Behind her sounded the chattering of teeth mingled with mumbled whisperings.
“Nieta,” she said, “what in the world are you doing?”
“She is talking to her teeth,” whispered Dorn.
“Her teeth!” The girl’s tone showed unfeigned amazement.
“Sure. Her snake’s teeth.”
“Snake—”
“You don’t understand,” said her cousin. “Nieta believes in the power of voodoo charms. Her uncle, who is now dead, left her a very ancient charm. She wears it round her neck in a leather sack. It is the teeth of a yellow snake killed at the back of a cave at high tide when the moon was dark. It has great power, so they say. She is afraid now, so she is asking the spirit of the yellow snake for protection.”
“Oh!” Doris shuddered. “I’d rather trust the ghost of that old emperor—if there truly is a ghost.”
“We saw him—Pompee and I.” Dorn’s voice carried conviction.
“But look!” said Doris, pointing to a spot where a patch of green moss had been torn up. “There’s a donkey’s track.”