MARY WALCOT seated in an arm-chair.

TITUBA with a mirror.
MARY.
Tell me another story, Tituba.
A drowsiness is stealing over me Which is not sleep; for, though I close mine eyes, I am awake, and in another world.
Dim faces of the dead and of the absent Come floating up before me,--floating, fading, And disappearing.
TITUBA.
Look into this glass.
What see you?
MARY.
Nothing but a golden vapor.
Yes, something more.

An island, with the sea Breaking all round it, like a blooming hedge.
What land is this?
TITUBA.
It is San Salvador, Where Tituba was born.

What see you now?
MARY.
A man all black and fierce.
TITUBA.
That is my father.
He was an Obi man, and taught me magic,-- Taught me the use of herbs and images.
What is he doing?
MARY.
Holding in his hand A waxen figure.

He is melting it Slowly before a fire.
TITUBA.
And now what see you?
MARY.
A woman lying on a bed of leaves, Wasted and worn away.