"Who is the woman with the cold face who enters our country at the time of the Dances of the Moon?"
All his companions repeated his question in a low, singing tone, touching their amulets, and raising their whitened visages toward the interlaced branches and vines.
The leader's high, tremulous voice was heard again:
"Is it a woman of flesh and blood; or is it the Lady of the Moon?"
It was the genius of the ancient Phoenicians, the spirit of Astoreth, surviving distorted through all these ages in the depths of the jungle, exerting its spell.
But a look of cunning entered his blood-shot eyes; and his flexible mask of white was creased by a smile. He cried out in a new voice:
"If she is the Lady of the Moon our spears will not hurt her!"
He bounded into the air, stamped his feet, shook his headdress, and crouched in an attitude of war.
"But if she is flesh and blood our spears will tell us so!"
All leaped to their feet. Their brandished spears made nimbuses over their heads; and this time their response was like the baying of hounds. Then, one by one, stepping lightly, they slipped through the curtain of vines.