At that they began moving forward, now bending low to glide along on tiptoe, and now creeping on hands and knees toward their strange goal.
“There! There they are!” Mona whispered, as she at last parted two broad palm leaves.
“And there! There is the black goat!” Dot breathed. “And see!” Her words came in an excited whisper. “See! There is no spell upon him. He is tied with a slender rope.”
“Someone else has done this,” the aged native woman’s tone was one of calm assurance. “The Papa Lou did not tie him. There is no need.”
“If we could but get the goat!” Dot whispered once more. “You see,” her low whispered tones were tense with suppressed excitement, “these voodoo people have always been great believers in sacrifice. They have even been accused of human sacrifice, but this I cannot believe to be true. However that may be, they have always sacrificed animals. The goat, a black goat with not a white hair, has always been their choice, yet, when Christophe prepared to defend his people against the French, he and his followers pledged themselves to fight until death over the carcass of a freshly killed wild boar.
“Black goats are rare. This Papa Lou, by some chance, has found one running wild in the mountains. He captured it. They have it now, as you see. After the drumming, dancing and singing will come the ceremony of sacrifice. And after that will begin—”
“The revolution,” Curlie whispered.
“The revolution,” she repeated. “And our little village may be attacked and destroyed at once. For we are white and there are few to protect us.”
In his mind’s eye Curlie saw the beautiful white chateau standing out like a castle of Spain in the moonlight. He pictured himself once more in that beautiful garden with this splendid girl pal across from him and thereupon resolved that, come what might, all this beauty and happiness must not be destroyed.
“Yes,” he said aloud. “We must get their goat to-night.”