Boville did not understand the formula, but he guessed its meaning. There was no help. He set forth. The Vokhimen pocketed the rum bottle and followed, moving gravely enough now.
The mob shouted with astonishment at the appearance of a white criminal, but when the cause of his arrest was seen—that bundle of the holy Endua—astonishment changed to rage. Boville owed his life to the Azan, the fetich cord, at that instant. But the drummers beat furiously, and, as if in response, a dozen fetich men suddenly appeared, pushing through the crowd. One side of their heads was shaven bare. They wore garments of hideous fantasy, charms and horrid objects innumerable, and each a pair of silver horns upon the forehead. Under this escort Boville marched to the fetich place.
This was a bare piece of ground, encircled by the low dark dwellings of the priests, with the sacred wood behind it, and in the midst the Snake Temple. Often had Boville glanced into the small building, which has no door, and seen the reptiles swarming inside. He did not feel the loathing for snakes which is so common—happily, as it proved. But no man could watch that multitude of restless, twining creatures without horror.
Led to the dreadful doorway, Boville turned, thinking to resist; but they fell upon him, doubled him up—for the entrance was very low—and thrust him in bodily. The poor fellow screamed in tumbling full length upon a platform which occupied the middle. He had seen it alive with snakes, writhing one over the other.
But none were there. He scrambled to his feet and looked round. The temple had no windows, but the solid walls of adobe did not meet the roof, and the level sun-rays of evening poured through the gap. There was nothing to interrupt the view, save a besom and a basket. But no snake could he see. A movement above caught his eye. He looked up.
There are men who would have lost their wits in terror at that sight. The snakes were there, hundreds of them, perched upon the thickness of the wall—the ridge of their bodies gleaming in the red light of sunset, their long necks hanging down, waving and twining. Every head was turned towards him, the glass-bright eyes fixed on his, and the tongues slithering with eagerness. Nightmare was never so horrible.
For an instant Boville stood frozen, with dropped jaw and starting eyes, the icy sweat streaming from every pore; then, howling in no human voice, he burst through the doorway, through the guard, and fell in the midst of a party advancing.
All the Europeans in Whydah were there, with the Viceroy himself, and the head fetich man. The horrid absurdity of their equipment I have no room to describe. The white men had been pleading, even threatening, and the Viceroy supported them. When Boville dropped at their feet the last word had been spoken. His punishment should be that decreed against the man who kills a snake by evil chance—no worse.
‘What is that?’ Boville panted, when the agent who held him in his arms had explained.
‘Never mind—we’ll do our best! And it is to be at once, thank God! Night will soon be here!’