“Yes; a 'devil's ear'—that's what the natives call fungus.”
“Well,” continued Lupton, “this was a piece of dried fungus, and yet it wasn't a piece of fungus. It was the exact shape of a human heart—just as I've seen a model of it made of wax. That hadn't been its natural shape, but the sides had been brought together and stitched with human hair—by the soul-doctor, of course. I looked at it curiously enough, and gave it back to him. His fingers closed round it again.”
“What is it?” he says again.
“It's a model of a human heart,” says I, “made of fungus.”
“My God!” he says, “how could he know?” Then he didn't say any more, and in another half-hour or so he dies, quiet and gentlemanly like. I looked for the heart with Màmeri in the morning—it was gone.
“Well, we buried him. And now look here, Mr. ———, as sure as I believe there's a God over us, I believe that that native soul-catcher has dealings with the Devil. I had just stowed the poor chap in his coffin and was going to nail it down when the kanaka wizard came in, walks up to me, and says he wants to see the dead man's hand. Just to humour him I lifted off the sheet. The soul-catcher lifted the dead man's hands carefully, and then I'm d———d if he didn't lay that dried heart on his chest and press the hands down over it.”
“What's that for?” says I.
“'Tis the heart of the woman he slew in her sleep. Let it lie with him, so that there may be peace between them at last,” and then he glides away without another word.