--ate,--whispered the old man.--ate! Revenge!----as her name Joan?--murmured Buckner.
It was as if the name penetrated the fogs of senility that clouded the voodoo-man't mind. He shook himself and the film faded from his eyes, leaving them hard and gleaming as wet black marble.
--oan?--he said slowly.--have not heard that name for the span of a generation. I seem to have been sleeping, gentlemen; I do not remember--I ask your pardon. Old men fall asleep before the fire, like old dogs. You asked me of Blassenville Manor? Sir, if I were to tell you why I cannot answer you, you would deem it mere superstition. Yet the white man't God be my witness--
As he spoke he was reaching across the hearth for a piece of firewood, groping among the heaps of sticks there. And his voice broke in a scream, as he jerked back his arm convulsively. And a horrible, thrashing, trailing thing came with it. Around the voodoo-man't arm a mottled length of that shape was wrapped and a wicked wedge-shaped head struck again in silent fury.
The old man fell on the hearth, screaming, upsetting the simmering pot and scattering the embers, and then Buckner caught up a billet of firewood and crushed that flat head. Cursing, he kicked aside the knotting, twisting trunk, glaring briefly at the mangled head. Old Jacob had ceased screaming and writhing; he lay still, staring glassily upward.
--ead?--whispered Griswell.
--ead as Judas Iscariot,--snapped Buckner, frowning at the twitching reptile.--hat infernal snake crammed enough poison into his veins to kill a dozen men his age. But I think it was the shock and fright that killed him.----hat shall we do?--asked Griswell, shivering.
--eave the body on that bunk. Nothin'tcan hurt it, if we bolt the door so the wild hogs can't get in, or any cat. We--l carry it into town tomorrow. We--e got work to do tonight. Let-- get goin't-- Griswell shrank from touching the corpse, but he helped Buckner lift it on the rude bunk, and then stumbled hastily out of the hut. The sun was hovering above the horizon, visible in dazzling red flame through the black stems of the trees.
They climbed into the car in silence, and went bumping back along the stumpy terrain.
--e said the Big Snake would send one of his brothers,--muttered Griswell.
--onsense!--snorted Buckner.--nakes like warmth, and that swamp is full of them. It crawled in and coiled up among that firewood. Old Jacob disturbed it, and it bit him. Nothin'tsupernatural about that.--After a short silence he said, in a different voice,--hat was the first time I ever saw a rattler strike without singin'tand the first time I ever saw a snake with a white crescent moon on its head.-- They were turning into the main road before either spoke again.
--ou think that the mulatto Joan has skulked in the house all these years?--Griswell asked.
--ou heard what old Jacob said,--answered Buckner grimly.--ime means nothin'tto a zuvembie.-- As they made the last turn in the road, Griswell braced himself against the sight of Blassenville Manor looming black against the red sunset. When it came into view he bit his lip to keep from shrieking. The suggestion of cryptic horror came back in all its power.
--ook!--he whispered from dry lips as they came to a halt beside the road. Buckner grunted.
From the balustrades of the gallery rose a whirling cloud of pigeons that swept away into the sunset, black against the lurid glare--
III
THE CALL OF ZUVEMBIE
Both men sat rigid for a few moments after the pigeons had flown.
--ell, I--e seen them at last,--muttered Buckner.
--nly the doomed see them, perhaps,--whispered Griswell.--hat tramp saw them--
--ell, we--l see,--returned the Southerner tranquilly, as he climbed out of the car, but Griswell noticed him unconsciously hitch forward his scabbarded gun.
The oaken door sagged on broken hinges. Their feet echoed on the broken brick walk. The blind windows reflected the sunset in sheets of flame. As they came into the broad hall Griswell saw the string of black marks that ran across the floor and into the chamber, marking the path of a dead man.
Buckner had brought blankets out of the automobile. He spread them before the fireplace.
----l lie next to the door,--he said.--ou lie where you did last night.----hall we light a fire in the grate?--asked Griswell, dreading the thought of the blackness that would cloak the woods when the brief twilight had died.
--o. You--e got a flashlight and so have I. We--l lie here in the dark and see what happens. Can you use that gun I gave you?----suppose so. I never fired a revolver, but I know how it's done.----ell, leave the shootin'tto me, if possible.--The sheriff seated himself cross-legged on his blankets and emptied the cylinder of his big blue Colt, inspecting each cartridge with a critical eye before he replaced it.
Griswell prowled nervously back and forth, begrudging the slow fading of the light as a miser begrudges the waning of his gold. He leaned with one hand against the mantelpiece, staring down into the dust-covered ashes. The fire that produced those ashes must have been built by Elizabeth Blassenville, more than forty years before. The thought was depressing. Idly he stirred the dusty ashes with his toe. Something came to view among the charred debris--a bit of paper, stained and yellowed. Still idly he bent and drew it out of the ashes. It was a note-book with moldering cardboard backs.
--hat have you found?--asked Buckner, squinting down the gleaming barrel of his gun.
--othing but an old note-book. Looks like a diary. The pages are covered with writing--but the ink is so faded, and the paper is in such a state of decay that I can't tell much about it. How do you suppose it came in the fireplace, without being burned up?----hrown in long after the fire was out,--surmised Buckner.--robably found and tossed in the fireplace by somebody who was in here stealin'tfurniture. Likely somebody who couldn't read.-- Griswell fluttered the crumbling leaves listlessly, straining his eyes in the fading light over the yellowed scrawls. Then he stiffened.
--ere-- an entry that-- legible! Listen!--He read:
--I know someone is in the house besides myself. I can hear someone prowling about at night when the sun has set and the pines are black outside. Often in the night I hear it fumbling at my door. Who is it? Is it one of my sisters? Is it Aunt Celia? If it is either of these, why does she steal so subtly about the house? Why does she tug at my door, and glide away when I call to her? Shall I go to the door and go out to her? No, no! I dare not! I am afraid. Oh God, what shall I do? I dare not stay here--but where am I to go?--
--y God!--ejaculated Buckner.--hat must be Elizabeth Blassenville-- diary! Go on!----can't make out the rest of the page,--answered Griswell.--ut a few pages further on I can make out some lines.--He read:
--Why did the negroes all run away when Aunt Celia disappeared? My sisters are dead. I know they are dead. I seem to sense that they died horribly, in fear and agony. But why? Why? If someone murdered Aunt Celia, why should that person murder my poor sisters? They were always kind to the black people. Joan----He paused, scowling futilely.
-- piece of the page is torn out. Here-- another entry under another date--at least I judge it's a date; I can't make it out for sure.
----the awful thing that the old negress hinted at? She named Jacob Blount, and Joan, but she would not speak plainly; perhaps she feared to--Part of it gone here; then:--o, no! How can it be? She is dead--or gone away. Yet--she was born and raised in the West Indies, and from hints she let fall in the past, I know she delved into the mysteries of the voodoo. I believe she even danced in one of their horrible ceremonies--how could she have been such a beast? And this--this horror. God, can such things be? I know not what to think. If it is she who roams the house at night, who fumbles at my door, who whistles so weirdly and sweetly--no, no, I must be going mad. If I stay here alone I shall die as hideously as my sisters must have died. Of that I am convinced.--