He took a step toward Sobrinini, who was still staring at him fearfully.
“What mean you?” he cried.
Seeing the terror into which their priestess had been thrown, a strange wild singing rose from the native women as they wove in and out in fantastic mazes, evidently designed to ward off the evil portent.
The bony fingers of Sobrinini closed on Bomba’s arm. Her voice was shrill and urgent, as she said in his ear:
“Come with me, Bartow. Ghost or not, come with Sobrinini.”
As in a nightmare, his mind in a tumult of conflicting emotions, Bomba allowed himself to be led away.
They passed through dank, long grass that sprang from the marshy ground, and in some places grew as high as Bomba’s head. Once he felt the slimy body of a snake beneath his foot and leaped aside, only to feel his foot brush another.
“Be not afraid of the snakes. They are my pets and will not harm anyone that is with Sobrinini,” crooned the old crone at his side.
She knew her way well, for she moved along the winding trail without ever looking down, keeping her fascinated gaze on Bomba’s face.
Twice Bomba started to ask her what she meant by calling him Bartow and a ghost, but twice he was halted by a bony, shriveled finger on his lips and a croaking cry: