“Mein ye gagnein plein montagnes dans l’Afrique, listen!”

     “‘Ah!  Palmyre, Palmyre, mo’ piti zozo,’
     Mo l’aime ’ou’—­mo l’aime, l’aime ‘ou’.’”

“Bravissimo!—­” but just then a counter-attraction drew the white company back into the house.  An old French priest with sandalled feet and a dirty face had arrived.  There was a moment of handshaking with the good father, then a moment of palpitation and holding of the breath, and then—­you would have known it by the turning away of two or three feminine heads in tears—­the lily hand became the don’s, to have and to hold, by authority of the Church and the Spanish king.  And all was merry, save that outside there was coming up as villanous a night as ever cast black looks in through snug windows.

It was just as the newly-wed Spaniard, with Agricola and all the guests, were concluding the byplay of marrying the darker couple, that the hurricane struck the dwelling.  The holy and jovial father had made faint pretence of kissing this second bride; the ladies, colonels, dons, etc.,—­though the joke struck them as a trifle coarse—­were beginning to laugh and clap hands again and the gowned jester to bow to right and left, when Bras-Coupe, tardily realizing the consummation of his hopes, stepped forward to embrace his wife.

“Bras-Coupe!”

The voice was that of Palmyre’s mistress.  She had not been able to comprehend her maid’s behavior, but now Palmyre had darted upon her an appealing look.

The warrior stopped as if a javelin had flashed over his head and stuck in the wall.

“Bras-Coupe must wait till I give him his wife.”

He sank, with hidden face, slowly to the floor.

“Bras-Coupe hears the voice of zombis; the voice is sweet, but the words are very strong; from the same sugar-cane comes sirop and tafia; Bras-Coupe says to zombis, ’Bras-Coupe will wait; but if the dotchians deceive Bras-Coupe—­” he rose to his feet with his eyes closed and his great black fist lifted over his head—­“Bras-Coupe will call Voudou-Magnan!”

The crowd retreated and the storm fell like a burst of infernal applause.  A whiff like fifty witches flouted up the canvas curtain of the gallery and a fierce black cloud, drawing the moon under its cloak, belched forth a stream of fire that seemed to flood the ground; a peal of thunder followed as if the sky had fallen in, the house quivered, the great oaks groaned, and every lesser thing bowed down before the awful blast.  Every lip held its breath for a minute—­or an hour, no one knew—­there was a sudden lull of the wind, and the floods came down.  Have you heard it thunder and rain in those Louisiana lowlands?  Every clap seems to crack the world.  It has rained a moment; you peer through the black pane—­your house is an island, all the land is sea.