Parson Blalock had let the iron cool, and, drawing close to Solon, he whispered: “Hit hain’t no ’ligion dat wukin’ on you, Brer Solon; you’s right; you hain’t neber got ernough fur dat! ’Cordin’ ter de signs er de times, ter my min’, hit er hoodoo, an’ you better look out fur her, ’case de hoodoo am er ’oman!” Solon smiled in a sickly, hopeless way, for the ague was upon him, and turned away in the direction of his cabin. But Juno was not there. Crouching low before the witch-fire of Maum Ysbel, there had been poured into her ears enough of misery to last through a whole cycle, the price of barter having been a coveted china cup. There was no light in the cabin, save from the blue and green flames that were now dying out, lighting fitfully the features of the toothless, weazened negress who knelt before it, for the only opening was barred by a roughhewn hickory log. On the red coals snake fat and lizard skin, mixed with some strange, ill-odored stuff, were merrily bubbling; and the oracle continued: “‘Tain’t no use ter try dat cat; hain’t nuffin but Ole Cinder Cat; you’ll fin’ her bloody bones hid out somers. Hain’t nuffin but er hoodoo dat er ridin’ dat cat, des ter ’do’ you wid Solon; but if yo’ wants ter mek sho’, jes ketch her when she dozin’ in de ashes an’ put her in de tar bar’l dar by you’ do’ wid de head druv in, an’ set fire ter hit. If hit Ole Cinder, you’ll fin’ her, ’dout eben her tail scotched, er-grinnin’ in de hot ashes when de fire done die out. If dat happin, den you gotter ketch her ergin—an’ she’s gwinter gib you er putty hard run—an’ ’n’int her hin’ de years wid dis grease; den foller uv her, an’ tek dis bone wid you—whatebber you does, don’ lose dis. If she cross de creek, she gwinter cross by de dry bed, ’case she hain’t gwinter wet her foots lessen she kin hope hit; an’ she gotter go mighty fur way up fur ter git ober dry, so you mought tek sumpen ter eat wid you. Don’ matter how tired you gits, keep er-foll’in’ de cat, an’ es soon es yo’ git on t’uther side, mek er cross an’ spit in hit, den rub you’ eyes wid dis bone, an’ tu’n roun’ free times. Dat ’ll mek de hoodoo gib up de Cinder Cat’s skin, an’ right dar es you tu’n you’ll see de pusson dat been mekin’ all dis here trouble ’twix’ you an’ Solon. You’ll know her when yo’ sees her, but don’ say nuffin ter her but ’Howdy?’ an’ don’ eat nuffin she gib yo’, ’case she mout ’fix’ yo’ lack she do Solon, an’ yo’ cain’t do nuffin yit. Yo’ gotter wait twel de spring, when de sap ’ll git up. Don’ yo’ quoil wid Solon ’twix’ now an’ den; Solon’s er good man; he wouldn’ be no kin ter me if he wa’n’t!—fur he’s des hoodooed an’ hain’t ’sponsible. But soon’s de sap’s riz you git yo’ er good big piece er green grape-vine an’ lay fur de ’oman, an’ hit her wid hit unbeknownst; ’case if she know yo’ arter her, she’ll go er mighty long piece outen her way ter git shet er yo’, fur de grape-vine sho’ brek de charm—hain’t no hoodoo kin mek er