any man of us (he lumped me in with the men), came near him while he was in his trouble, that man should die. And it was not so much his words as his manner. It was like a monarch commanding respected privacy for a death-bed. One simply could not transgress.” “I see,” said Van Rieten shortly.