By the wall, just behind the altars, stood a large stone figure of the Virgin Mary, one chiselled arm outstretched, holding the figure of a little child—it was a diabolical, blasphemous perversion of the beautiful symbol of the Christian creed. Even Clensy and Biglow became imbued with a sudden tinge of heathenish superstition at that moment, for a strange-looking black figure, that had been standing by the altar, had commenced to dance in a silent, unsubstantial manner. It was waving its shadowy hands, mimicking every movement of the priests who were going through the mystical passes of the _vaudoux_ rites. And as that shadowy figure danced and the whole audience stared, spellbound, the gleams of the lamps on the figure of the Virgin just behind it, were distinctly visible through its form! Clensy, his eye still fixed to the chink, slowly recovered his mental equilibrium, and was convinced that Sestrina was not present with her parent.
“Thank God, _she’s_ not here,” he muttered to himself as he too gripped his revolver. He knew that Bartholomew Biglow was not going to stand there and see the young mulatto girl sacrificed before their eyes. Biglow turned towards Adams, “Clear out of it, run your damndest.”
Adams needed no second request to take to his heels; he, surely, had never run so fast in his whole career as he ran when he bolted down the passage, and vanished from sight. Clensy and Biglow were good runners, and they well knew that Adams, through being stout, would be a terrible encumbrance were he with them when the time came for flight.
“Keep still, lad, leave it all to me,” whispered Biglow. Then he added; “Wish we had my best pal, Samuel Bilbao here, he’d glory in a fix like this, he would!”
And as the big man muttered the foregoing, alluding to a celebrated South Sea character who was noted for his pluck and adventurous career, he gave a quiet chuckle and clicked the trigger of his revolver. “Keep quiet, lad!”
“All right!” whispered Clensy, for he knew that Biglow was a splendid shot, whereas he might fire and miss. The head papaloi priest had stepped forward. The whole audience stood breathless, spellbound, as they watched to witness the fatal thrust that would make the victim’s blood gush into the sacramental goblet. Clensy felt sick. The victim already stood on the terrible slab, her anguished paralysed form held up by two white-surpliced negroes who stood on either side, gripping her arms. Then the aged, almost venerable looking papaloi priest, stepped forward and began to mumble something. His head was thrown back, his beard raised towards the roof as he continued mumbling the sacrificial thanksgiving prayer! It all happened in a few seconds; the aged papaloi stood with hand raised. Clensy and Biglow saw the shining steel of the long blade hover before the victim’s terror-stricken eyes—the slayer must aim true!