The priest of Obi, after appearing to have worshipped each fetish in turn, at length transferred his devotions to the rum-bottle—perhaps the most potent god in his whole Pantheon. Taking another long-protracted potation, followed by the customary “Whugh!” he restored the bottle to its place; and then, seating himself upon a huge turtle-shell, that formed part of the plenishing of his temple, he commenced giving his devotee her lesson of instructions.
“Fuss, den,” said he, “to put de lub-spell on anybody—eider a man or a woman—it am nessary, at de same time, to hab de obeah-spell go ’long wi’ it.”
“What!” exclaimed his listener, exhibiting a degree of alarm; “the obeah-spell?—on Cubina, do you mean?”
“No, not on him—dat’s not a nessary consarquence. But ’fore Cubina be made lub you, someb’dy else muss be made sick.”
“Who?” quickly inquired the mulatta, her mind at the moment reverting to one whom she might have wished to be the invalid.
“Who you tink fo’? who you greatest enemy you wish make sick?”
“Yola,” answered the woman, in a low muttered voice, and with only a moment of hesitation.
“Woan do—woman woan do—muss he man; an’ more dan dat, muss be free man. Nigga slave woan do. Obi god tell me so jess now. Buckra man, too, it muss be. If buckra man hab de obeah-’pell, Cubina he take de lub-spell ’trong—he lub you hard as a ole mule can kick.”
“Oh! if he would!” exclaimed the passionate mulatta, in an ecstasy of delightful expectation; “I shall do anything for that—anything!”
“Den you muss help put de obeah-spell on some ob de white folk. You hab buckra enemy?—Chakra hab de same.”