"Poison, I think," Father Sebastian replied. "Our friend is a good Catholic, but he is half persuaded it is something else." "The other thing's ridiculous, though I suppose they claim to use magic in the bush. But you ought to know something about native poisons." "I know many, but Don Felix's symptoms are strange," said Father Sebastian, quietly. Marston asked him about the symptoms and carefully noted his answers. Then he remarked: "I don't altogether understand why the boys left him." "They were afraid. In this country, it is rash to help a victim of Voodoo." "But they are your people; I mean, they belong to your flock." "They are human and one must not expect too much from men who have long walked in the gloom. The old gods are powerful." "The Obeah gods are devils!" Marston declared with an anger that rather surprised himself. Father Sebastian glanced at the surrounding dark, in which blurred trees vaguely loomed. "It is possible there are devils yonder. Things are done they would approve," he remarked quietly. "I understand the Bat is Don Felix's enemy. Do you think he poisoned him?" "I do not know. Perhaps we shall never know. In this country, many people are poisoned." Marston clenched his fist. "Don Felix is Wyndhams' agent and I'm a partner in the house. If I find out who poisoned him, I'll see the fellow is held accountable." He stopped, for Wyndham came to the door, beckoning the priest. "He wants you," he said, and they went in. Marston long remembered the next hour or two. At first Don Felix was shaken by spasms of pain and groaned, but was silent afterwards. His eyes were dull and half shut, and when they opened wider they turned apprehensively to the open door. Sometimes he glanced about the room and Marston thought he took courage when he saw Father Sebastian sitting near his hammock and Wyndham in the background. Yet he was obviously afraid and his fear was disturbing. For the most part all was very quiet, but sometimes there were noises that jarred Marston's nerves. Although the night was calm, leaves rustled in the dark and one heard sounds like the stealthy tread of naked feet. Marston fancied shadows lurked about the edge of the beam from the door and found it hard to persuade himself he was deceived, although he knew nobody was there. For a minute or two moisture splashed outside, as if somebody had struck a branch and shaken down big drops. The noise stopped and Marston felt the silence worse.