THE BAMBOULA
sation had been dispelled by the mummery about the altar; as an educated man it roused his contempt; as a Christian, his righteous anger. It had given him time to collect himself; to array his forces against what was to follow: the dance which had nothing to do with aught but the senses; made no appeal to the mind.
As the dance commenced he had watched in a disgusted horror which increased when the victim fell foaming to the ground. Then the girl had leaped into the ring to take his place; she was physically pleasing, her lithe movements were full of grace. He became intertested; he was stirred, but sorry when she had been overcome.
Other women had danced; danced less modestly, yet with a frenzy which made their actions less obscene than startling; theirs was not lewdness; it was sexuality gone staring mad. Far more demoralizing was the brain-eroding beat of the bamboula and the frenzied clamor to which it set its flawless time. Dessalines forgot his contempt; he struggled to remember that he was a spectator; cold, dispassionate, watching from a height the writhings of worms. His muscles began to twitch, his bulging eyes to roll.
The dance progressed; beside him La Fouchère trembled spasmodically. Shocking scenes were enacted; the earth seemed to have ruptured and spewed up the denizens of hell. The drum beat on; the chorus grew hoarse, supplicating, convulsive. Dessalines' brain swam; like a drowning man all but unconscious, he fought on blindly, not knowing why he should fight. He gripped the tortuous roots beneath him until his fingers burst and the blood oozed out unheeded. He had known
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