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She had to make the ascent very slowly, using her injured arm to support herself. When she emerged at last she found herself in a twilight which for a time her dazzled eyes could not pierce. The heat was intolerable, and the place hummed with flies.

“Beelzebub!” she said softly at length. “Beelzebub, where are you?”

There was a movement in what she dimly discerned to be a heap of straw, and she heard a feeble whimpering as of an animal in pain.

Her heart throbbed with pity as she crept across the littered floor. She was beginning to see more distinctly, and by sundry chinks she discovered the loft door. She went to it, fumbled for the latch, and opened it. Instantly the place was flooded with light, and turning round, she beheld Beelzebub.

He was lying in a twisted heap in the straw, half naked, looking like some monstrous reptile. In all her life she had never beheld anything so horrible. His black flesh was scored over and over with long purple stripes; even his face was swollen almost beyond recognition, and out of it the whites of his eyes gleamed, bloodshot and terrible.

For a few moments she was possessed by an almost overpowering desire to flee from the awful sight; and then again he stirred and whimpered, and pity–element most divine–came to her aid.

She went to the poor, whining creature, and knelt beside him.

“See!” she said. “I have brought you some soup. Do try and take a little! It will do you good.”

There was a note of entreaty in her voice, but Beelzebub’s eyes stared as though they would leap out of his head.

He writhed away from her into the straw. “Go ‘way, missis!” he hissed at her, with lips drawn back in terror. “Go ‘way, or Boss’ll come and beat Beelzebub!”

He spoke the white man’s language; it was the only one he knew, but there was something curiously unfamiliar, something almost bestial in the way he spat his words.

Again Sybil was conscious of a wild desire to escape before sheer horror paralysed her limbs, but she fought and conquered the impulse.

“Boss won’t beat you any more,” she said. “And I want you to be a good boy and drink this before I go. I brought it myself, because I knew you would take it to please me. You will, won’t you, Beelzebub?”

But Beelzebub was not to be easily persuaded. He cried and moaned and writhed at every word she spoke. But Sybil had mastered herself, and she was very patient. She coaxed him as though he had been in truth the sick dog to which Curtis had likened him. And at last, by sheer persistence, she managed to insert the spoon between his chattering teeth.

He let her feed him then, lying passive, still whimpering between every gulp, while she talked soothingly, scarcely knowing what she said in the resolute effort to keep her ever-recurring horror at bay. When the bowl was empty she rose.

“Perhaps you will go to sleep now,” she said kindly. “Suppose you try!”

He stared up at her from his lair with rolling, uneasy eyes. Suddenly he pointed to her bandaged arm.

“Boss did that!” he croaked.

She turned to close the door again, feeling the blood rise in her face.

“Boss didn’t mean to,” she answered with as much steadiness as she could muster. “And he didn’t mean to hurt you so badly, either, Beelzebub. He was sorry afterwards.”

She saw his teeth gleam in the twilight like the bared fangs of a wolf, and knew that he grinned in derision of this statement. She picked up her bowl and turned to go. At the same instant he spoke in a piercing whisper out of the darkness.

“Boss kill a white man once, missis!”

She stood still, rooted to the spot. “Beelzebub!”

He shrank away, whimpering.

“No, no! Boss’ll kill poor Beelzebub! Missis won’t tell Boss?”

To her horror his hand shot out and fastened upon her skirt. But she could not have moved in any case. She stood staring down at him, cold–cold to the very heart with foreboding.