To me, I know not why, there was something horrible in all this
jocosity, something that gave me the creeps as always does the sight
of a cat playing with a mouse. I felt even then that it foreshadowed
terrible things. How _could_ these men know the details of occurrences
at which they were not present and of which no one had told them? Did
that strange "tobacco" of theirs really give them some clairvoyant
power, I wondered, or had they other secret methods of obtaining news?
I glanced at poor Savage and perceived that he too felt as I did, for
he had turned quite pale beneath his tan. Even Hans was affected, for
he whispered to me in Dutch: "These are not men; these are devils, Baas,
and this journey of ours is one into hell."

Only Ragnall sat stern, silent, and apparently quite unmoved. Indeed
there was something almost sphinx-like about the set and expression of
his handsome face. Moreover, I felt sure that Harût and Marût recognized
the man's strength and determination and that he was one with whom they
must reckon seriously. Beneath all their smiles and courtesies I could
read this knowledge in their eyes; also that it was causing them grave
anxiety. It was as though they knew that here was one against whom their
power had no avail, whose fate was the master of their fate. In a sense
Harût admitted this to me, for suddenly he looked up and said in a
changed voice and in Bantu:

"You are a good reader of hearts, O Macumazana, almost as good as I am.
But remember that there is One Who writes upon the book of the heart,
Who is the Lord of us who do but read, and that what He writes, that
will befall, strive as we may, for in His hands is the future."

"Quite so," I replied coolly, "and that is why I am going with you to