Rosina dropped her voice a little as she replied in her shrill tone: ‘You is African, Mistah Delgado. Naygur from Africa know plenty spell for bring back le-ady’s lubber.’
Delgado nodded. ‘Dat is true,’ he answered. ‘Creole[2] naygur doan’t can make spell same as African. Coromantyn naygur hab plenty oracle. De oracles ob Aaron descend in right line to de chiefs ob de Coromantyn.’
‘Dem say you is great chief in your own country.’
The old man drew himself up with a haughty air. ‘Me fader,’ he answered with evident pride, ‘hab twelve wives, all princess, an’ I is de eldest son ob de eldest. King Blay fight him, an’ take me prisoner, an’ sell me slabe, an’ dat is how I come to work now ober here on Mistah Dupuy plantation.’
After a pause, he asked quickly: ‘Who dis sweetheart dat you want spell for?’
‘Isaac Pourtalès.’
‘Pourtalès! Him mulatto! What for pretty naygur girl like you want to go an’ lub mulatto? Mulatto bad man. Old-time folk say, mulatto always hate him fader an’ despise him mudder. Him fader de white man, an’ mulatto hate white; him mudder de black girl, an’ mulatto despise black.’
Rosina hung her head down slightly on one side, and put the little finger of her left hand with artless coyness into the corner of her mouth. ‘I doan’t know, sah,’ she said sheepishly after a short pause; ‘but I feel somehow as if I lub Isaac Pourtalès.’
Delgado grinned a sinister grin. ‘Very well, Missy Rosy,’ he said shortly, ‘I gain him lub for you. Wait here one, two, tree minute, le-ady, while I run in find me Bible.’
In a few minutes, he came out again, dressed in his black coat for meeting, with a Bible and hymn-book in one hand, and a curious volume in the other, written in strange, twisted, twirligig characters, such as Rosina had never before in her life set eyes on. ‘See here!’ he cried, opening it wide before her; ‘dat is book ob spells. Dat is African spell for gain lubber. I explain him to you’—and his hand turned rapidly over several of the brown and well-thumbed pages: ‘Isaac Pourtalès, mulatto; Rosina Fleming, black le-ady; dat is de page. Hear what de spell say.’ And he ran his finger line by line along the strange characters, as if translating them into his own negro English as he went. ‘“Take toot’ ob alligator,” same as dis one’—and he produced a few alligators’ teeth from his capacious pocket; ‘“tie him up for a week in bag wid Savannah flower an’ branch of calalue; soak him well in shark’s blood”—I gib de blood to you—“den write de name, Isaac Pourtalès, in big letter on slip ob white paper; drop it in de bag; an’ burn it all togedder on a Friday ebenin’, when it doan’t no moon, wid fire ob manchineel wood.” Dat will gain de lub ob your lubber, as sure as de gospel.’