“My goodness!” she exclaimed, “what a terrible face, beautiful too in its way.”

Hardly had the words left her lips when for some reason unexplained that probably had to do with the shifting of the centre of gravity, Little Bonsa appeared to glide or fall out of her box with a startling suddenness, and project herself straight at Barbara, who, with a faint scream, fearing lest the precious thing should be injured, caught it in her arms and for a moment hugged it to her breast.

“Saved!” she exclaimed, recovering herself and placing it on the table, whereon Jeekie, to their astonishment, began to execute a kind of war dance.

“Oh! yes,” he said, “saved, very much saved.  All saved, most magnificent omen.  Lady kneel to Little Bonsa and Little Bonsa nip out of box, make bow and jump in lady’s arms.  That splendid, first-class luck, for miss and everybody.  When Little Bonsa do that need fear nothing no more.  All come right as rain.”

“Nonsense,” said Barbara, laughing.  Then from a cautious distance she continued her examination of the fetish.

“See,” said Jeekie, pointing to the misshapen little gold legs which were yet so designed that it could be stood up upon them, “when anyone wear Little Bonsa, tie her on head behind by these legs; look, here same old leather string.  Now I put her on, for she like to be worn again,” and with a quick movement he clapped the mask on to his face, manipulated the greasy black leather thongs and made them fast.  Thus adorned the great negro looked no less than terrific.

“I see you, miss,” he said, turning the fixed eyes of opal-like stone, bloodshot with little rubites, upon Barbara, “I see you, though you no see me, for these eyes made very cunning.  But listen, you hear me,” and suddenly from the mask, produced by some contrivance set within it, there proceeded an awful, howling sound that made her shiver.

“Take that thing off, Jeekie,” said Alan, “we don’t want any banshees here.”

“Banshees?  Not know him, he poor English fetish p’raps,” said Jeekie, as he removed the mask.  “This real African god, howl banshee and all that sort into middle of next week.  This Little Bonsa and no mistake, ten thousand years old and more, eat up lives, so many that no one can count them, and go on eating for ever, yes unto the third and fourth generation, as Ten Commandments lay it down for benefit of Christian man, like me.  Look at her again, Miss Barbara.”

Miss Barbara took the hateful, ancient thing in her hands and studied it.  No one could doubt its antiquity, for the gold plate of which it was made was literally worn away wherever it had touched the foreheads of the high priests or priestesses who donned it upon festive occasions or days of sacrifice, showing that hundreds and hundreds of them must have used it thus in succession.  So was the vocal apparatus within the mouth, and so were the little toad-like feet upon which it was stood up.  Also the substance of the gold itself as here and there pitted as though with acid or salts, though what those salts were she did not inquire.  And yet, so consummate was the art with which it had originally been fashioned, that the battered beautiful face of Little Bonsa still peered at them with the same devilish smile that it had worn when it left the hands of its maker, perhaps before Mohammed preached his holy war, or even earlier.