“De lub-spell? No—not ’zackly dat. De lub-spell am different. It am ob de nature ob an ointment. Hya! I’se got ’im in dis coco-shell.”
As Chakra said this he raised his hand, and drew out from a cranny in the thatch about three-quarters of the shell of a cocoa-nut; inside which, instead of its white coagulum, appeared a carrot-coloured paste, resembling the pulp of the sapotamammee—for this, in reality, it was.
“Da’s de lub mixture!” continued the obeah-man, in a triumphant tone; “da’s for Cubina!”
“Ah! Cubina is to take that?”
“Shoo he am. He mus’ take ’im. A gib it him, and den he go mad fo’ you. You he lub, an’ he lub you, like two turtle dove in de ’pring time. Whugh!”
“Good Chakra—you are sure it will do Cubina no harm?”
The query proved that the jealousy of the mulatta had not yet reached the point of revenge.
“No,” responded the negro; “do ’im good—do ’im good, an’ nuffin else. Now, Cynthy, gal,” continued he, turning his eyes upon the bottle; “das for de ole Cussus ob Moun’ Welc’m—take um—put ’im in you basket.”
The woman obeyed, though her fingers trembled as she touched the bottle that contained the mysterious medicine.
“And what am I to do with it, Chakra?” she asked, irresolutely.