They continued their way on foot down paths wherein they feared much evil, between patches of moonlight, bursting brightly enough through the interlacing branches to have enabled them to read a letter.
Weird sounds guided them to a ring of scantily-clad revellers round a bonfire and a young lady, attired in rings of silver wire which crawled up her legs and arms, impeding free movement.
The Chief of the family, who introduced himself as "Captain Tin Belly," told them that the girl was mafai or bewitched, and there to be fêted. She had been very ill and was inspired by convalescence to prophesy on the heels of an extraordinary dream.
Thus, also, were witch-doctors licensed, but if the aspirant to that honour was, later, doomed a failure he was again relegated to private life.
Mr. Toms, who had arrived at the festivities, proved a useful interpreter.
"This lady was cured by English prescription," he told Ferlie. "That which you doubtless use, when Eno's Salts are added to water with some turpentine and powdered camphor. They gave twice a day for belly-ache."
Wild chanting heralded another procession from a neighbouring village, the members of which beat a pig-skin drum and bore aloft the corpse of a sacrificial pig, while indignant squealing from the rear betrayed the whereabouts of more pigs, bound for burnt offering.
The great dance of the evening was executed to hand-clapping, accompanied by a low monotone introducing here and there odd English phrases, culled from the Converted, in compliment to the foreigners present.
"Where-is-my-hat-safe-in-the-arms-of-Jesus-give- him-more-pig-God-save-the-King," one man sang piously in passing Ferlie.
"Is Delilah the hors d'œuvre or only the dessert?" asked Cyprian, watching the hoisting of the Amazon in silver armour to an honourable situation beside the dead pig.