Saying this, he lifted the pot from the fire; and after first pouring the “liquor” into a calabash, and leaving it for some moments to cool, he transferred it to the rum-bottle—long since emptied of its original contents.
Having carefully pressed in the cork, he set the bottle to one side—not in concealment, but as if intended for use at no very distant time.
Then, having gathered up his scattered pharmacopoeia, and deposited the whole collection in the cutacoo, he stepped into the door way of the hut, and, with a hand on each post, stood in an attitude to listen.
It was evident he expected some visitor; and who it was to be was revealed by the muttered soliloquy in which he continued to indulge. The slave Cynthia was to give him another séance.
“Time dat yella wench wa’ come. Muss be nigh twelve ob de night. Maybe she hab call, an’ a no hear her, fo’ de noise ob dat catrack? A bess go down b’low. Like nuf a fine her da!”
As he was stepping across the threshold to put this design into execution, a cry, uttered in the shrill treble of a woman’s voice—and just audible through the soughing sound of the cataract—came from the cliff above.
“Da’s de wench!” muttered the myal-man, as he heard it. “A make sartin shoo she’d come. Lub lead woman troo fire an’ water—lead um to de Debbil. Seed de time dat ar’ yella’ gal temp’ dis chile. No care now. But one Chakra ebber care ’brace in dese arms. Her he clasp only once, he content—he willen’ den fo’ die. Augh!”
As the Coromantee uttered the impassioned ejaculation, he strode outward from the door, and walked with nervous and hurried step—like one urged on by the prospect of soon achieving some horrible but heartfelt purpose he had been long contemplating from a distance.