Part 21

"'Not at all,' I hastened to assure him. 'It all seems so wonderful to me, you must excuse my apparent incredulity.'

"'The most natural thing in the world,' smiled Sing with grave courtesy, 'but I will let your own eyes banish any doubt you may have as to the wonderful properties of this strange powder.

"'Ashmed,' he called, 'ask my son to come here a moment if he will be so good.'

"The attendant who had spoken to me when I entered immediately disappeared, and in a moment a back door opened and the bent figure of a very old man entered the room and spoke to Sing in a weak voice. The language was evidently Hindustani, but I caught a word here and there which sounded familiar. Sing spoke to him sharply, and turning to me said, 'This is my son; he is nearly eighty years old, but refuses to take the powder on account of his religious principles--he belongs to the sect who believes that to die is better than to live, that his spirit will become incarnate in another body, and in his next life he will be at least a Kobtchie.'

"My eyes must have betrayed my incredulity.

"'You do not doubt that he is my son?' sweetly asked Mr. Sing.

"'Certainly not,' I answered.

"'I trust, then, that I shall have the pleasure of furnishing you with some of the wonderful powder? There is not very much of it left, but luckily it requires a very small dose. I have enough probably to supply one hundred men to insure them existence for one hundred and fifty years. When that is gone the supply can never be replenished.'

"He sighed.

"'Thank you,' I answered. 'I shall think the matter over and in all probability give myself the pleasure of calling upon you again.'

"Then I came away, being bowed out by the sable attendants with all ceremony possible. There! What do you think of that?"

"Do you intend to return and purchase the powder?" asked Robinson.

"Perhaps," answered Watson, "but I think I will wait awhile and see if Jones lives to be one hundred and fifty!"

THE VOODOO IDOL.

Jones lay on the sofa watching the consul mix a long, cool drink of Apollinaris water and crushed sour-sop. His arm pained him a good deal and the bandages felt hot and uncomfortable. By his side was a little table on which were piled numerous articles in a manner common to mankind, among which were a bottle of whiskey, a revolver, several books, and a plate containing some bananas and sapodillias. A light breeze stirred the curtains behind him, and under the awning he could see the long stretch of green palms and waving cocoanuts, back of the city. A faint white line indicated the road to Lecoup.

"I tell you what, old man," said the consul, as he poured the mixture from the shaker into the tall, thin glasses, "you are almightly lucky to get out alive, and you took big chances. Stealing a god of the Voodoo priests is about as dangerous an experiment as playing with fire over a barrel of gunpowder. From your description I should judge the place you found it was about fifteen miles back of Gantier."

Jones nodded in silence.

"Well," continued the consul, "it was somewhere in that vicinity they killed that Frenchman last year, and how they ever let you get out alive I don't know. They meant to kill you fast enough, tried to poison you at Gantier, and knocked out that servant of yours. You escaped by not drinking the coffee. Then some one shot at you on the road, and even then you did not have sense enough to throw away the idol; but even if you had I don't know that it would have made any difference. Then the day before yesterday they put a bullet through your arm at Lecoup, and if old Chabeau had not gone himself with you part of the way, I do not believe you would ever have reached here alive. What on earth made you monkey with that idol anyway?"

Jones explained that he could not resist the temptation to steal it. He had been camping on the banks of a nearly dry stream, ten miles or more east of Gantier, where he had found the little hummingbird, Mellisuga minima, the smallest bird in the world, very abundant. He had also trapped a specimen of the extremely rare Solenodon, and being anxious to procure more he had stayed there for several days. Within half a mile of his camp was a small stone tower open at the sides, in the middle of which stood a little idol on a sort of pedestal. This little idol was about eighteen inches high and was carved out of stone, the eyes oddly enough being bone. Jones had cast longing glances on this idol, but did not dare to touch it, or in fact to go into the tower, as the natives were sullen and suspicious, and on more than one occasion showed signs of being decidedly ugly.

Jones saw enough to confirm his impression that these people were a bad lot, and one dark night he "folded his tent like the Arabs and silently stole away," taking with him as a souvenir the little idol, which he had carefully rolled in a blanket and packed on one side of his pack-horse to balance his box of specimens on the other. Fear of possible unpleasant consequences had caused Jones to ride fast, but he had been followed and three separate attempts made on his life by unknown persons. The last one resulted in a bullet through the upper part of the left arm. He was safe enough now, however, as he remarked, there being little likelihood of danger while under the protection of the American consul in the city of Porto Prince.

"Don't you be too sure of that," said the consul. "There, try that and see how you like it."

Jones sipped the cool mixture; it seemed like nectar to him in his feverish condition. The bullet which had passed through his arm had made a wound, which, while not in itself serious, had left him weak and feverish.

"Yes," continued the consul, "you were mighty lucky to get off as you did. You may not know it, but right here in Hayti the people in the interior are as savage and bloodthirsty as any Central African tribe. Most of the inhabitants are descendants of negroes brought from the Gold Coast many years ago. They have reverted to their original wild state, keeping up many of the ancient customs. Mixing as they have with the Indians of the interior, the present race is even worse than their ancestors. From Toussant l'Overture in 1804, when he first ruled, to Hyppolite Florvil and Salomon, the island has been the scene of continuous insurrection, intrigue, and murder.

"Salomon was probably the best of them all. He was an immense negro, some six feet four inches tall, with a pock-marked face, who had received an education in Paris and married a Frenchwoman. He, like the rest, however, was superstitious and cruel at heart. Hyppolite was a Voodoo priest and, it is said, an anthropophagist. The people of the interior have an intense hatred for the white man, and still retain many of the barbarous customs of the savages of the African interior.

"The Voodoo dance is presided over by a high priest, who usually commands a goat or a hen to be killed, but in some of the more important ceremonies a child is murdered, and its blood mixed with the tafia and drunk by the dancers. The high priest is called Papoloy. Every two years after the dance of the moon a human sacrifice is ordered; generally a young girl is killed and eaten. You probably ran up against one of the Voodoo gods, and the large stone in front was undoubtedly the sacrificial stone. How you ever got away alive passes my comprehension. They evidently thought that you would try to leave in the day-time, and had things all arranged for taking a shot at you somewhere, but your nocturnal skedaddle knocked their plans galley west. There is one thing dead sure, those Voodoo priests are bad medicine, as we used to say out West, and you want to keep your weather-eye open until you are safe on board a steamer and out of the harbor. I wouldn't give five cents for your life if you walked about the streets of Porto Prince. When the time comes to leave I will have you smuggled on board. The authorities would wink at your assassination, but they would not openly countenance it."

Jones remarked wearily that he had begun to believe it might be as well for him to rest quietly in the consulate, and not give them another chance.

The soft flower-scented breeze blew softly in through the open window and was soothing to Jones. Lying there on the lounge with his eyes closed, he soon fell asleep, and the consul left him to attend to his various duties. When Jones awoke he lay in a sort of drowsy condition--half asleep and half awake. Through his partly open eyes he looked through the open door leading out on the broad piazza. There was a chair in front of the door, and over the top of this he saw a face and a pair of very black eyes looking at him intently. For a moment he imagined it was some freak of his imagination, as the face was as still as though it was carved in wax. Right in line with Jones' eyes, and within a foot of his half extended arm, was the little table, and the handle of the revolver seemed to stand out as though placed there for his especial benefit. That was certainly real, and it required a very slight movement for his fingers to close over the pistol handle; but he did not move and lay watching the figure, which began to rise slowly and developed into the form of a large, ugly-looking negro. Jones remembered particularly noticing a white scar across the cheek just under the eye. The man was not looking at him now, but was glancing about with the stealthy look of a hunted animal. At the same time he drew from under his coat a long, unpleasant-looking knife. As he did so Jones lifted his pistol, and, aiming hurriedly at the breast, fired. The man dropped, grasping at the chair as he did so, but immediately rose to his feet, swaying unsteadily. Bang! went Jones' pistol again. This time the negro did not fall, but stood seeming half dazed, steadying himself by holding on to the back of the chair. Jones fired again, and at the report the man clapped his left hand tightly over his heart, and with a muttered imprecation threw the knife at Jones just as he fired his fourth shot, the thud of the knife driving deep into the wood close to Jones' head being followed by the sound of a falling body on the hard floor. As the consul ran into the room followed by one of his men he found Jones sitting on the lounge, pale and weak from excitement and fever.

"Lucky you had the pistol," remarked the consul; "might have been unpleasant. See that gummy green stuff on the knife? Well, that is poison, and a mighty bad poison, too; one little scratch--But all's well that ends well; the steamer is in, and if I were you I would make a bee line for the pier, and get on board just as soon as the Lord will let you!"