“Fuss an’ formoss, den, de grand buckra ob Moun’ Welcome, ebbery night ’fore he go bed, hab glass ob rum punch. I know he used hab—he so ’till, eh?”
“Yes—he does,” mechanically answered the mulatta.
“Berry likely—dat ere am one ob de habits neider buckra nor brack man am like break off. Ebbery night, shoo?”
“Yes—every night—one glass—sometimes two.”
“Gorry! ef twa me, me hab two—not sometime, but alway—’cept when a make um tree, ha! ha! Berry well, das all right; and now, gal, who mix de punch fo’ ’im? You use do dat youseff, Cynthy!”
“It is still my business. I make it for him every night.”
“Good—das jess de ting. Whugh! now we know how set de ’pell ob de obeah. You see dis hya? It am de claw of de mountain crab. You see de ’cratch—dar—inside ob de machine? Well—up to dat mark it holds jess de ’zack quantum. Ebbery night you make de punch, you fill up dar out ob dis bottle. You pour in de glass—fuss de sugar an’ lemon—den de water—den de rum, which am ’tronger dan de water; an’ affer dat de ’pell out of dis bottle, which am de ’trongest ob dem all. You ’member all a hab tell you?”
“I shall remember it,” rejoined the woman, with a firmness of voice, partly assumed—for she dreaded to show any sign of irresolution.
“Ef you no do, den de spell turn roun’ an’ he work ’gin youseff. When de Obi once ’gins he no ’top till he hab ’im victim. Now a go fo’ ’voke de god Accompong. He come whenebba Chakra call. He make ’im ’pearance in de foam ob de catrack out yonner. Affer dat no mortal him lay not till one be promise fo’ de sacrafize. You ’tay in hya—De god muss not see no woman—you lissen—you hear um voice.”
Rising with a mysterious air, and taking down from its peg an old palm-leaf wallet, that appeared to contain some heavy article, the myal-man stepped out of the hut, closing the door behind him, lest—as he informed the mulatta, in sotto voce—the god might set his eyes on her, and get into a rage.