When Dessalines was mounted, Jacques came running forward to Toussaint, to ask and to tell much concerning their singular circumstances.

"Your party is too noisy," said he. "The whole country is up; and I saw, not far-off, two hours ago, a party that were bringing ammunition from Cap. There may be more; and, if we fall in their way, with a white in company—"

"True, true." And Toussaint turned back to command silence. He told every one that the safety of all might depend on the utmost possible degree of quietness being observed. He separated Isaac from Aimee, as the only way of obtaining silence from them, and warned the merry blacks in the rear that they must be still as death. He and Jacques, however, exchanged a few more words in a low whisper, as they kept in advance of the party.

"How do they get ammunition from Cap?" asked Toussaint. "Have they a party in the town? I thought the town negroes had been sent on board ship."

"The suspected ones are. They are the silly and the harmless who have still wit and mischief enough to give out powder and ball slyly for the plantation negroes. Once over the river, what will you do with your party?"

"My wife and children will be safe with my brother Paul—you know he fishes on the coast, opposite the Seven Brothers. I shall enter the Spanish ranks; and every one else here will do as he thinks proper."

"Do not you call yourself a commander, then! Why do you not call us your regiment, and take the command as a matter of course, as Jean has done?"

"If it is desired, I am ready. Hark!"

There was evidently a party at some distance, numerous and somewhat noisy, and on the approach from behind. Toussaint halted his party, quickly whispered his directions, and withdrew them with all speed and quietness within the black shade of a cacao-plantation, on the left of the road. They had to climb an ascent; but there they found a green recess, so canopied with interwoven branches that no light could enter from the stars, and so hedged in by the cacao plants, growing twelve feet high among the trees, that the party could hardly have been seen from the road in broad daylight. There they stood crowded together in utter darkness and stillness, unless, as Genifrede feared, the beating of her heart might be heard above the hum of the mosquito, or the occasional rustle of the foliage.

The approaching troop came on, tramping, and sometimes singing and shouting. Those in the covert knew not whether most to dread a shouting which should agitate their horses, or a silence which might betray a movement on their part. This last seemed the most probable. The noise subsided; and when the troop was close at hand, only a stray voice or two was singing. They had with them two or three trucks, drawn by men, on which were piled barrels of ammunition. They were now very near. Whether it was that Therese, in fear of her infant crying, pressed it so close to her bosom as to awaken it, or whether the rumbling and tramping along the road roused its sleeping ear—the child stirred, and began what promised to be a long shrill wawl, if it had not been stopped. How it was stopped, the trembling, sickening mother herself did not know. She only knew that a strong hand wrenched the child from her grasp in the black darkness, and that all was still, unless, as she then and ever after had a shuddering apprehension, there was something of a slight gurgle which reached her strained ear. Her own involuntary moan was stopped almost before it became a sound—stopped by a tap on the shoulder, whose authoritative touch she well knew.

No one else stirred for long after the troop had passed. Then Toussaint led his wife's horse down into the road again, and the party resumed their march as if nothing had happened.

"My child!" said Therese, fearfully. "Give me my child!" She looked about, and saw that no one seemed to have the infant.

"I will not let it cry," she said. "Give me back my child!"

"What is it?" asked Papalier, coming beside her horse. She told her grief, as she prepared to spring down.

"No, keep your seat! Don't get down," said he, in a tone she dared not disobey. "I will inquire for the child."

He went away, and returned—without it. "This is a sad thing," said he, leading her horse forward with the rest. "No one knows anything about the poor thing. Why did you let it go?"

"Have you asked them all? Who snatched it from me? Oh, ask who took it! Let me look for it. I will—I will—"

"It is too late now. We cannot stop or turn back. These sad accidents will happen at such times."

"Leave me behind—oh, leave me in the wood! I can follow when I have found it. Leave me behind!"

"I cannot spare you, my dear. I should never see you again; and I cannot spare you. It is sad enough to have lost the child."

"It was your child," said she, pleadingly.

"And you are mine too, my dear. I cannot spare you both."

Therese had never felt before. All that had moved her during her yet short life—all emotions in one were nothing to the passion of this moment—the conditional hatred that swelled her soul; conditional—for, from moment to moment, she believed and disbelieved that Papalier had destroyed her child. The thought sometimes occurred that he was not the only cruel one. No one seemed to pity or care for her—not even Margot or the girls came near her. She more than once was about to seek and appeal to them; but her master held her bridle, and would not permit her to stop or turn, saying occasionally that the lives of all depended on perfect quiet and order in the march. When they arrived at the cross, at the junction of the four roads, they halted, and there she told her story, and was convinced that the grieved women knew nothing of her loss till that moment. It was too late now for anything but compassion.

Jean Francais soon appeared with a troop so numerous, that all necessity for caution and quiet was over. They could hardly meet an equal force during the remainder of the march, and might safely make the forests and ravines echo to their progress. Jean took off his cocked hat in saluting Toussaint, and commended his punctuality and his arrangements.

"Jean always admires what my husband does," observed Margot to her acquaintance Jacques. "You hear how he is praising him for what he has done to-night."

"To be sure. Everybody praises Toussaint Breda," replied Jacques.

The wife laughed with delight.

"Everybody praises him but me," pursued Jacques. "I find fault with him sometimes; and to-night particularly."

"Then you are wrong, Jacques. You know you have everybody against you."

"Time will show that I am right. Time will show the mischief of sending away any whites to do us harm in far countries."

"Oh, you do not blame him for helping away Monsieur Bayou!"

"Yes, I do."

"Why, we have been under him ever since we were children—and a kind youth he was then. And he taught my husband to read, and made him his coachman; and then he made him overseer; and he has always indulged the children, and always bought my young guinea-fowl, and—"

"I know that. All that will not prevent the mischief of helping him away. Toussaint ought to have seen that if we send our masters to all the four sides of the world, they will bring the world down upon us."

"Perhaps Toussaint did see it," said the man himself, from the other side of his wife's horse. "But he saw another thing, too—that any whites who stayed would be murdered."

"That is true enough; and murdered they ought to be. They are a race of tyrants and rebels that our warm island hates."

"Nobody hated Monsieur Bayou," said Margot.

"Yes, I did. Every one who loves the blacks hates the whites."

"I think not," said Toussaint. "At least, it is not so with Him who made them both. He is pleased with mercy, Jacques, and not with murder."

Jacques laughed, and muttered something about the priests having been brought in by the whites for a convenience; to which Toussaint merely replied that it was not a priest, nor an ally of white masters, who forgave His enemies on the cross.

"Father," said Placide, joining the group, "why is Jean commanding your march? He speaks to you as if you were under him."

"Because he considers it his march."

"He praised your father—very much, Placide," said his mother.

"Yes—just as if my father were under him—as if the march were not ours. We began it."

"I command those who began it—that is, my own family, Placide. I command you to obey Jean, while you are with him. On the other side the river, you shall be commander, all the way to your uncle's house. You will follow his lead, Margot?"

"Oh, yes, if he leads straight. Jean is a commander, Placide. Look at his cocked hat."

"And he calls himself commander-in-chief of the armies of France."

"In Saint Domingo. Well, so he is," said Toussaint, smiling, and pointing to the troop. "Here are the armies of the King of France in Saint Domingo; and here Jean commands."

At this moment, Jean made proclamation for Toussaint Breda; and Toussaint joined him, leaving his wife saying, "You see he wants my husband at every turn. I am sure he thinks a great deal of my husband."

"Toussaint," said Jean, "I shall introduce you to the Marquis d'Hermona; and I have no doubt he will give you a command."

"I shall introduce myself to him, Jean."

"But he will be expecting you. He will receive you according to my report—as a man of ability, and a most valuable officer. I sent messengers forward to tell him of my approach with reinforcements; and I gave a prodigious report of you."

"Still I shall speak for myself, Jean."

"What I now have to ask of you is, that you will dress like an officer— like me. The uniform is, on the whole, of no great consequence at this season, when the whites wear all the linen, and as little cloth as they can. But the hat. Toussaint—the hat! You will not show yourself to the Marquis d'Hermona in a cap! For my sake, do not show yourself till you have procured a cocked hat."

"Where did you get yours, Jean?"

Jean could only say that it was from one who would never want it again.

"We will go as we are," said Toussaint. "You look like a commander, as you are—and I look what I am, Toussaint Breda."

"But he will not believe what I shall say of you, if he sees a mere common negro."

"Then let him disbelieve, till I have shown what I am. We shall find daylight on the other side this ridge."

They had been for some time ascending the ridge which lies north and south between Fort Dauphin and the river Massacre, the Spanish boundary. In the covert of the woods which clothed the slope all was yet darkness; but when the travellers could catch a glimpse upwards through the interwoven branches, they saw that the stars were growing pale, and that the heavens were filling with a yellower light. On emerging from the woods on the summit of the ridge, they found that morning was indeed come, though the sun was not yet visible. There was a halt, as if the troops now facing the east would wait for his appearance. To the left, where the ridge sank down into the sea, lay Mancenillo Bay, whose dark grey waters, smooth as glass, as they rolled in upon the shore, began to show lines of light along their swell. A dim sail or two, small and motionless, told that the fishermen were abroad. From this bay, the river Massacre led the eye along the plain which lay under the feet of the troops, and between this ridge and another, darkly wooded, which bounded the valley to the east; while to the south-east, the view was closed in by the mass of peaks of the Cibao group of mountains. At the first moment, these peaks, rising eight thousand feet from the plain, appeared hard, cold, and grey, between the white clouds that encumbered their middle height and the kindling sky. But from moment to moment their aspect softened. The grey melted into lilac, yellow, and a faint blushing red, till the start, barren crags appeared bathed in the hues of the soft yielding clouds which opened to let forth the sun. The mists were then seen to be stirring,—rising, curling, sailing, rolling, as if the breezes were imprisoned among them, and struggling to come forth. The breezes came, and, as it seemed, from those peaks. The woods bent before them at one sweep. The banyan-tree, a grove in itself, trembled through all its leafy columns, and shook off its dews in a wide circle, like the return shower of a playing fountain. Myriads of palms which covered the uplands, till now still as a sleeping host beneath the stars, bowed their plumed heads as the winds went forth, and shook off dews and slumber from the gorgeous parasitic beauties which they sustained. With the first ray that the sun levelled among the woods, these matted creepers shook their flowery festoons, their twined, green ropes, studded with opening blossoms and bells, more gay than the burnished insects and gorgeous birds which flitted among their tangles. In the plain, the river no longer glimmered grey through the mists, but glittered golden among the meadows, upon which the wild cattle were descending from the clefts of the hills. Back to the north the river led the eye, past the cluster of hunters' huts on the margin,—past the post where the Spanish flag was flying, and whence the early drum was sounding—past a slope of arrowy ferns here, a grove of lofty cocoa-nut trees there, once more to the bay, now diamond-strewn, and rocking on its bosom the boats, whose sails were now specks of light in contrast with the black islets of the Seven Brothers, which caught the eye as if just risen from the sea.

"No windmills here! No cattle-mills!" the negroes were heard saying to one another. "No canes, no sugar-houses, no teams, no overseers' houses, no overseers! By God, it is a fine place, this! So we are going down there to be soldiers to the king! those cattle are wild, and yonder are the hunters going out! By God, it is a fine place!"

In somewhat different ways, every one present, but Papalier and Therese, was indulging the same mood of thought. There was a wildness in the scene which made the heart beat high with the sense of freedom. For some the emotion seemed too strong. Toussaint pointed out to his boys the path on the other side of the river which would lead them to the point of the shore nearest to Paul's hut, instructed them how to find or make a habitation for their mother and sisters till he could visit them, gave his wife a letter to his brother, and, except to bid his family a brief farewell for a brief time, spoke no more till he reached the Spanish post, and inquired for the General.

Jean stepped before him into the general's presence, taking possession of the centre of the green space before the tent, where the Marquis d'Hermona was enjoying the coolness of the morning. After having duly declared his own importance, and announced the accession of numbers he was likely to bring, Jean proceeded to extol Toussaint as one of the valuables he had brought. After apologising for his friend's want of a cocked hat, he proceeded to exhibit his learning, declaring that he had studied "Plutarch", "Caesar's Commentaries", "Epictetus", "Marshal Saxe's Military Reveries—"

Here he was stopped by the grasp of Toussaint's hand upon his arm. Toussaint told the General that he came alone, without chief and without followers: the few men who had left Breda with him having ranged themselves with the force of Jean Francais. He came alone to offer the strength of his arm, on behalf of his king, to the allies of royalist France.

The Spanish soldiers, who glittered all around in their arms and bright uniform, looked upon the somewhat gaunt negro in his plantation dress, dusty with travel, and his woollen cap in hand, and thought, probably, that the king of France would not be much aided by such an ally. It is probable; for a smile went round, in which Jean joined. It is probable that the Marquis d'Hermona thought differently, for he said—

"The strength of your arm! Good! And the strength of your head, too, I hope. We get more arms than heads from your side of the frontier. Is it true that you have studied the art of war?"

"I have studied it in books."

"Very well. We want officers for our black troops—all we can raise in the present crisis. You will have the rank of colonel in a regiment to be immediately organised. Are you content?"

Toussaint signified his assent, and orders were given for a tent to be prepared for his present repose. He looked around, as if for some one whom he did not see. On being asked, he said that if there was at the post a priest who spoke French, he could wish to converse with him.

"Laxabon understands French, I think," said the marquis to a gentleman of his staff. The aide assented.

"Your excellent desire shall be gratified," said the General. "I doubt not Father Laxabon will presently visit you in your tent."

Father Laxabon had heard rumours of the horrors perpetrated in the French colony within the last two nights. On being told that his attendance was equally desired by a fugitive negro, he recoiled for a moment from what he might have to hear.

When he entered the tent, he found Toussaint alone, on the ground, his bosom bursting with deep and thick-coming sobs, "How is this, my son?" said the priest. "Is this grief, or is it penitence?"

"I am free," said Toussaint, "and I am an oppression to myself. I did not seek freedom. I was at ease, and did not desire it, seeing how men abuse their freedom."

"You must not, then, abuse your freedom, my son," said the priest, wholly relieved.

"How shall I appear before God—I who have ever been guided, and who know not whether I can guide myself—my master gone—my employment gone—and I, by his will, a free man, but unprepared, unfit?—Receive my confession, father, and guide me from this time."

"Willingly, my son. He who has appointed a new lot to you will enable me to guide you in it."

The tent was closed; and Toussaint kneeled to relieve his full heart from its new sense of freedom, by subjecting himself to a task-master of the soul.



CHAPTER FIVE.

GRIEFS OF THE LOYAL.

Margot doubted much, at the end of the first week, and at the end of every following week, whether she liked freedom. Margot had had few cares during the many years that she had lived under the mild rule of Monsieur Bayou—her husband faithful and kind, and her children provided for without present anxiety on her part. Thoughts of the future would, it is true, occasionally trouble her, as she knew they weighed heavily on her husband's mind. When she saw Genifrede growing up, handsome in her parents' eyes, and so timid and reserved that her father sometimes said he wondered whether any one would ever know her mind better than her own family did—when Margot looked upon Genifrede, and considered that her lot in life depended on the will of Monsieur Bayou, she shuddered to think what it might be. When Monsieur Bayou told Genifrede that she was well coiffee, or that he wished she would show the other girls among the house-negroes how to make their Sunday gowns sit like hers, Genifrede invariably appeared not to hear, and often walked away in the midst of the speech; and then her mother could not but wonder how she would conduct herself, whenever the day should come that must come, when (as there was no one on the Breda estate whom Genifrede liked, or would associate with) Monsieur Bayou should bring some one to their cottage, and desire Genifrede to marry him. When Margot looked upon her sons, and upon Aimee, now so inseparable from Isaac, and considered that their remaining together depended not only on Monsieur Bayou's will, but on his life, she trembled lest the day should be at hand when Placide might be carried away northward, and Isaac eastward, and poor Aimee left desolate. Such had been the mother's passing cares in the situation in which nothing had been wanting to her immediate comfort. Now, amidst the perplexities of her new settlement, she was apt to forget that she had formerly had any cares.

Where to house the party had been the first difficulty. But for old Dessalines, who, being no soldier, had chosen to hide himself in the same retreat with them, they would hardly have had good shelter before the rains. Paul had received them kindly; but Paul's kindness was of a somewhat indolent sort; and it was doubtful whether he would have proceeded beyond looking round his hut, and lamenting that it was no bigger, if his spirited son Moyse, a fine lad of sixteen, had not been there to do something more effectual, in finding the place and the materials for the old tiler to begin his work. It was Moyse who convinced the whole party from the plain that a hut of bamboo and palm-leaves would fall in an hour before one of the hail-storms of this rocky coast; and that it would not do to build on the sands, lest some high tide should wash them all away in the night. It was Moyse who led his cousins to the part of the beach where portions of wrecks were most likely to be found, and who lent the strongest hand to remove such beams and planks as Dessalines wanted for his work. A house large enough to hold the family was soon covered in. It looked well, perched on a platform of rock, and seeming to nestle in a recess of the huge precipices which rose behind it. It looked well, as Dessalines could obtain neither of his favourite paints to smear it with. It stood, neither red nor blue, but nearly the colour of the rocks, against which it leaned, and thatched with palm-leaves, which projected so far as to throw off the rains, even to a depth below.

Paul provided fish—as much as his relations chose to have; but the young people chose to have many other things, under the guidance of Moyse; and here lay their mother's daily care. She believed that both boys and girls ran into a thousand dangers, and no one would help her to restrain them. Paul had always let Moyse have his own way; and Dessalines, when he had brought in drift-wood for her fires, which he daily chose to do, lay down in the sun when the sun shone, and before the fire when the clouds gathered, and slept away the hours. Paul wanted help in his fishing; and it was commonly Isaac who went with him; for Isaac was more fond of boating than rambling. Where Isaac was, there was Aimee. She gave no contemptible help in drawing in the nets; and when the fish was landed, she and Isaac sat for hours among the mangroves which bordered the neighbouring cove, under pretence of cleaning the fish, or of mending the nets, or of watching the cranes which stalked about the sands. Sometimes, in order to be yet more secure from disturbance, the brother and sister would put off again, when they had landed Paul with his prize, and get upon the coral reef, half a mile off—in calm weather collecting the shell-fish which were strewed there in multitudes, and watching the while the freaks and sports of the dolphins in the clear depths around; and in windy weather sitting in the midst of the spray, which was dashed over them from the heavy seas outside. Many times in a morning or evening did Margot look out from her doorway, and see their dusky forms upon the reef, now sitting motionless in talk, now stooping for mussels and crabs, and never till the last moment in the boat, on their way home. Sometimes Denis was with them—sometimes with her—but oftenest with the party led by Moyse.

Moyse had first enticed Genifrede up the rocks behind their dwelling, to get grass for hammocks, and to make matting for the floors. Almost from the first day, it appeared as if Genifrede's fears all melted away in the presence of Moyse; and her mother became sure of this when, after grass enough had been procured, Genifrede continued to accompany Placide and Moyse in their almost daily expeditions for sporting and pleasure. They brought guanas, tender young monkeys, and cocoa-nuts from the wood, wild kids from the rock, delicate ducks from the mountain-ponds, and sometimes a hog or a calf from the droves and herds which flourished in the rich savannahs on the southern side, on which they looked down from their ridge. In the joy of seeing her children home again, gladsome as they were, and feeling that they brought plenty and luxury into her cottage, Margot kept her cares to herself, from day-to-day, and did not interfere with their proceedings. She sometimes thought she was foolish, and always was glad to see them enjoying their freedom; but still, she felt doubtful whether she herself had not been happier at Breda. The only time when her heart was completely at ease and exulting was when Toussaint came to see his family, to open his heart to his wife, and to smile away her troubles. Her heart exulted when she saw him cross the ridge, with a mounted private behind him, urge his horse down the ascent, gallop along the sands to the foot of the rocks, throw the bridle to his attendant, and mount to the platform, looking up as he approached, to see whether she was on the watch. She was always on the watch. She liked to admire his uniform, and to hear his sword clatter as he walked. She liked to see him looking more important, more dignified, than Bayou or Papalier had ever appeared in her eyes. Then, her heart was always full of thoughts about their children, which he was as anxious to hear as she to tell; and he was the only one from whom she could learn anything of what was going on in the world, or of what prospects lay before themselves. He brought news from France, from Cap and the plain, and, after a while, from America—that Monsieur Bayou was settled at Baltimore, where he intended to remain till, as he said, the pacification of the colony should enable him to return to Breda. There was no fear, as Toussaint always found, but that Margot would be looking out for him.

The tidings he brought were never very joyous, and often sad enough. He said little of his personal cares; but Margot gathered that he found it difficult to keep on good terms with Jean. Once he had resigned his rank of colonel, and had assumed an office of which Jean could not be jealous—that of physician to the forces—an office for which he was qualified by an early and extensive acquaintance with the common diseases of the country, and the natural remedies provided by its soil. When the Marquis d'Hermona had insisted upon his resuming his command, as the best officer the negro forces could boast, Jean had purposed to arrest him on some frivolous charge, and the foolish act had only been prevented by a frank and strong remonstrance from his old friend. All this time, Toussaint's military successes had been great; and his name now struck such awe into the lawless forces of the insurgent blacks, that it was unnecessary for him to shed their blood. He held the post of Marmalade, and from thence was present with such unheard-of rapidity of march, wherever violence was expected, that the spirit of outrage throughout the colony was, at length, kept in check. This peaceful mode of standing by the rights of the king was more acceptable to the gentle Toussaint than the warfare by which he had gained his power over his own race; but he knew well that things could not go on as they were—that order of some kind must be established—order which could be reached only through a fierce final struggle; and of what nature this order was to be, depended wholly upon the turn which affairs took in Europe.

He rarely brought good news from abroad. His countenance always grew sad when Margot asked what ships had arrived from France since his last visit. First he had to tell her that the people of Paris had met in the Champ de Mars, and demanded the dethronement of the king; then, that Danton had audaciously informed the representatives of France that their refusal to declare the throne vacant would be the signal for a general insurrection. After this, no national calamity could surprise the loyal colonists, Toussaint said; for the fate of Louis as a king, if not as a man, was decided. Accordingly, there followed humiliations, deposition, imprisonment, during which little could be known of the mind, and even of the condition of the king: and those who would have served him remained in anxious suspense. It happened, one warm day in the spring, when every trace of the winter hail-storms had passed away, that the whole party were amusing themselves in trying to collect enough of the ripening sea-side grape for a feast. The bright round leaves were broad and abundant; but the clusters of the fruit were yet only of a pale yellow, and a berry here and there was all that was fit for gathering. The grape-gathering was little more than a pretence for basking in the sun, or for lounging in the shade of the abundant verdure, which seemed to have been sown by the hurricane, and watered by the wintry surf, so luxuriantly did it spring from the sands and the salt waves. The stately manchineel overhung the tide; the mangroves sprang out of the waters; the sea-side grape overspread the sands with a thick green carpet, and kept them cool, so that as the human foot sought the spot, the glittering lizards forsook it, and darted away to seek the hot face of the rock. For full half a mile this patch of verdure spread; and over this space were dispersed Margot and her household, when Toussaint crossed the ridge, on one of his frequent visits. As he descended, he heard laughter and singing; and among the singing voices, the cracked pipe of old Dessalines. Toussaint grieved to interrupt this mirth, and to think that he must leave dull and sad those whom he found so gay. But he came with bad news, and on a mournful errand, and there was no help for it. As he pricked on his horse towards the party, the young people set up a shout and began to run towards him, but stopped short on seeing how unusually large a train he brought. Five or six mounted soldiers, instead of one, followed him this time, and they led several horses.

"Oh, you are come to take us home!" cried Margot, joyfully, as she met him.

He shook his head as he replied—"No, Margot, not yet. But the time may come."

"I wish you could tell us when it would come," said Dessalines. "It is all very well gathering these things, and calling them grapes, for want of better; but give me the grapes that yield one wine. I wonder who has been gathering the grapes from my trellis all this time, while, the whole rainy season through, not a drop did I taste? I wish you had left your revolutions and nonsense till after my time, that I might have sat under my own vine and my own fig-tree, as the priest says, till the end of my days."

"Indeed I wish so too, Dessalines. But you shall have some wine."

"Ay, send us some. Jacques will tell you what I like. Don't forget, Toussaint Breda. They talk of palm wine in the season; but I do not believe we shall get any worth drinking from the palms hereabouts."

"What is the matter with our palms?" cried Moyse, firing up for the honour of the northern coast. "I will get you a cabbage for dinner every day for a month to come," he added, moderating his tone under his uncle's eye—"every day, till you say that our palms, too, are as good as any you have in the plain; and as for palm wine, when the season comes—"

"No, let me—let me cut the cabbage!" cried Denis. "I can climb as quick as a monkey now—a hundred feet in two minutes. Let me climb the palmetto, Moyse."

"First take back my horse to those soldiers, my boy," said his father, setting Denis upon his horse, "and then let us all sit down here in the shade."

"All those horses," said Margot, anxiously: "what is to be done with them to-day? There are so many!"

"They will return presently," replied her husband. "I am not going to stay with you to-day. And, Margot, I shall take the lads with me, if they are disposed to go."

"The lads! my boys!"

"Yes," said Toussaint, throwing himself down in the shade. "Our country and its people are orphaned; and the youngest of us must now make himself a soldier, that he may be ready for any turn of affairs which Providences may appoint. Do you hear, my boys?"

"Yes, father," answered Placide in an earnest tone.

"They have then murdered the king?" asked Margot; "or did he die of his imprisonment?"

"They brought him to trial, and executed him. The apes plucked down the evening star, and quenched it. We have no king. We and our country are orphaned."

After a pause, Paul said—

"It is enough to make one leave one's fishing, and take up a gun."

"I rejoice to hear you say so, brother," said Toussaint.

"Then, father, you will let me go," cried Moyse. "You will give me your gun, and let me go to the camp."

"Yes, Moyse: rather you than I. You are a stout lad now, and I know nothing of camps. You shall take the gun, and I will stay and fish."

"Leave your father his gun, if he chooses to remain, Moyse. We will find arms for you. Placide! Isaac!" he continued, looking from one to the other of his sons.

"And Denis," cried the boy, placing himself directly in his father's eye, as he returned breathless from the discharge of his errand.

"Yes, my boy, by-and-bye, when you are as strong as Placide. You shall come to the camp when we want you."

"I will go to-day, father," said Placide.

"What to do?" said Isaac. "I do not understand."

Other eyes besides Aimee's were fixed on Toussaint's face, in anxiety for his reply.

"I do not know, my son, what we are to do next. When the parent of a nation dies, it may take some time to decide what is the duty of those who feel themselves bereaved. All I now am sure of is, that it cannot but be right for my children to be fitted to serve their country in any way that they may find to be appointed. I wish to train you to arms, and the time has come. Do not you think so?"

Isaac made no direct reply, and Aimee had strong hopes that he was prepared with some wise, unanswerable reason for remaining where he was. Meanwhile, his father proceeded—

"In all that I have done, in all that I now say, I have the sanction of Father Laxabon."

"Then all is right, we may be sure," said Margot. "I have no doubt you would be right, if you had not Father Laxabon to consult; but if he thinks you right, everything must be done as you wish. My boys," pursued the tearful mother, "you must go with your father: you hear Father Laxabon thinks so."

"Do you think so?" whispered Aimee to Isaac.

He pressed her arm, which was within his, in token of silence, while his father went on:

"You heard the proclamation I sent out among our people a few weeks ago."

"Yes," said Placide; "that in which you tell them that you prefer serving with Spaniards who own a king, than with French who own none."

"Yes. I have had to make the same declaration to the two commissaries who have arrived at Cap under orders from the regicides at Paris. These commissaries have to-day invited me to their standard by promises of favour and consideration."

"What do they promise us?" asked Margot eagerly.

"Nothing that we can accept. I have written a letter in reply, saying that I cannot yield myself to the will of any member of the nation, seeing that, since nations began, obedience has been due only to kings. We have lost the king of France; but we are beloved by the monarch of Spain, who faithfully rewards our services, and never intermits his protection and indulgence. Thus, I cannot acknowledge the authority of these commissaries till they shall have enthroned a king. Such is the letter which, guided by Father Laxabon, I have written."

"It is a beautiful letter, I am sure," said Margot. "Is it not, Paul."

"I don't doubt Father Laxabon is right," said Dessalines; "only I do not see the use of having a king, if people are turned out of house and home for being loyal—as we all are. If we had not cared anything about the king's quarrel, we might have been under our vines at home, as I have often said before."

"And how would it have been with us here?" said Toussaint, laying his hand on his breast.

"Put your hand a little lower, and I say it would have been all the better for us," said the old negro, laughing, "for we should not have gone without wine all this time."

"What do you think?" Aimee, as usual, asked Isaac.

"I think it was good for my father to be loyal to the king, as long as the king lived. I think it was good for us to be living here free, with time to consider what we should do next. And I think it has happened very well that my father has shown what a soldier he is, which he could not so well have done if we had stayed at Breda. As for Dessalines, he is best where the vines grow thickest, or where the cellars are deepest. It is a pity he should have taken upon him to be loyal."

"And what do you think of going to the camp with my father? Look at Moyse—how delighted he is!"

Moyse certainly did look possessed with joy. He was rapidly telling all his warlike intentions to Genifrede, who was looking in his face with a countenance of fear and grief.

"You think nothing of us," she cried at length, giving way to a passion of tears. "We have been so happy here, all together; and now you are glad to go, and leave us behind! You will go and fight, without caring for us—you will be killed in this horrid war, and we shall never see you again—we shall never know what has become of you."

Moyse's military fire was instantly quenched. It immediately appeared to him the greatest of miseries to have to leave his cousins. He assured Genifrede he could not really intend to go. He had only been fancying what a war with the white masters would be. He hated the whites heartily; but he loved this place much more. Placide and Isaac might go, but he should stay. Nothing should part him from those he loved best.

Toussaint was not unmindful of what was passing. Genifrede's tones of distress, and Moyse's protestations, all reached his ear. He turned, and gently drew his daughter towards him.

"My child," said he, "we are no longer what we have been—slaves, whose strength is in the will of their masters. We are free; and to be free requires a strong heart, in women as well as in men. When Monsieur Bayou was our master, we rose and slept every day alike, and went out to our work, and came in to our food, without having to think of anything beyond. Now we are free, and God has raised us to the difficult duties which we have always reverenced in the whites. We men must leave our homes to live in camps, and, if necessary, to fight; and you, women and girls, must make it easy for us to do our duty. You must be willing to see us go—glad to spare us—and you must pray to God that we may not return till our duty is done."

"I cannot—I shall not," Genifrede muttered to herself, as she cast down her eyes under her father's compassionate gaze. He looked towards Aimee, who answered, with tearful eyes—

"Yes, father. They must go; and we will not hinder them; but they will soon be back, will not they?"

"That depends on how soon we can make good soldiers of them," said he, cheerfully. "Come, Moyse, have you changed your mind again? Or will you stay and plait hammocks, while my boys are trained to arms?"

"I shall not stay behind, if the others go. But why should not we all go together? I am sure there is room enough in yonder valley for all the people on this coast."

"Room enough, but my family are better beside your father than among soldiers and the hunters of the mountains. Stay with them, or go with me. Shoot ducks, and pick up shell-fish here; or go with me, and prepare to be General Moyse some day."

Moyse looked as if he would have knocked his uncle down at the supposition that he would stay to pick up shell-fish. He could not but laugh, however, at hearing himself greeted as General Moyse by all the boys; and even Genifrede smiled.

Margot moved, sighing, towards the rocks, to put up for her boys such comforts as she could muster, and to prepare the meal which they must have before they went. Her girls went with her; and Denis shouted after them, that he was to get the cabbage from the palmetto, adding, that if they gave him a good knife, he would take it off as neatly as the Paris people took off the king. His father grasped his arm, and said—

"Never name the king, my boy, till you feel grieved that you have lost him. You do not know what you say. Remember—never mention the king unless we ask you."

Denis was glad to run after his cabbage. His father remembered to praise it at dinner. No one else praised or liked anything. Margot and Aimee were tearful; Genifrede was gloomy. The lads could think of nothing but the new life before them, which yet they did not like to question their father about, till they should have left the tears behind. No sooner were they past the first turn up the ridge, than they poured out their inquiries as to life in the camp, and the prospects of the war. Their eager gestures were watched by those they left behind; and there was a feeling of mortification in each woman's heart, on seeing this evidence that home was already forgotten for busier scenes. They persuaded themselves, and believed of each other, that their grief was for the fearful death of the king; and they spoke as if this had been really the case.

"We have no one to look up to, now," said Margot, sobbing; "no one to protect us. Who would have thought, when I married, how desolate we should be one day on the sea-shore—with our master at Baltimore, and the king dead, and no king likely to come after him! What will become of us?"

"But Margot," interposed Dessalines, "how should we be better off at this moment, if the king were alive and flourishing at Paris?"

"How?" repeated Margot, indignantly. "Why, he would have been our protector, to be sure. He would have done some fine thing for my husband, considering what my husband has done for him. If our beloved king (on his throne) knew of my husband's victory at Plaisance, and of his expedition to Saint Marc, and of his keeping quiet all these plantations near Marmalade, and of the thousands that he had brought over from the rebels, do you think a good master like the king would have left us to pine here among the rocks, while Jean Francais is boasting all day long, as if he had done everything with his own hand? No, our good king would never have let Jean Francais' wife dress herself in the best jewels the white ladies left behind, while the wife and daughters of his very best officer are living here in a hut, on a rock, with no other clothes to wear than they brought away from Breda. No, no; as my husband says, in losing the king we are orphans."

"I can get you as good clothes as ever Jean's wife wore, Margot," said Paul, whose soft heart was touched by her grief. "I can run my boat along to a place I know of, where there are silks and trinkets to be had, as well as brandy. I will bring you and the girls some pretty dresses, Margot."

"No, Paul, not here. We cannot wear them here. And we shall have no pleasure in anything, now we have lost the only one who could take care of us. And who knows whether we shall ever see our boys again?"

"Curse the war!" muttered Paul, wiping his brows.

"Mother," said Aimee in a low voice, "have we not God to protect us still? One master may desert us, and another may die; but there is still God above all. Will not he protect us?"

"Yes, my dear. God takes care of the world; but then He takes care of our enemies as well as of us."

"Does he?" exclaimed Denis, in a tone of surprise.

"Yes; ask your father if Father Laxabon does not say so. The name of God is for ever in the mouths of the whites at Cap; but they reviled the king; and, true enough, the king was altogether on our side,—we had all his protection."

"All that is a good deal changed now, I hear," said Paul. "The whites at Cap are following the example of the rebels at Paris, and do not rely upon God, as on their side, as they used to do."

"Will God leave off taking care of them, then?" asked Denis, "and take care only of us?"

"No," said Aimee. "God is willing, Isaac says, to take care of all men, whether they serve him or not."

Denis shook his head, as if he did not quite approve this.

"Our priest told Isaac," continued Aimee, "that God sends his rain on the just and on the unjust. And do not you know that he does? When the rains come next month, will they not fall on all the plantations of the plain, as well as in the valley where the camp is? Our waterfalls will be all the fresher and brighter for the rains, and so will the springs in Cap."

"But if he is everybody's master, and takes care of everybody," said Denis, "what is all this fighting about? We are not fighting for Him, are we?"

"Your father is," said Margot; "for God is always on the side of kings. Father Laxabon says so."

The boy looked puzzled, till Aimee said—

"I think there would be none of this fighting if everybody tried to please God and serve Him, as is due to a master—as father did for the king. God does not wish that men should fight. So our priest at Breda told Isaac."

"Unless wicked rebels force them to it, as your father is forced," said Margot.

"I suppose so," said Aimee, "by Isaac's choosing to go."



CHAPTER SIX.

THE HOUR.

The lads found some of the details of military training less heroic and less agreeable than they had imagined—scarcely to be compared, indeed, under either aspect, to the chase of the wild goats, and search for young turtle, to which they had been of late accustomed. They had their pleasures, however, amidst the heats, toils, and laborious offices of the camp. They felt themselves men, living among men: they were young enough to throw off, and almost to forget, the habits of thought which belong to slavery; and they became conscious of a spirit growing up within them, by which they could look before and after, perceive that the future of their lives was in their own hands, and therefore understand the importance of the present time. Their father looked upon them with mixed feelings of tender pride in them, and regret for his own lost youth. The strong and busy years on which they were entering had been all spent by him in acquiring one habit of mind, to which his temperament and his training alike conduced—a habit of endurance. It was at this time that he had acquired the power of reading enough to seek for books; and the books that he had got hold of were Epictetus, and some fragments of Fenelon. With all the force of youth, he had been by turns the stoic and the quietist; and, while busied in submitting himself to the pressure of the present, he had turned from the past, and scarcely dreamed of the future. If his imagination glanced back to the court of his royal grandfather, held under the palm shades, or pursuing the lion-hunt amidst the jungles of Africa, he had hastily withdrawn his mind's eye from scenes which might create impatience of his lot; and if he ever wondered whether a long succession of ignorant and sensual blacks were to be driven into the field by the whip every day in Saint Domingo, for evermore, he had cut short the speculation as inconsistent with his stoical habit of endurance, and his Christian principle of trust. It was not till his youth was past that he had learned anything of the revolutions of the world—too late to bring them into his speculations and his hopes. He had read, from year to year, of the conquests of Alexander and of Caesar; he had studied the wars of France, and drawn the plans of campaigns in the sand before his door till he knew them by heart; but it had not occurred to him, that while empires were overthrown in Asia, and Europe was traversed by powers which gave and took its territories, as he saw the negroes barter their cocoa-nuts and plantains on Saturday nights—while such things had happened in another hemisphere, it had not occurred to him that change would ever happen in Saint Domingo. He had heard of earthquakes taking place at intervals of hundreds of years, and he knew that the times of the hurricane were not calculable; but, patient and still as was his own existence, he had never thought whether there might not be a convulsion of human affections, a whirlwind of human passion, preparing under the grim order of society in the colony. If a master died, his heir succeeded him; if the "force" of any plantation was by any conjuncture of circumstances dispersed or removed, another negro company was on the shore, ready to re-people the slave-quarter. The mutabilities of human life had seemed to him to be appointed to whites—to be their privilege and their discipline; while he doubted not that the eternal command to blacks was to bear and forbear. When he now looked upon his boys, and remembered that for them this order was broken up, and in time for them to grasp a future, and prepare for it—that theirs was the lot of whites, in being involved in social changes, he regarded them with a far deeper solicitude and tenderness than in the darkest midnight hours of their childish illnesses, or during the sweetest prattle of their Sabbath afternoons, and with a far stronger hopefulness than can ever enter the heart or home of a slave. They had not his habitual patience; and he saw that they were little likely to attain it; but they daily manifested qualities and powers—enterprise, forecast, and aspiration of various kinds, adorning their youth with a promise which made their father sigh at the retrospect of his own. He was amused, at the same time, to see in them symptoms of a boyish vanity, to which he had either not been prone, or which he had early extinguished. He detected in each the secret eagerness with which they looked forward to displaying their military accomplishments to those with whom they were always exchanging thoughts over the ridge. He foresaw that when they should have improved a little in certain exercises, he should be receiving hints about a visit to the shore, and that there would then be such a display upon the sands as should excite prodigious admiration, and make Denis break his heart that he must not go to the camp.

Meantime, he amused them in the evenings, with as many of his officers as chose to look on, by giving them the history of the wars of Asia and Europe, as he had learned it from books, and thoroughly mastered it by reflection. Night after night was the map of Greece traced with his sword's point on the sand behind his tent, while he related the succession of the conflicts with Persia, with a spirit derived from old Herodotus himself. Night after night did the interest of his hearers arouse more and more spirit in himself, till he became aware that his sympathies with the Greeks in their struggles for liberty had hitherto been like those of the poet born blind, who delights in describing natural scenery—thus unconsciously enjoying the stir within him of powers whose appropriate exercise is forbidden. Amidst this survey of the regions of history, he felt, with humble wonder, that while his boys were like bright-eyed children sporting fearlessly in the fields, he was like one lately couched, by whom the order of things was gradually becoming recognised, but who was oppressed by the unwonted light, and inwardly ashamed of the hesitation and uncertainty of his tread. While sons, nephew, and a throng of his officers, were listening to him as to an oracle, and following the tracings of his sword, as he showed how this advance and that retreat had been made above two thousand years ago, he was full of consciousness that the spirit of the history of freedom was received more truly by the youngest of his audience than by himself—that he was learning from their natural ardour something of higher value than all that he had to impart.

As he was thus engaged, late one spring evening—late, because the rains would soon come on, and suspend all out-door meetings—he was stopped in the midst of explaining a diagram by an authoritative tap on the shoulder. Roused by an appeal to his attention now so unusual, he turned quickly, and saw a black, who beckoned him away.

"Why cannot you speak!—Or do you take me for some one else? Speak your business."

"I cannot," said the man, in a voice which, though too low to be heard by anyone else, Toussaint knew to be Papalier's. "I cannot speak here— I must not make myself known. Come this way."

Great was the surprise of the group at seeing Toussaint instantly follow this black, who appeared in the dusk to be meanly clothed. They entered the tent, and let down the curtain at the entrance. Some saw that a woman stood within the folds of the tent.

"Close the tent," said Papalier, in the same tone in which he had been wont to order his plate to be changed at home. "And now, give me some water to wash off this horrid daubing. Some water—quick! Pah! I have felt as if I were really a negro all this day."

Toussaint said nothing; nor did he summon any one. He saw it was a case of danger, led the way into the inner part of the tent, poured out water, pointed to it, and returned to the table, where he sat down, to await further explanation.

Papalier at length re-appeared, looking like himself, even as to his clothes, which Therese must have brought in the bundle which she carried. She now stood leaning against one of the tent-poles, looking grievously altered—worn and wearied.

"Will you not sit down, Therese?" said Toussaint, pointing to a chair near his own, Papalier having seated himself on the other side of the table.

Therese threw herself on a couch at some distance, and hid her face.

"I must owe my safety to you again, Toussaint," said Papalier. "I understand General Hermona is here at present."

"He is."

"You have influence with him, and you must use it for me."

"I am sorry you need it. I hoped you would have taken advantage of the reception he gave you to learn the best time and manner of going to Europe. I hoped you had been at Paris long ago."

"I ought to have been there. If I had properly valued my life, I should have been there. But it seemed so inconceivable that things should have reached a worse pass than when I crossed the frontier! It seemed so incredible that I should not be able to preserve any wreck of my property for my children, that I have lingered on, staying month after month, till now I cannot get away. I have had a dreadful life of it. I had better have been anywhere else. Why, even Therese," he continued, pointing over his shoulder towards the couch, "Therese, who would not be left behind at Fort Egalite, the night we came from Breda—even Therese has not been using me as she should do. I believe she hates me."

"You are in trouble, and therefore I will not speak with you to-night about Therese," said Toussaint. "You are in danger, from the determination of the Spaniards to deliver up the enemies of the late king to—"

"Rather say to deliver up the masters to their revolted slaves. They make politics the pretence; but they would not be sorry to see us all cut to pieces, like poor Odeluc and Clement, and fifty more."

"However that may be, your immediate danger is from the Spaniards—is it?"

"Yes, I discovered that I was to be sent over the line to-morrow; so I was obliged to get here to-day in any way I could; and there was no other way than—pah! it was horrid!"

"No other way than by looking like a negro," said Toussaint, calmly. "Well, now you are here, what do you mean to do next?"

"I mean, by your influence with General Hermona, to obtain protection to a port, that I may proceed to Europe. I do not care whether I go from Saint Domingo, or by Saint Iago, so as to sail from Port Plate. I could find a vessel from either port. You would have no difficulty in persuading General Hermona to this?"

"I hope not, as he voluntarily gave you permission to enter his territory. I will ask for his safe-conduct in the morning. To-night you are safe, if you remain here. I request that you will take possession of the inner apartment, and rely upon my protection."

"Thankyou. I knew my best way was to come here," said Papalier, rising. "Therese will bring me some refreshment; and then I shall be glad of rest, for we travelled half last night."

"For how many shall the safe-conduct be?" asked Toussaint, who had also risen. "For yourself alone, or more?"

"No one knows better than you," said Papalier, hastily, "that I have only one servant left," pointing again to the couch. "And," lowering his voice, so that Therese could not hear, "she, poor thing, is dreadfully altered, you see—has never got over the loss of her child, that night." Then, raising his voice again, he pursued: "My daughters at Paris will be glad to see Therese, I know; and she will like Paris, as everybody does. All my other people are irrecoverable, I fear; but Therese goes with me."

"No," said Therese, from the conch, "I will go nowhere with you."

"Hey-day! what is that?" said Papalier, turning in the direction of the voice. "Yes, you will go, my dear. You are tired to-night, as you well may be. You feel as I do—as if you could not go anywhere, to-morrow or the next day. But we shall be rested and ready enough, when the time comes."

"I am ready at this moment to go anywhere else—anywhere away from you," replied Therese.

"What do you mean, Therese?" asked her master, sharply.

"I mean what you said just now—that I hate you."

"Oh! silence!" exclaimed Toussaint. He then added in a mild tone to Therese, "This is my house, in which God is worshipped and Christ adored, and where therefore no words of hatred may be spoken." He then addressed himself to Papalier, saying, "You have then fully resolved that it is less dangerous to commit yourself to the Spaniards than to attempt to reach Cap?"

"To reach Cap! What! after the decree? Upon my soul, Toussaint, I never doubted you yet; but if—"

He looked Toussaint full in the face.

"I betray no one," said Toussaint. "What decree do you speak of?"

"That of the Convention of the 4th of February last."

"I have not heard of it."

"Then it is as I hoped—that decree is not considered here as of any importance. I trusted it would be so. It is merely a decree of the Convention, confirming and proclaiming the liberty of the negroes, and declaring the colony henceforth an integrant part of France. It is a piece of folly and nonsense, as you will see at once; for it can never be enforced. No one of any sense will regard it; but just at present it has the effect, you see, of making it out of the question for me to cross the frontier."

"True," said Toussaint, in a voice which made Papalier look in his face, which was working with some strong emotion. He turned away from the light, and desired Therese to follow him. He would commit her to the charge of one of the suttlers' wives for the night.

Having put on the table such fruit, bread, and wine as remained from his own meal (Papalier forbidding further preparation, for fear of exciting observation without), Toussaint went out with Therese, committed her to safe hands, and then entered the tent next his own, inhabited by his sons, and gave them his accustomed blessing. On his return, he found that Papalier had retired.

Toussaint was glad to be alone. Never had he more needed solitude; for rarely, if ever, in the course of his life, had his calm soul been so disturbed. During the last words spoken by Papalier, a conviction had flashed across him, more vivid and more tremendous than any lightning which the skies of December had sent forth to startle the bodily eye; and amidst the storm which those words had roused within him, that conviction continued to glare forth at intervals, refusing to be quenched. It was this—that if it were indeed true that the revolutionary government of France had decreed to the negroes the freedom and rights of citizenship, to tight against the revolutionary government would be henceforth to fight against the freedom and rights of his race. The consequences of such a conviction were overpowering to his imagination. As one inference after another presented itself before him—as a long array of humiliations and perplexities showed themselves in the future—he felt as if his heart were bursting. For hour after hour of that night he paced the floor of his tent; and if he rested his limbs, so unused to tremble with fear or toil, it was while covering his face with his hands, as if even the light of the lamp disturbed the intensity of his meditation. A few hours may, at certain crises of the human mind and lot, do the work of years; and this night carried on the education of the noble soul, long repressed by slavery, to a point of insight which multitudes do not reach in a lifetime. No doubt, the preparation had been making through years of forbearance and meditation, and through the latter mouths of enterprise and activity; but yet, the change of views and purposes was so great as to make him feel, between night and morning, as if he were another man.

The lamp burned out, and there was no light but from the brilliant flies, a few of which had found their way into the tent. Toussaint made his repeater strike: it was three o'clock. As his mind grew calm under the settlement of his purposes, he became aware of the thirst which his agitation had excited. By the light of the flitting tapers, he poured out water, refreshed himself with a deep draught, and then addressed himself to his duty. He could rarely endure delay in acting on his convictions. The present was a case in which delay was treachery; and he would not lose an hour. He would call up Father Laxabon, and open his mind to him, that he might be ready for action when the camp should awake.

As he drew aside the curtain of the tent, the air felt fresh to his heated brow, and, with the calm starlight, seemed to breathe strength and quietness into his soul. He stood for a moment listening to the dash and gurgle of the river, as it ran past the camp—the voice of waters, so loud to the listening ear, but so little heeded amidst the hum of the busy hours of day. It now rose above the chirpings and buzzings of reptiles and insects, and carried music to the ear and spirit of him who had so often listened at Breda to the fall of water in the night hours, with a mind unburdened and unperplexed with duties and with cares. The sentinel stopped before the tent with a start which made his arms ring at seeing the entrance open, and some one standing there.

"Watch that no one enters?" said Toussaint to him. "Send for me to Father Laxabon's, if I am wanted."

As he entered the tent of the priest—a tent so small as to contain only one apartment—all seemed dark. Laxabon slept so soundly as not to awake till Toussaint had found the tinder-box, and was striking a light.

"In the name of Christ, who is there?" cried Laxabon.

"I, Toussaint Breda; entreating your pardon, father."

"Why are you here, my son? There is some misfortune, by your face. You look wearied and anxious. What is it?"

"No misfortune, father, and no crime. But my mind is anxious, and I have ventured to break your rest. You will pardon me?"

"You do right, my son. We are ready for service, in season and out of season."

While saying this, the priest had risen, and thrown on his morning-gown. He now seated himself at the table, saying—

"Let us hear. What is this affair of haste?"

"The cause of my haste is this—that I may probably not again have conversation with you, father; and I desire to confess, and be absolved by you once more."

"Good. Some dangerous expedition—is it not so?"

"No. The affair is personal altogether. Have you heard of any decree of the French Convention by which the negroes—the slaves—of the colony of Saint Domingo are freely accepted as fellow-citizens, and the colony declared an integrant part of France?"

"Surely I have. The General was speaking of it last night; and I brought away a copy of the proclamation consequent upon it. Let me see," said he, rising, and taking up the lamp, "where did I put that proclamation?"

"With your sacred books, perhaps, father; for it is a gospel to me and my race."

"Do you think it of so much importance?" asked Laxabon, returning to the table with the newspaper containing the proclamation, officially given. "The General does not seem to think much of it, nor does Jean Francais."

"To a commander of our allies the affair may appear a trifle, father; and such white planters as cannot refuse to hear the tidings may scoff at them; but Jean Francais, a negro and a slave—is it possible that he makes light of this?"

"He does; but he has read it, and you have not. Read it, my son, and without prejudice."

Toussaint read it again and again.

"Well!" said the priest, as Toussaint put down the paper, no longer attempting to hide with it the streaming tears which covered his face.

"Father," said he, commanding his voice completely, "is there not hope, that if men, weakened and blinded by degradation, mistake their duty when the time for duty comes, they will be forgiven?"

"In what case, my son? Explain yourself."

"If I, hitherto a slave, and wanting, therefore, the wisdom of a free man, find myself engaged on the wrong side—fighting against the providence of God—is there not hope that I may be forgiven on turning to the right?"

"How the wrong side, my son? Are you not fighting for your king, and for the allies of France?"

"I have been so pledged and so engaged; and I do not say that I was wrong when I so engaged and so pledged myself. But if I had been wise as a free man should be, I should have foreseen of late what has now happened, and not have been found, when last night's sun went down (and as to-morrow night's sun shall not find me), holding a command against the highest interests of my race—now, at length, about to be redeemed."

"You—Toussaint Breda—the loyal! If Heaven has put any of its grace within you, it has shown itself in your loyalty; and do you speak of deserting the forces raised in the name of your king, and acting upon the decrees of his enemies? Explain to me, my son, how this can be. It seems to me that I can scarcely be yet awake."

"And to me, it seems, father, that never till now have I been awake. Yet it was in no vain dream that I served my king. If he is now where he can read the hearts of his servants, he knows that it was not for my command, or for any other dignity and reward, that I came hither, and have fought under the royal flag of France. It was from reverence and duty to him, under God. He is now in heaven; we have no king; and my loyalty is due elsewhere. I know not how it might have been if he had still lived; for it seems to me now that God has established a higher royalty among men than even that of an anointed sovereign over the fortunes of many millions of men. I think now that the rule which the free man has over his own soul, over time and eternity—subject only to God's will—is a nobler authority than that of kings; but, however I might have thought, our king no longer lives; and, by God's mercy, as it seems to me now, while the hearts of the blacks feel orphaned and desolate, an object is held forth to us for the adoration of our loyalty—an object higher than throne and crown, and offered us by the hand of the King of kings."

"Do you mean freedom, my son? Remember that it is in the name of freedom that the French rebels have committed the crimes which—which it would consume the night to tell of, and which no one knows better, or abhors more, than yourself."

"It is true; but they struggled for this and that, and the other right and privilege existing in societies of those who are fully admitted to be men. In the struggle, crime has been victorious, and they have killed their king. The object of my devotion will now be nothing that has to be wrenched from an anointed ruler, nothing which can be gained by violence—nothing but that which, being already granted, requires only to be cherished, and may best be cherished in peace—the manhood of my race. To this must I henceforth be loyal."

"How can men be less slaves than the negroes of Saint Domingo of late? No real change has taken place; and yet you, who wept that freedom as rebellion, are now proposing to add your force to it."

"And was it not rebellion? Some rose for the plunder of their masters— some from ambition—some from revenge—many to escape from a condition they had not patience to endure. All this was corrupt; and the corruption, though bred out of slavery, as the fever from the marshes, grieved my soul as if I had not known the cause. But now, knowing the cause, and others (knowing it also) having decreed that slavery is at an end, and given the sanction of law and national sympathy to our freedom—is not the case changed? Is it now a folly or a sin to desire to realise and purify and elevate this freedom, that those who were first slaves and then savages may at length become men—not in decrees and proclamations only, but in their own souls? You do not answer, father. Is it not so?"

"Open yourself further, my son. Declare what you propose. I fear you are perplexing yourself."

"If I am deceived, father, I look for light from heaven through you."

"I fear—I fear, my son! I do not find in you to-night the tone of humility and reliance upon religion in which you found comfort the first time you opened the conflicts of your heart to me. You remember that night, my son?"

"The first night of my freedom? Never shall I forget its agonies."

"I rejoice to hear it. Those agonies were safer, more acceptable to God, than the comforts of self-will."

"My father, if my will ensnares me, lay open the snare—I say not for the sake of my soul only—but for far, far more—for the sake of my children, for the sake of my race, for the sake of the glory of God in His dealings with men, bring me back if I stray."

"Well. Explain—explain what you propose."

"I cannot remain in an army opposed to what are now the legal rights of the blacks."

"You will give up your command?"

"I shall."

"And your boys—what will you do with them?"

"Send them whence they came for the present. I shall dismiss them by one road, while the resignation of my rank goes by another."

"And you yourself by a third."

"When I have declared myself to General Hermona."

"Have you thoughts of taking your soldiers with you?"

"No."

"But what is right for you is right for them."

"If they so decide for themselves. My power over them is great. They would follow me with a word. I shall therefore avoid speaking that word, as it would be a false first step in a career of freedom, to make them enter upon it as slaves to my opinion and my will."

"But you will at least address them, that they may understand the course you pursue. The festival of this morning will afford an opportunity— after mass. Have you thought of this?—I do not say that I am advising it, or sanctioning any part of your plan, but have you thought of this?"

"I have, and dismissed the thought. The proclamation will speak for itself. I act from no information which is not open to them all. They can act, thank God, for themselves; and I will not seduce them into subservience, or haste, or passion."

"But you will be giving up everything. What can make you think that the French at Cap, all in the interest of the planters, will receive you?"

"I do not think it; and I shall not offer myself."

"Then you will sink into nothing. You will no longer be an officer, nor even a soldier. You will be a mere negro, where negroes are wholly despised. After all that you have been, you will be nothing."

"I shall be a true man."

"You will sink to less than nothing. You will be worse than useless before God and man. You will be held a traitor."

"I shall; but it will be for the sake of a higher fidelity."

There was a long pause, after which Laxabon said, in a tone half severe, and half doubting—

"So, here ends your career! You will dig a piece of ground to grow maize and plantains for your family; you will read history in your piazza, and see your daughters dance in the shade, while your name will never be mentioned but as that of a traitor. So here ends your career!"

"From no one so often as you, father, have I heard that man's career never ends."

The priest made no reply.

"How lately was it," pursued Toussaint, "that you encouraged my children, when they, who fear neither the wild bull nor the tornado, looked somewhat fearfully up to the eclipsed moon? Who was it but you who told them, that though that blessed light seemed blotted out from the sky, it was not so; but that behind the black shadow, God's hand was still leading her on, through the heaven, still pouring radiance into her lamp, not the less bright because it was hidden from men? A thick shadow is about to pass upon my name; but is it not possible, father, that God may still be feeding my soul with light—still guiding me towards Himself? Will you not once more tell me, that man's career never ends?"

"In a certain sense—in a certain sense, that is true, my son. But our career here is what God has put into our own hands: and it seems to me that you are throwing away His gift and His favour. How will you answer when He asks you, 'What hast thou done with the rank and the power I put into thy hand? How hast thou used them?' What can you then answer, but 'I flung them away, and made myself useless and a reproach.' You know what a station you hold in this camp—how you are prized by the General for the excellence of the military discipline you have introduced; and by me, and all the wise and religious, for the sobriety of manners and purity of morals of which you are an example in yourself, and which you have cherished among your troops, so that your soldiers are the boast of the whole alliance. You know this—that you unite the influence of the priest with the power of the commander; and yet you are going to cast off both, with all the duties which belong to them, and sink yourself in infamy—and with yourself, the virtues you have advocated. How will you answer this to God?"

"Father, was there not One in whose path lay all the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them, and who yet chose ignominy—to be despised by the world, instead of to lead it? And was God severe with Him? Forgive me, father; but have you not desired me to follow Him, though far-off as the eastern moon from the setting sun?"

"That was a case, my son, unique in the world. The Saviour had a lot of His own. Common men have rulers appointed them whom they are to serve; and, if in rank and honour, so much the greater the favour of God. You entered this service with an upright mind and pure intent; and here, therefore, can you most safely remain, instead of casting yourself down from the pinnacle of the temple, which, you know, the Son of God refused to do. Remember His words, 'Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.' Be not tempted yourself, by pride of heart, to compare your lot with that of Christ, which was unique."

"He devoted Himself for the whole race of man: He, and He alone. But it seems to me that there may be periods of time when changes are appointed to take place among men—among nations, and even among races; and that a common man may then be called to devote himself for that nation, or for that race. Father, I feel that the hour may be come for the negro race to be redeemed; and that I, a common man, may so far devote myself as not to stand in the way of their redemption. I feel that I must step out from among those who have never admitted the negroes' claims to manhood. If God should open to me a way to serve the blacks better, I shall be found ready. Meantime, not for another day will I stand in the light of their liberties. Father," he continued, with an eagerness which grew as he spoke, "you know something of the souls of slaves. You know how they are smothered in the lusts of the body, how they are debased by the fear of man, how blind they are to the providence of God! You know how oppression has put out the eyes of their souls, and withered its sinews. If now, at length, a Saviour has once more for them stretched out His healing hand, and bidden them see, and arise and be strong, shall I resist the work? And you, father, will you not aid it? I would not presume; but if I might say all—"

"Say on, my son."

"Having reproved and raised the souls of slaves, would it not henceforth be a noble work for you to guide their souls as men? If you would come among us as a soldier of Christ, who is bound to no side in earthly quarrels—if you would come as to those who need you most, the lowest, the poorest, the most endangered, what a work may lie between this hour and your last! What may your last hour be, if, day by day, you have trained our souls in the glorious liberty of the children of God! The beginning must be lowly; but the kind heart of the Christian priest is lowly: and you would humble yourself first to teach men thus,—'you were wrong to steal'—'you were wrong to drink'—'you were wrong to take more wives than one, and to strike your children in passion.' Thus humbly must you begin; but among free men, how high may you not rise? Before you die, you may have led them to rule their own spirits, and, from the throne of that sovereignty, to look far into the depths of the heavens, and over the history of the world; so that they may live in the light of God's countenance, and praise Him almost like the angels—for, you know, He has made us, even us, but a little lower than they."

"This would be a noble work," said Laxabon, much moved: "and if God is really about to free your race, He will appoint a worthy servant for the office. My duty, however, lies here. I have here souls in charge, without being troubled with doubts as to the intentions of God and of men. As I told you, the General does not think so much as you do of this event; nor even does Jean Francais. If you act rashly, you will repent for ever having quitted the path of loyalty and duty. I warn you to pause, and see what course events will take. I admonish you not hastily to desert the path of loyally and duty."

"If it had pleased God," said Toussaint, humbly, "to release me from the ignorance of slavery when He gave me freedom, I might now be able to lay open my heart as I desire to do; I might declare the reasons which persuade me so strongly as I feel persuaded. But I am ignorant, and unskilful in reasoning with one like you, father."

"It is therefor that we are appointed to guide and help you, my son. You now know my mind, and have received my admonition. Let us proceed to confession; for the morning draws on towards the hour for mass."

"Father, I cannot yield to your admonition. Reprove me as you will, I cannot. There is a voice within me stronger than yours."

"I fear so, my son; nor can I doubt what that voice is, nor whence it comes. I will pray for you, that you may have strength to struggle with the tempter."

"Not so, father; rather pray that I may have strength to obey this new voice of duty, alone as I am, discountenanced as I shall be."

"Impossible, my son. I dare not so pray for one self-willed and precipitate; nor, till you bring a humble and obedient mind, can I receive your confession. There can be no absolution where there is reservation. Consider, my dear son! I only desire you to pause."

"Delay is treachery," said Toussaint. "This day the decree and proclamation will be made known through the forces; and if I remain, this night's sun sets on my condemnation. I shall not dare to pray, clothed in my rank, this night."

"Go now, my son. You see it is dawning. You have lost the present opportunity; and you must now leave me to my duties. When you can return hither to yours, you will be welcome."

Toussaint paid him his wonted reverence, and left the tent.

Arrived in his own, he threw himself on the couch like a heart-broken man.

"No help! no guidance!" thought he. "I am desolate and alone. I never thought to have been left without a guide from God. He leaves me with my sins upon my soul, unconfessed, unabsolved; and, thus burdened and rebuked, I must enter upon the course which I dare not refuse. But this voice within me which bids me go—whence and what is it? Whence is it but from God? And how can I therefore say that I am alone? There is no man that I can rely on—not even one of Christ's anointed priests; but is there not He who redeemed men? and will He reject me if, in my obedience, I come to Him? I will try—I will dare. I am alone; and He will hear and help me."

Without priest, without voice, without form of words, he confessed and prayed, and no longer felt that he was alone. He arose, clear in mind and strong in heart: wrote and sealed up his resignation of his commission, stepped into the next tent to rouse the three boys, desiring them to dress for early mass, and prepare for their return to their homes immediately afterwards. He then entered his own inner apartment, where Papalier was sleeping so soundly that it was probable the early movements of saint's-day festivities in the camp would not awaken him. As he could not show himself abroad till the General's protection was secured, his host let him sleep on; opening and shutting his clothes' chest, and going through the whole preparation for appearance on the parade in full uniform, without disturbing his wearied guest, who hardly moved even at the roll of the drum, and the stir of morning in the camp.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE ACT.

Papalier was probably the only person in the valley who did not attend mass on this saint's-day morning. The Spanish general was early seen, surrounded by his staff, moving towards the rising ground, outside the camp, on which stood the church, erected for the use of the troops when the encampment was formed. The soldiers, both Spanish and negro, had some time before filed out of their tents, and been formed for their short march; and they now came up in order, the whites approaching on the right, and the blacks on the left, till their forces joined before the church. The sun had not yet shone down into the valley, and the dew lay on the grass, and dropped like rain from the broad eaves of the church-roof—from the points of the palm-leaves with which it was thatched.

This church was little more than a covered enclosure. It was well shaded from the heat of the sun by its broad and low roof; but, between the corner posts, the sides could hardly be said to be filled in by the bamboos which stood like slender columns at intervals of several inches, so that all that passed within could be seen from without, except that the vestry and the part behind the altar had their walls interwoven with withes, so as to be impervious to the eye. The ground was strewn thick with moss,—cushioned throughout for the knees of the worshippers. The seats were rude wooden benches, except the chair, covered with damask, which was reserved for the Marquis d'Hermona.

Here the General took his place, his staff ranging themselves on the benches behind. Jean Francais entered after him, and seated himself on the opposite range of benches. Next followed Toussaint Breda, alone, having left his sons outside with the soldiers. Some few more advanced towards the altar; it being understood that those who did so wished to communicate. An interval of a few empty benches was then left, and the lower end of the church was thronged by such of the soldiery as could find room; the rest closing in round the building, so as to hear the voice of the priest, and join in the service.

There was a gay air about the assemblage, scarcely subdued by the place, and the occasion which brought them to it. Almost every man carried a stem of the white amaryllis, plucked from among the high grass, with which it grew thickly intermixed all over the valley; and beautiful to the eye were the snowy, drooping blossoms, contrasted with the rich dark green of their leaves. Some few brought twigs of the orange and the lime; and the sweet odour of the blossoms pervaded the place like a holy incense, as the first stirring airs of morning breathed around and through the building. There were smiles on almost every face; and a hum of low but joyous greetings was heard without, till the loud voice of the priest, reciting the Creed, hushed every other. The only countenance of great seriousness present was that of Toussaint, and his bore an expression of solemnity, if not of melancholy, which struck every one who looked upon him—and he always was looked upon by every one. His personal qualities had strongly attracted the attention of the Spanish general. Jean Francais watched his every movement with the mingled triumph and jealousy of a superior in rank, but a rival in fame; and by the negro troops he was so beloved, that nothing but the strict discipline which he enforced could have prevented their following him in crowds wherever he went. Whenever he smiled, as he passed along, in conversation, they laughed without inquiring why; and now, this morning, on observing the gravity of his countenance, they glanced from one to another, as if to inquire the cause.