Forward staggered the devil dancer—tall, haggard, with deep sunken eyes and matted hair, face now smeared with dirt and blood-red with the reflection of the strange, unearthly phosphorescence.
He reeled slowly through the crowd, crooning a quatrain, in a low, monotonous voice, his eyelids drooping and his head forward on his breast:
If the Red Slayer think he slays,
Or the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep and pass and turn again!
Entranced the whirling crowd paused and watched. One of their number had received the “power.”
He was swaying slowly to and fro.
“Look!” whispered Kennedy.
His fingers twitched, his head wagged uncannily. Perspiration seemed to ooze from every pore. His breast heaved.
He gave a sudden yell—ear-piercing. Then followed a screech of hellish laughter.
The dance had ended, the dancers spellbound at the sight.
He was whirling slowly, eyes protruding now, mouth foaming, chest rising and falling like a bellows, muscles quivering.