“De yella gal she gib ’im drink;
It make ’im sick - it make ’im sr’ink,
It send ’im to ’im grave!”
“Him grave!” came the response of Accompong.
“An’ if de yella gal refuse,
She ’tep into de buckra’s shoes,
An’ fill de buckra’s tomb.”
“Buckra’s tomb!” echoed the African god, in a sonorous and emphatic voice, that told there was no alternative to the fate thus hypothetically proclaimed.
There was a short interval of silence, and then the shrill, conch-like sound was again heard—as before, followed by the long-drawn bass.
This was the exorcism of the god—as the same sounds, previously heard, had been his invocation.
It was also the finale of the ceremony: since the moment after Chakra pushed open the door, and stood in the entrance of the hut.
“Cynthy, gal,” said he, with a look of mysterious gravity, “why you blow out de light? But no matter for light. It’s all oba. Did you hear the god ’peak?”
“I did,” murmured the mulatta, still trembling at what she had heard.
“You hear wha him say?”