A little female slave, one morning, made me a signal to follow her to a retired part of the garden.  I had shewn this poor little creature some acts of kindness, for which she amply repaid me.  Sometimes I had obtained for her a holiday—­sometimes saved her a whipping, and at others had given her a trifle of money; she therefore became exceedingly attached to me, and as she saw her mistress’s anger daily increase, she knew what it would probably end in, and watched my safety like a little guardian sylph.

“No drinkee coffee, Massa,” said she, “Missy putty obeah stuff in.”

As soon as she had said this, she disappeared, and I went into the house, where I found Carlotta preparing the breakfast; she had an old woman with her, who seemed to be doing something which she was not very willing I should see.  I sat down carelessly, humming a tune, with my face to a mirror, and my back to Carlotta, so that I was able to watch her motions without her perceiving it.  She was standing near the fireplace, the coffee was by her, on the table, and the old woman crouched in the chimney corner, with her bleared eyes fixed on the embers.  Carlotta seemed in doubt; she pressed her hands forcibly on her forehead; took up the coffee-pot to pour me out a cup, then sat it down again; the old woman muttered something in their language; Carlotta stamped with her little foot, and poured out the coffee.  She brought it to me—­trembled as she placed it before me—­seemed unwilling to let go her hold, and her hand still grasped the cup, as if she would take it away again.  The old woman growled and muttered something, in which I could only hear the name of her rival mentioned.  This was enough:  the eyes of Carlotta lighted up like a flame; she quitted her hold of the salver, retreated to the fireplace, sat herself down, covered her face, and left me, as she supposed, to make my last earthly repast.

“Carlotta,” said I, with a sudden and vehement exclamation.  She started up, and the blood rushed to her face and neck, in a profusion of blushes, which are perfectly visible through the skins of these mulattos.  “Carlotta,” I repeated, “I had a dream last night, and who do you think came to me?  It was Obeah!” (She started at the name.) “He told me not to drink coffee this morning, but to make the old woman drink it.”  At these words the beldam sprang up.  “Come here, you old hag,” said I. She approached trembling, for she saw that escape from me was impossible, and that her guilt was detected.  I seized a sharp knife, and taking her by her few remaining grey and woolly hairs, said, “Obeah’s work must be done:  I do not order it, but he commands it; drink that coffee instantly.”

So powerful was the name of Obeah on the ear of the hag, that she dreaded it more than my brandished knife.  She never thought of imploring mercy, for she supposed it was useless after the discovery, and that her hour was come; she therefore lifted the cup to her withered lip, and was just going to fulfil her destiny and to drink, when I dashed it out of her hand, and broke it in a thousand pieces on the floor, darting, at the same time, a fierce look at Carlotta, who threw herself at my feet, which she fervently kissed in an agony of conflicting passions.