“Who?” inquired the woman, reflectingly.
“Who! No need tell who Chakra enemy—you enemy too. Who fooled you long time ’go? who ’bused you when you wa young gal? No need tell you dat, Cynthy Vagh’n?”
The mulatta turned her eyes upon the speaker with a significant expression. Some old memory seemed resuscitated by his words,—evidently anything but a pleasant one.
“Massa Loftus?” she said, in a half-whisper.
“Sartin shoo, Massa Loftus—dat ere buckra you enemy an’ mine boaf.”
“And you would—?”
“Set de obeah fo’ him,” said the negro, finishing the interrogatory, which the other had hesitated to pronounce.
The woman remained without making answer, and as if buried in reflection. The expression upon her features was not one of repentance.
“Muss be him!” continued the tempter, as if to win her more completely to his dark project; “no odder do so well. Obi god say so—muss be de planter ob Moun’ Welc’m.”
“If Cubina will but love me, I care not who,” rejoined the mulatta, with an air of reckless determination.