It was the stealthy opening of a door which awakened the Cimmerian.  He did not awake as civilized men do, drowsy and drugged and stupid.  He awoke instantly, with a clear mind, recognizing the sound that had interrupted his sleep.  Lying there tensely in the dark he saw the outer door slowly open.  In a widening crack of starlit sky he saw framed a great black bulk, broad, stooping shoulders, and a misshapen head blocked out against the stars.

Conan felt the skin crawl between his shoulders.  He had bolted that door securely.  How could it be opening now save by supernatural agency?  And how could a human being possess a head like that outlined against the stars?  All the tales he had heard in the Zuagir tents of devils and goblins came back to bead his flesh with clammy sweat.  Now the monster slid noiselessly into the room, with a crouching posture and a shambling gait; and a familiar scent assailed the Cimmerian's nostrils, but did not reassure him, since Zuagir legendry represented demons as smelling like that.

Noiselessly Conan coiled his long legs under him; his naked sword was in his right hand, and when he struck it was as suddenly and murderously as a tiger lunging out of the dark.  Not even a demon could have avoided that catapulting charge.  His sword met and clove through flesh and bone, and something went heavily to the floor with a strangling cry.  Conan crouched in the dark above it, sword dripping in his hand.  Devil or beast or man, the thing was dead there on the floor.  He sensed death as any wild thing senses it.  He glared through the half-open door into the starlit court beyond.  The gate stood open, but the court was empty.

Conan shut the door but did not bolt it.  Groping in the darkness he found the lamp and lighted it.  There was enough oil in it to burn for a minute or so.  An instant later he was bending over the figure that sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood.

It was a gigantic black man, naked but for a loin cloth.  One hand still grasped a knotty-headed bludgeon.  The fellow's kinky wool was built up into hornlike spindles with twigs and dried mud.  This barbaric coiffure had given the head its misshapen appearance in the starlight.  Provided with a clue to the riddle, Conan pushed back the thick red lips and grunted as he stared down at teeth filed to points.

He understood now the mystery of the strangers who had disappeared from the house of Aram Baksh; the riddle of the black drum thrumming out there beyond the palm groves, and of that pit of charred bones - that pit where strange meat might be roasted under the stars, while black beasts squatted about to glut a hideous hunger.  The man on the floor was a cannibal slave from Darfar.