Penny’s gaze focused upon the dancing figures. Antón, barefooted and grotesque with a red turban wound about his head, led the procession, beating out a rhythm and shaking the gourd rattle which had been stolen from the thatched cottage.
Behind him came a drummer Penny did not recognize, and three other dancers, who carried aloft a banner upon which were metallic, glittering serpentine symbols.
But it was Celeste, garbed in scarlet with an embroidered stole over her shoulders, who dominated the scene. Seated before an altar where two tall candles burned, she pounded out the basic rhythm on a long, narrow drum.
“The Zudi!” whispered Lorinda. “She stole it from the safe!”
“Let’s make her give it up!”
“No! No!” Lorinda grasped Penny’s arm, holding her back. “It would be folly to show ourselves now. Antón, Celeste and their stupid converts are hypnotized by their own music. If they knew we were watching their rites, there’s no telling what they would do.”
“Celeste is a cruel, dangerous woman.”
“We’ll turn her over to the police. I realize now it’s the only thing to do.”
Fascinated, the girls watched the strange sight. The drums were beating faster now, and at each boom of the Zudi, Antón leaped with frenzied glee rigid as an arrow into the air.
“Who are the others?” Penny whispered.