"You always were a bad horse and I always loved you," he whispered,
"and that was a great ride, and now----" He rose abruptly and turned
away as he realized himself alone in the soft twilight. The horse
was dead. Then he returned to the tense body, so strangely thin and
wet, and removed saddle and bridle. With these hung on his arm he
took the sombre path through the pines for home.
_BLACK ART AND AMBROSE_
BY GUY GILPATRIC
From _Collier's, The National Weekly_
"... _The Naytives of the Seacoast told me many fearsome Tales of
these Magycians, or Voodoos, as they called Them. It would seem that
the Mystic Powers of these Magycians is hereditary, and that the
Spells, Incantacions, and other Secretts of their Profession are
passed on One to the Other and holden in great Awe by the People.
The Marke of this horride Culte is the Likeness of a great Human Eye,
carved in the Fleshe of the Backe, which rises in Ridges as it heals
and lasts Forever_ ..."
--Extract from "A Truthful Accounte of a Voyage and Journey
to the Land of Afrique, Together with Numerous Drawings and
Mappes, and a most Humble Petition Regarding the Same."
Presented by Roberte Waiting, Gent. in London, Anno D.
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