“She wheedled and coaxed, but he was no fool;
He’d be his own master, he’d not be her tool;
Not the little black moor should send him to school.
“She foamed and she cursed—’twas the same thing to him;
She laid well her trap; but he carried his whim;—
The priest scuffled off, safe in life and in limb.”
Gurta was almost suffocated with passion. “Cyprianus has not escaped, boy?” she asked at length.
“I got him off,” said Juba, undauntedly.
A shade, as of Erebus, passed over the witch’s face; but she remained quite silent.
“Mother, I am my own master,” he continued, “I must break your assumption of superiority. I’m not a boy, though you call me so. I’ll have my own way. Yes, I saved Cyprianus. You’re a bloodthirsty old hag! Yes, I’ve seen your secret doings. Did not I catch you the other day, practising on that little child? You had nailed him up by hands and feet against the tree, and were cutting him to pieces at your leisure, as he quivered and shrieked the while. You were examining or using his liver for some of your black purposes. It’s not in my line; but you gloated over it; and when he wailed, you wailed in mimicry. You were panting with pleasure.”