“As even thou shouldst know,” mumbled Marufa, more casually than ever, “he who possesses a part of the soul may do magic thereon.”
“Aye! Aye!”
“Bring me then of the nail parings one, of his hairs one, and of his spittle. Then may I do magic thereon which he cannot resist.”
“O mighty magician!” gasped Bakuma, appalled at the difficulty and the danger of the task.
“That path is sure. There is no other.”
“Eh! … But if they of thy craft should know then am I doomed!”
“There is no other.”
Torn between her love and the dread of the penalty incurred by the sacrilege of the theft of the parts of one who might any day be King-God, Bakuma stared distraught.
“Were not my words white? Hath not the love charm thou hast already had done even as I did say?”
“O mighty one!”