There came from those inilluminable depths the equable
rumour of myriads of winged things and crawling things newly roused to
the task of killing and being killed. Thence detached itself, little
by little, an insidious sound of a drum beaten. This sound drew more
near.
Mr. Williams, issuing from the hut, heard it, and stood gaping towards
it.
"Is that them?" he asked.
"That is they," the islander murmured, moving away towards the edge of
the forest.
Sounds of chanting were a now audible accompaniment to the drum.
"What's that they're singing?" asked Mr. Williams.
"They sing of their business," said Mahamo.
"Oh!" Mr. Williams was slightly shocked. "I'd have thought they'd be
singing of their feast."
"It is of their feast they sing."
It has been stated that Mr. Williams was not imaginative. But a few
years of life in climates alien and intemperate had disordered his
nerves. There was that in the rhythms of the hymn which made bristle
his flesh.
Suddenly, when they were very near, the voices ceased, leaving a
legacy of silence more sinister than themselves. And now the black
spaces between the trees were relieved by bits of white that were the
eyeballs and teeth of Mahamo's brethren.
"It was of their feast, it was of you, they sang," said Mahamo.
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