But Don Jose, we say, plucked up new spirit..

“Last year’s disasters were but fortune’s freaks,” he said.  “See, others’ crops have failed all about us.”

The overseer shook his head.

“C’est ce maudit cocodri’ la bas (It is that accursed alligator, Bras-Coupe, down yonder in the swamp).”

And by and by the master was again smitten with the same belief.  He and his neighbors put in their crops afresh.  The spring waned, summer passed, the fevers returned, the year wore round, but no harvest smiled.  “Alas!” cried the planters, “we are all poor men!” The worst among the worst were the fields of Bras-Coupe’s master—­parched and shrivelled.  “He does not understand planting,” said his neighbors; “neither does his overseer.  Maybe, too, it is true as he says, that he is voudoued.”

One day at high noon the master was taken sick with fever.

The third noon after—­the sad wife sitting by the bedside—­suddenly, right in the centre of the room, with the door open behind him, stood the magnificent, half-nude form of Bras-Coupe.  He did not fall down as the mistress’s eyes met his, though all his flesh quivered.  The master was lying with his eyes closed.  The fever had done a fearful three days’ work.

“Mioko-Koanga oule so’ femme (Bras-Coupe wants his wife).”

The master started wildly and stared upon his slave.

“Bras-Coupe oule so’ femme!” repeated the black.

“Seize him!” cried the sick man, trying to rise.

But, though several servants had ventured in with frightened faces, none dared molest the giant.  The master turned his entreating eyes upon his wife, but she seemed stunned, and only covered her face with her hands and sat as if paralyzed by a foreknowledge of what was coming.

Bras-Coupe lifted his great black palm and commenced: 

“Mo ce voudrai que la maison ci la, et tout ca qui pas femme’ ici, s’raient encore maudits! (May this house, and all in it who are not women, be accursed).”

The master fell back upon his pillow with a groan of helpless wrath.

The African pointed his finger through the open window.

“May its fields not know the plough nor nourish the herds that overrun it.”

The domestics, who had thus far stood their ground, suddenly rushed from the room like stampeded cattle, and at that moment appeared Palmyre.

“Speak to him,” faintly cried the panting invalid.

She went firmly up to her husband and lifted her hand.  With an easy motion, but quick as lightning, as a lion sets foot on a dog, he caught her by the arm.

“Bras-Coupe oule so’ femme,” he said, and just then Palmyre would have gone with him to the equator.

“You shall not have her!” gasped the master.

The African seemed to rise in height, and still holding his wife at arm’s length, resumed his malediction: