“The lighted end of Dr. Fouchère’s cigar suddenly glowed again, then he remarked: ‘I am afraid that noise will go on all night, Dr. Leyden. I understand that the peasants are having one of their dances to-night.’ He slightly emphasized the word peasants.
“‘The bamboula?’ I asked, curiously, for, of course, I knew of the rites attendant upon voodoo worship, although I had never witnessed them.
“‘Yes,’ he answered; ‘one of my servants told me this evening that there was to be a dance to-night. This relic of paganism is one of the curses of our country, Dr. Leyden. Although we whites have done our best to discountenance it, it still persists.’
“Unlike most Haytians of the better class, who pretend to a black aristocracy socially superior to the white, Dr. Fouchère always referred to himself as white, although a blacker man never walked in the full blaze of the equatorial sun. No doubt this was due to his prolonged residence among the white race.
“‘Is the affair, then, as bad as it is painted?’ I inquired, for I had heard some very somber stories of the bamboula.
“He hesitated for an instant, and in the pause my ear caught the click of Madame’s little slipper tapping the floor to the time of the distant drum.
“‘It is primitive,’ replied my host. ‘A virile people do not forget in a day the customs of centuries.’ He paused again, and, as before, I heard the click-click of Madame’s slipper marking the beat of the drum.
“‘Perhaps Dr. Leyden is fatigued and would wish to retire,’ she suggested. ‘One rises early——’
“‘Indeed,’ I protested, ‘I am accustomed to sleep but little, but pray do not let me keep you and Dr. Fouchère from your repose.’ To tell the truth, the thought of lying on a bed and counting the strokes of that infernal drum was terrifying to me.
“There was another brief pause, but in the interval I heard Fouchère’s fingers softly tapping the rail in concert with the drum and the slipper of Madame.”