"See, others' crops have failed all about us." The overseer shook his head.
"_C'est ce maudit cocodri' la bas_ (It is that accursed alligator, Bras-Coupe, down yonder in the swamp)." And by and by the master was again smitten with the same belief.

He and his neighbors put in their crops afresh.

The spring waned, summer passed, the fevers returned, the year wore round, but no harvest smiled.
"Alas!" cried the planters, "we are all poor men!" The worst among the worst were the fields of Bras-Coupe's master--parched and shrivelled.
"He does not understand planting," said his neighbors; "neither does his overseer.

Maybe, too, it is true as he says, that he is voudoued." One day at high noon the master was taken sick with fever.
The third noon after--the sad wife sitting by the bedside--suddenly, right in the centre of the room, with the door open behind him, stood the magnificent, half-nude form of Bras-Coupe.

He did not fall down as the mistress's eyes met his, though all his flesh quivered.