‘Go to the Hun-to at least, sir—and to Mr. Martinez! Don’t leave me helpless to these devils!’

‘I’ll do all I can for you, but it’s worse than useless my stopping here.’

Perhaps it is necessary to observe that the Europeans in Whydah had long been subject to the King of Dahomey, ruled by a Viceroy. Each nationality had its official chief, called Hun-to by the English, and the Portuguese representative enjoyed particular consideration. Nevertheless, the Viceroy was their absolute master, and he obeyed the fetich men.

It is so easy to conceive poor Boville’s bewilderment and despair that I shall not dwell upon the situation. With feverish haste he concealed his orchids. Mr. Blank reappeared, with a rope fringed with strips of palm leaf, dry and crackling. This he threw round Boville’s neck.

‘They daren’t hurt you with that on!’ he cried. ‘Only the head priest can remove it! Go down! I’ve set drink on the table! Good-bye!’

The poor fellow obeyed, taking a pistol. All the servants were clustered at the door, wide-eyed, humming with terror and excitement. Presently the drums sounded nearer and nearer—the throng opened—the Vokhimen danced through, jibbering, curveting, posturing. He started at sight of the palm-leaf cord, but passed by, unheeding a glass of rum which Boville offered, and pranced upstairs. The agent was right. This devil knew where to look! He thumped about a while overhead, then capered down, with a bundle of orchids dangling on the iron stick. The glass was not refused this time. After drinking, the summoner touched Boville with his wand of office, saying, ‘Come! The snake calls you!’

Boville did not understand the formula, but he guessed its meaning. There was no help. He set forth. The Vokhimen pocketed the rum bottle and followed, moving gravely enough now.

The mob shouted with astonishment at the appearance of a white criminal, but when the cause of his arrest was seen—that bundle of the holy Endua—astonishment changed to rage. Boville owed his life to the Azan, the fetich cord, at that instant. But the drummers beat furiously, and, as if in response, a dozen fetich men suddenly appeared, pushing through the crowd. One side of their heads was shaven bare. They wore garments of hideous fantasy, charms and horrid objects innumerable, and each a pair of silver horns upon the forehead. Under this escort Boville marched to the fetich place.

This was a bare piece of ground, encircled by the low dark dwellings of the priests, with the sacred wood behind it, and in the midst the Snake Temple. Often had Boville glanced into the small building, which has no door, and seen the reptiles swarming inside. He did not feel the loathing for snakes which is so common—happily, as it proved. But no man could watch that multitude of restless, twining creatures without horror.

Led to the dreadful doorway, Boville turned, thinking to resist; but they fell upon him, doubled him up—for the entrance was very low—and thrust him in bodily. The poor fellow screamed in tumbling full length upon a platform which occupied the middle. He had seen it alive with snakes, writhing one over the other.

But none were there. He scrambled to his feet and looked round. The temple had no windows, but the solid walls of adobe did not meet the roof, and the level sun-rays of evening poured through the gap. There was nothing to interrupt the view, save a besom and a basket. But no snake could he see. A movement above caught his eye. He looked up.

There are men who would have lost their wits in terror at that sight. The snakes were there, hundreds of them, perched upon the thickness of the wall—the ridge of their bodies gleaming in the red light of sunset, their long necks hanging down, waving and twining. Every head was turned towards him, the glass-bright eyes fixed on his, and the tongues slithering with eagerness. Nightmare was never so horrible.

For an instant Boville stood frozen, with dropped jaw and starting eyes, the icy sweat streaming from every pore; then, howling in no human voice, he burst through the doorway, through the guard, and fell in the midst of a party advancing.

All the Europeans in Whydah were there, with the Viceroy himself, and the head fetich man. The horrid absurdity of their equipment I have no room to describe. The white men had been pleading, even threatening, and the Viceroy supported them. When Boville dropped at their feet the last word had been spoken. His punishment should be that decreed against the man who kills a snake by evil chance—no worse.

‘What is that?’ Boville panted, when the agent who held him in his arms had explained.

‘Never mind—we’ll do our best! And it is to be at once, thank God! Night will soon be here!’

‘Don’t go—not all of you! Don’t leave me with these devils!’

‘We must, poor boy—to arrange. But we shall return.’

Boville remained among a group of fetich men, who sang and capered round, making gruesome pantomime of tortures. Meanwhile, others were busy at a shed with spades and bundles of reed. Dusk was settling down when they had finished. The head priests returning took their stations, surrounded by men with torches still unlit. All the population was gathered round the holy area.

Mr. Blank came back with others. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘They are going to put you—unbound—in a hole, cover you with reeds, and set them alight. You must spring up and run to the nearest water, all these brutes after you. But I have arranged with many of them, and they will intercept the others. Now mark, for your life may depend on it! The law is that one who kills a snake shall be cut and hacked till he reaches water! They expect you to make for the river, but there is a pond on the very edge of the fetich wood yonder! See? You make for that! You can’t miss it if you go straight between the torches and the temple. You understand? Now summon your courage, man, and run for your life.’

He wrung Boville’s hand. The executioners seized their victim and hurried him to the shed, amidst a furious tumult—roaring, singing, beating of drums, and blaring of cow-horns—thrust him into the hole, and heaped combustibles over him. The instant he was free Boville sprang up, but the reeds flared as quick as gunpowder. All ablaze he ran—the savage crew pursuing. But they mostly expected him on the river side. With but little hurt, save burns, he reached the pool and leapt in.

It is satisfactory to add that Boville did not suffer in health or fortune by this dread experience. He became the richest trader in Whydah, a special favourite with the natives. But he collected no more orchids.

INDEX