"The Goddess, One Of The Seven Sisters, Begins To Take Possession
Of Her," Whispered Sham Rao, Not Even Thinking Of Wiping Away The
Big Drops Of Sweat That Streamed From His Brow.
"Look, look at her!"
This advice was quite superfluous. We were looking at her, and
at nothing else.
At first, the movements of the witch were slow, unequal, somewhat
convulsive; then, gradually, they became less angular; at last,
as if catching the cadence of the drums, leaning all her long body
forward, and writhing like an eel, she rushed round and round the
blazing bonfire. A dry leaf caught in a hurricane could not fly
swifter. Her bare bony feet trod noiselessly on the rocky ground.
The long locks of her hair flew round her like snakes, lashing the
spectators, who knelt, stretching their trembling arms towards her,
and writhing as if they were alive. Whoever was touched by one of
this Fury's black curls, fell down on the ground, overcome with
happiness, shouting thanks to the goddess, and considering himself
blessed for ever. It was not human hair that touched the happy
elect, it was the goddess herself, one of the seven. Swifter and
swifter fly her decrepit legs; the young, vigorous hands of the
drummer can hardly follow her. But she does not think of catching
the measure of his music; she rushes, she flies forward. Staring
with her expressionless, motionless orbs at something before her,
at something that is not visible to our mortal eyes, she hardly
glances at her worshippers; then her look becomes full of fire;
and whoever she looks at feels burned through to the marrow of
his bones.
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