The trail began to rise out of the jungle, dipping at times into festering hollows of unwholesome vegetation, but rising more and more over swelling, unseen hill-slopes or climbing steep hog-backs and rocky hummocks where the forest thinned and blue patches of sky appeared overhead.

“Close up he stop,” Binu Charley warned them in a whisper.

Even as he spoke, from high overhead came the deep resonant boom of a village drum.  But the beat was slow, there was no panic in the sound.  They were directly beneath the village, and they could hear the crowing of roosters, two women’s voices raised in brief dispute, and, once, the crying of a child.  The run-way now became a deeply worn path, rising so steeply that several times the party paused for breath.  The path never widened, and in places the feet and the rains of generations had scoured it till it was sunken twenty feet beneath the surface.

“One man with a rifle could hold it against a thousand,” Sheldon whispered to Joan.  “And twenty men could hold it with spears and arrows.”

They came out on the village, situated on a small, upland plateau, grass-covered, and with only occasional trees.  There was a wild chorus of warning cries from the women, who scurried out of the grass houses, and like frightened quail dived over the opposite edge of the clearing, gathering up their babies and children as they ran.  At the same time spears and arrows began to fall among the invaders.  At Sheldon’s command, the Tahitians and Poonga-Poonga men got into action with their rifles.  The spears and arrows ceased, the last bushman disappeared, and the fight was over almost as soon as it had begun.  On their own side no one had been hurt, while half a dozen bushmen had been killed.  These alone remained, the wounded having been carried off.  The Tahitians and Poonga-Poonga men had warmed up and were for pursuit, but this Sheldon would not permit.  To his pleased surprise, Joan backed him up in the decision; for, glancing at her once during the firing, he had seen her white face, like a glittering sword in its fighting intensity, the nostrils dilated, the eyes bright and steady and shining.

“Poor brutes,” she said.  “They act only according to their natures.  To eat their kind and take heads is good morality for them.”

“But they should be taught not to take white men’s heads,” Sheldon argued.

She nodded approval, and said, “If we find one head we’ll burn the village.  Hey, you, Charley!  What fella place head he stop?”

“S’pose he stop along devil-devil house,” was the answer.  “That big fella house, he devil-devil.”

It was the largest house in the village, ambitiously ornamented with fancy-plaited mats and king-posts carved into obscene and monstrous forms half-human and half-animal.  Into it they went, in the obscure light stumbling across the sleeping-logs of the village bachelors and knocking their heads against strings of weird votive-offerings, dried and shrivelled, that hung from the roof-beams.  On either side were rude gods, some grotesquely carved, others no more than shapeless logs swathed in rotten and indescribably filthy matting.  The air was mouldy and heavy with decay, while strings of fish-tails and of half-cleaned dog and crocodile skulls did not add to the wholesomeness of the place.