“Who’s that?” she demanded.
“Only my friend,” June replied timidly.
“Well, she can sit over there.” The priestess pointed to the farthest corner.
When Florence was seated the woman began again her monotonous monologue, but she spoke in such low tones that Florence could catch only a word here and there.
“Darkness,” she heard then—“Spirit of Cristophe—darkness—the black goat—gold, gold, gold—spirit of darkness.”
Even as these last words were spoken, the lights began slowly to fade. Then it was that for the first time Florence became conscious of some living creature in the corner opposite her own. As she looked, she saw it was a black goat with golden horns. Strangely enough, as the light continued to fade, she felt herself imagining that the goat was a spirit, the spirit of that black goat sacrificed on the highest mountain at midnight in the dark of the moon. This, she knew, was pure nonsense.
But why all this failing light? Was this some trick? She was about to leap to her feet and demand that the thing be stopped. Then she thought of the ones who waited in the room beyond the plastered wall. “Nothing serious can happen.” She settled back.
But what was this? The room was now almost completely dark. Along the far side of the room she seemed to catch sight of something moving. It rose and fell, like some filmy shadow or trace of light.
“Like a ghost!” She shuddered. “Yet it is not white. It shines like ebony. It—”
She could not really think the notion that formed in her mind which was, “This is Cristophe’s ghost, a black ghost.”