The mutterings which fell from his lips, as he moved onward among the trees, told that his discontent still continued. Chakra’s assurances, that had, for the moment, partially removed his ill-humour, on reflection failed to satisfy him. More than once before, the myal-man had given him promises which he had failed in keeping; and so might it be with the promise of the death-spell. With this thought was revived in full vigour the apprehension that his enemy might escape; and, consequently, his deep-conceived scheme would result in ignominious failure.
The measures which the myal-man had taken for administering the spell-medicine—that bottle of strong waters which Cynthia carried home in her basket—had been revealed to the Jew. The revelation had been made—as suited the subject—in a low tone of voice; and it was this part of the dialogue between the two conspirators which Cubina had not heard.
But the Coromantee might be mistaken in his skill? The prescription might fail in producing the desired effect? The slave might not find the opportunity to administer it?
Considering the early hour at which the traveller was to start—Jessuron knew the hour—Cynthia might not have a chance to give the medicine? Or, frayed by contemplation of the fearful consequence, which she now knew would follow almost instantaneously upon the act, she might in the end shy from the dangerous duty? The intended victim might, in the meantime, have become suspicious of the mixtures prepared by the mulatta, and decline to drink the deadly draught?
There were many chances that the Custos might escape.
“‘There ish many a shlip between the cup and the lipsh’!” muttered the wicked old man, quoting one of his favourite proverbs. “Ach! that ish true,” he added, with bitter emphasis, as the probabilities of failure passed more palpably before his mind.
“S’help me!” continued he, with an attempt at self-consolation; “I shall not be deprived of my refenge—that ish certain—whether he goesh to Spanish Town, or shtays at home. Ach!” he exclaimed, again changing his tone to one of chagrin, “what dosh that signify, beshide the other? If he could be shtopped, it wash a grand destiny for mine Shoodith, for myshelf—me, old Shacob Shessuron! Mount Welcome wash mine! It musht belong to this young fellow—he belongs to Shoodith—Shoodith belongsh to me! Ach! what a pity if my shkeme ish to fail—after all I hash done to make it succeed!
“If it fail,” he continued, the probabilities of failure presenting a new phase to him, “if it fail, I’m a ruined man!—I am! Shoodith may want to marry this young fellow. I believe she luffs him—I’m afeerd she doesh—and he hasn’t the worth of the shoosh he shstands in. Blesh my shoul! I musht try to prevent it. It musht go no further till I’m sure of the Cushtos. Not a shtep—not a shtep. She musht be seen, and thish very night. Yesh; I musht see Shoodith before I shleep.”
Urged on by the desire of the interview thus announced, the Jew hastened his steps; and soon arrived under the shadow of the dark pile that constituted his dwelling.
Admitted by the black porter at the gate—for that of the courtyard, or slave inclosure, was always kept locked—he mounted the wooden steps, and stole as silently along the verandah, as if he had been a stranger in the house instead of its owner. His object, in this stealthy movement, appeared to be to avoid disturbing some one who slept in a hammock near one end of the long gallery.