But how was this to be done? The goat stood at a spot not five feet from the edge of the circling throng. The flare of the camp fire lighted the scene. To approach near enough to free the goat was to court disaster.
“Listen.” Dot held up a hand.
The drumming had ceased quite suddenly. The chanting died away. Exhausted dancers threw themselves upon the grass. A dark figure, a man unmistakably from the city, a black man with an evil face, rose up from among the people. He began to speak in French creole, the language of the people.
For a time the three there in the shadows listened spell-bound. The man’s words came forth in wild explosive outbursts. The people murmured assent, or sat in stolid silence, listening to the harangue.
“What does he say?” Curlie whispered.
“He,” Mona answered, “he say what is not true. But how are these simple ones to know? He say white men have come to enslave us, even as French men enslaved our grandfathers. Already we work roads we do not travel. Time will come when we work on plantations, in sugar mills, in mines and have no pay. That he says. Better he says that we die fighting.”
“People have worked the roads always,” said Dot. “Now they work on the most needed roads. It’s part of America’s efficiency.”
“I know,” said Mona. “But how can these understand? After the speech—the sacrifice.”
Curlie repeated, “We must get the goat. But how?”
He thought of his bow and arrow. He was a fair shot. The arrow point was sharp as a razor blade. One twang of the bow, one wild bleat, perhaps, and the goat would be no more. Yet he shrank from killing such a beautiful creature. Besides, such a course was fraught with danger. They might be caught. There must be another way.