THE BAMBOULA
say "La belle Française," and a low, mocking laugh from some dark recess.
A light glowed upward, increasing suddenly as they approached, until it seemed as if the whole jungle were ablaze; a few steps and they had reached the edge of the amphitheater—a clearing in the forest. It seemed to Dessalines that the god of darkness here worshiped, had taken an active part in the furnishing of his tabernacle. About an open space of perhaps fifty feet in diameter there was a circle of dead and dying trees; trees girdled by cane hooks, and from the giant limbs of these which clawed against the darkening sky line like gaunt, crooked fingers, there hung funereal festoons of moss which swayed gently in the upward rush of heated air from a huge fire, roaring in the middle of the elliptic, open space.
This much Dessalines saw while yet within the shelter of the trees. He saw also that a great concourse thronged the outer edge of the amphitheater; the firelight shone redly on scores of ebony faces, glistening with sweat from the great heat. Every black recess was the nest of negro faces; their twisted limbs as they crouched uncouthly were indistinguishable from the gnarled roots of the trees.
La Fouchère stopped suddenly; her lithe body swayed to this side and that as she peered beneath the screening boughs; she turned to Dessalines and her pale face shone eerie against the surrounding black ones; she smiled with a flash of her white teeth. Her body swayed toward him.
"We will creep to the edge and sit where we can watch," she whispered. "They have not yet begun."
They worked their way quietly to the edge of the
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