"My heart is heavy at the thought, white chiefs," he said. "But—you must pay!"
Stuart McGregor had stammered ineffectual, foolish apologies:
"We—we were drunk. We didn't know what—or—what we"
"What you were doing!" the Bakoto had finished the sentence for him, with a little melancholy sigh. "And there is forgiveness in my heart"
"You—you mean to say" Farragut Hutchison had jumped up, with extended hand, blurting out hectic thanks.
"Forgiveness in my heart, not the juju's," gently continued the negro. "For the juju never forgives. On the other hand, the juju is fair. He wants his just measure of blood. Not an ounce more. Therefore," the Bakoto had gone on, and his face had been as stony and as passionless as that of the Buddha who meditates in the shade of the cobra's hood, "the choice will be yours."
"Choice?" Farragut Hutchison had looked up, a gleam of hope in his eyes.
"Yes. Choice which one of you will die." The Bakoto had smiled, with the same suave courtliness which had, somehow, increased the utter horror of
