—"Ho!—ou ni guêpe, anh?"
—"Zanoli bail yon bal; épi maboya rentré ladans."
—"Di moin oti ou kallé, doudoux?"
—"Jouq lariviè Lezà."
—"Fouinq!—ni plis passé trente kilomett!"
—"Eh ben?—ess ou 'lè vini épi moin?"[16]
And as she puts the question she stands still and gazes at him;—her voice is no longer mocking: it has taken another tone,—a tone soft as the long golden note of the little brown bird they call the siffleur-de-montagne, the mountain-whistler.... Yet Fafa hesitates. He hears the clear clang of the plantation bell recalling him to duty;—he sees far down the road—(Ouill! how fast they have been walking!)—a white and black speck in the sun: Gabou, uttering through his joined hollowed hands, as through a horn, the ouklé, the rally call. For an instant he thinks of the overseer's anger,—of the distance,—of the white road glaring in the dead heat: then he looks again into the black eyes of the strange woman, and answers:
—"Oui;—moin ké vini épi ou."
With a burst of mischievous laughter, in which Fafa joins, she walks on,—Fafa striding at her side.... And Gabou, far off, watches them go,—and wonders that, for the first time since ever they worked together, his comrade failed to answer his ouklé.
—"Coument yo ka crié ou, chè?" asks Fafa, curious to know her name.