Warning them not to shoot unless the man was successfully escaping, Sheldon beckoned the Poonga-Poonga men forward.  Joan smiled appreciatively to Sheldon.  It was head-hunters against head-hunters.  The blacks trod noiselessly to their stations, which were arranged so that they could spring simultaneously into the open.  Their faces were keen and serious, their eyes eloquent with the ecstasy of living that was upon them—­for this was living, this game of life and death, and to them it was the only game a man should play, withal they played it in low and cowardly ways, killing from behind in the dim forest gloom and rarely coming out into the open.

Sheldon whispered the word, and the ten runners leaped forward—­for Binu Charley ran with them.  The bushman’s keen ears warned him, and he sprang to his feet, bow and arrow in hand, the arrow fixed in the notch and the bow bending as he sprang.  The man he let drive at dodged the arrow, and before he could shoot another his enemies were upon him.  He was rolled over and over and dragged to his feet, disarmed and helpless.

“Why, he’s an ancient Babylonian!” Joan cried, regarding him.  “He’s an Assyrian, a Phoenician!  Look at that straight nose, that narrow face, those high cheek-bones—­and that slanting, oval forehead, and the beard, and the eyes, too.”

“And the snaky locks,” Sheldon laughed.

The bushman was in mortal fear, led by all his training to expect nothing less than death; yet he did not cower away from them.  Instead, he returned their looks with lean self-sufficiency, and finally centred his gaze upon Joan, the first white woman he had ever seen.

“My word, bush fella kai-kai along that fella boy,” Binu Charley remarked.

So stolid was his manner of utterance that Joan turned carelessly to see what had attracted his attention, and found herself face to face with Gogoomy.  At least, it was the head of Gogoomy—­the dark object they had seen hanging in the smoke.  It was fresh—­the smoke-curing had just begun—­and, save for the closed eyes, all the sullen handsomeness and animal virility of the boy, as Joan had known it, was still to be seen in the monstrous thing that twisted and dangled in the eddying smoke.

Nor was Joan’s horror lessened by the conduct of the Poonga-Poonga boys.  On the instant they recognized the head, and on the instant rose their wild hearty laughter as they explained to one another in shrill falsetto voices.  Gogoomy’s end was a joke.  He had been foiled in his attempt to escape.  He had played the game and lost.  And what greater joke could there be than that the bushmen should have eaten him?  It was the funniest incident that had come under their notice in many a day.  And to them there was certainly nothing unusual nor bizarre in the event.  Gogoomy had completed the life-cycle of the bushman.  He had taken heads, and now his own head had been taken.  He had eaten men, and now he had been eaten by men.