He lay rigid. The air seemed to quiver. The lines of every man’s limbs, except the King’s, were drawn in tension. Then from the prostrate body of the witch-doctor, whose legs and arms were twisted as in agony, whose dribbling mouth was closed like a vise, came a ventriloquous falsetto:
“Aie-e! Aie-e! I am the spirit of Kintu!
Aie-e! Aie-e! I am he who first was!
Aie-e! Aie-e! I am the banana from whom I was made!
Aie-e! Aie-e! The Keeper of the Name hath betrayed me!
Aie-e! Aie-e! The Bride of me is defiled!
Aie-e! Aie-e! Let him arise who is pure!
Aie-e! Aie-e! Let him arise who is bidden!
Aie-e! Aie-e! Let the fires be put out!
Aie-e! Aie-e! Let a new fire arise from the ashes!