“’Nuff sed,” resumed the myal-man. “De obeah-spell sha’ be set on de proud buckra, Loftus Vagh’n; an’ you, Cynthy, muss ’sist in de workin’ ob de charm.”
“How can I assist?” inquired the woman, in a voice whose trembling told of a slight irresolution. “How, Chakra?”
“Dat you be tole by’m-bye—not dis night. De ’pell take time. God Obi he no act all at once, not eben fo’ ole Chakra. You come ’gain when I leab de signal fo’ yon on de trumpet-tree. Till den you keep dark ’bout all dese ting. You one ob de few dat know ole Chakra still ’live. Odders know ob de ole myal-man in de mask, but berry few ebber see um face, an’ nebba suspeck who um be. Das all right. You tell who de myal-man am, den—”
“Oh, never, Chakra,” interrupted his listener, “never!”
“No, berra not. You tell dat, Cynthy, you soon feel de obeah-spell on youseff.
“Now, gal,” continued the negro, rising from his seat, and motioning the mulatta to do the same, “time fo’ you go. I specks one odder soon: no do fo’ you to be cotch hya when dat odder come. Take you basket, an’ folla me.”
So saying, he emptied the basket of its heterogeneous contents; and, handing it to its owner, conducted her out of the hut.