As he had talked, Kitembo had come closer to Zveri, at whose side stood Zora Drinov, and now the black chief reached out quickly and grasped her by the wrist. "Come!" he said, and as he uttered the word something hummed above their heads, and Kitembo, chief of the Basembos, clutched at an arrow in his chest.
"Do not look up," cried a voice from above. "Keep your eyes upon the ground, for whosoever looks up dies. Listen well to what I have to say, black men. Go your way to your own countries, leaving behind you all of the white people. Do not harm them. They belong to me. I have spoken."
Wide-eyed and trembling, the black headmen fell back from the whites, leaving Kitembo writhing upon the ground. They hastened to cross the camp to their fellows, all of whom were now thoroughly terrified; and before the chief of the Basembos ceased his death struggle, the black tribesmen had seized the loads which they had previously divided amongst them and were pushing and elbowing for precedence along the game trail that led out of camp toward the west.
Watching them depart, the whites sat in stupefied silence, which was not broken until after the last black had gone and they were alone.
"What do you suppose that thing meant by saying we belong to him?" asked Ivitch in a slightly thickened voice.
"How could I know?" growled Zveri.
"Perhaps it is a man-eating ghost," suggested Romero with a smile.
"It has done about all the harm it can do now," said Zveri. "It ought to leave us alone for awhile."
"It is not such a malign spirit," said Zora. "It can't be, for it certainly saved me from Kitembo."
"Saved you for itself," said Ivitch.