The situation was as yet uneasy but not alarming.  One evening I overheard the beginning of an absurd plot to gain entrance to the Valley—­that was as far as detail went.  I became convinced at last that I should in some way warn Percy Darrow.

That seems a simple enough proposition, does it not?  But if you will stop to think one moment of the difficulties of my position, you will see that it was not as easy as at first it appears.  Darrow still visited us in the evening.  The men never allowed me even the chance of private communication while he was with us.  One or two took pains to stretch out between us.  Twice I arose when the assistant did, resolved to accompany him part way back.  Both times men resolutely escorted us, and as resolutely separated us from the opportunity of a single word apart.  The crew never threatened me by word or look.  But we understood each other.

I was not permitted to row out to the Laughing Lass without escort.  Therefore I never attempted to visit her again.  The men were not anxious to do so, their awe of the captain made them only too glad to escape his notice.  That empty shell of a past reputation was my only hope.  It shielded the arms and ammunition.

As I look back on it now, the period seems to me to be one of merely potential trouble.  The men had not taken the pains to crystallise their ideas.  I really think their compelling emotion was that of curiosity.  They wanted to see.  It needed a definite impulse to change that desire to one of greed.

The impulse came from Percy Darrow and his idle talk of voodoos.  As usual he was directing his remarks to the sullen Nigger.

“Voodoos?” he said.  “Of course there are.  Don’t fool yourself for a minute on that.  There are good ones and bad ones.  You can tame them if you know how, and they will do anything you want them to.”  Pulz chuckled in his throat.  “You don’t believe it?” drawled the assistant turning to him.  “Well, it’s so.  You know that heavy box we are so careful of?  Well, that’s got a tame voodoo in it.”

The others laughed.

“What he like?” asked the Nigger gravely.

“He’s a fine voodoo, with wavery arms and green eyes, and red glows.”  Watching narrowly its effect he swung off into one of the genuine old crooning voodoo songs, once so common down South, now so rarely heard.  No one knows what the words mean—­they are generally held to be charm-words only—­a magic gibberish.  But the Nigger sprang across the fire like lightning, his face altered by terror, to seize Darrow by the shoulders.

“Doan you!  Doan you!” he gasped, shaking the assistant violently back and forth.  “Dat he King Voodoo song!  Dat call him all de voodoo—­all!”

He stared wildly about in the darkness as though expecting to see the night thronged.  There was a moment of confusion.  Eager for any chance I hissed under my breath; “Danger!  Look out!”