The Music of Madness
"I lay there with a thousand curses in my heart, and then the devil's art began. One of my captors took from his back that serpent instrument and began to play upon it."
"AYEZ pitié de moi, Monsieur. I am mad perhaps—but I am a white man. For the love of the good God, Monsieur, believe me, I am a white man. No, no, please do not turn your head. I am a sight mos' horrible—but I am white, I tell you. I am white."
The creature at my elbow clutched me with the grip of a drowning man. In the streets of Rio de Janiero, beggars are not uncommon, but who can look upon a living caricature of humanity without averting his gaze? The thing before me was more animal than human. Squat, ugly, scarred, and as black as the tropical night, he presented no evidence to back his claim to white heritage. I turned away.
"Ayes pitié de moi, Monsieur."
I stopped. The man's French was good, and his method of approach unique. For a moment his eyes met mine. They were as blue as the sky in springtime, and beautiful in spite of the suffering they mirrored. In that horrible black face they gleamed like diamonds of the first water. In spite of my aversion I hesitated. Clutch-
