"Monsieur Moliere discharges the duty of a pious descendant, however," said Vincent. "He laughs himself into such a state of exhaustion every night over those immortal comedies, that he has to be carried to bed. That is the reason we see him so grave in the morning."

"Think of Monsieur Moliere as a trusted secretary of the messenger from the republic to yourself," said General Michel.

"I come," said Michel, assuming a pompous tone, "I come associated with an officer of the republican army, Monsieur Petion—a native of this colony, but a stranger to yourself."

Monsieur Petion paid his respects. He was a mulatto, with shy and reserved manners, and an exceedingly intellectual countenance.

"We lost you early," said Toussaint; "but only to offer you the warmer welcome back. It was, as I remember, to attend the military schools of France that you left your home. Such scholars are welcome here."

"And particularly," observed Michel, "when they have also had the fortune to serve in the army of Italy, and immediately under the eye of the First Consul himself."

"Is it so? Is it really so?" exclaimed Toussaint. "I can never hear enough of the ruler of France. Tell us—but that must be hereafter. Do you come to me from him?"

"From the government generally," replied Petion.

An expression of disappointment, very evident to his watchful wife, passed over the face of Toussaint.

"There is no letter," she whispered to Genifrede.

"We bring you from the government," said Michel, "a confirmation of the dignity of Commander-in-chief of this colony, conferred by Commissary Santhonax."

Toussaint bowed, but smiled not.

"See, he sighs!" said Madame, sighing in echo.

"These are empty words," said Therese. "They give him only what they cannot withhold; and at the very moment they surround him with spies."

"He says," replied Madame, "that Hedouville is sent here 'to restrain his ambition.' Those were the words spoken of him at Paris, where they will not believe that he has no selfish ambition."

"They will not believe, because they cannot understand. Their Commander-in-chief has a selfish ambition; and they cannot imagine that ours may be a man of a higher sold. But we cannot help it: they are whites."

"What a dress—what a beautiful dress!" exclaimed Madame, who almost condescended to stand fairly in the window, to see the presents now displayed before her husband by the commissary's servants.

"These presents," pursued General Michel, while Petion stood aloof, as if he had no concern in the business—"this dress of embroidered velvet, and this set of arms, I am to present to you, in the name of the late Directory of France, in token of their admiration of your services to the colony."

Toussaint stretched out his hand for the sword, which he immediately assumed instead of the one he wore, observing that this sword, like that which he had now laid aside, should be employed in loyal service to the republic. As he took no notice of the embroidered dress, it was conveyed away.

"Not only in the hall of government," resumed Michel—"but throughout all Europe, is your name ringing to the skies. A eulogium has been delivered at the Council of Ancients—"

"And an oration before the governors of the Military Schools," added Hedouville.

"And from Paris," said Pascal, "your reputation has spread along the shores of the Rhine, and as far north as Saint Petersburg; and in the south, even to Rome."

Toussaint's ear caught a low laugh of delight from the piazza, which he thought fit alone for a husband's ear, and therefore hoped that no one else had heard.

"Enough, gentlemen," he said. "Measuring together my deeds and this applause, I understand the truth. This applause is in fact given to the powers of the negro race; and not to myself as a soldier or a man. It belongs not, therefore, to me. For my personal support, one line of a letter, one word of message, from the chief of our common country, would be worth the applause of Europe, of which you speak."

Monsieur Petion produced a sealed packet, which he delivered; and this seemed to remind General Vincent that he had one too. Toussaint was unable to refrain from tearing open first one, and then the other, in the intense hope of receiving some acknowledgment, some greeting from the "brother in destiny and in glory," who was the idol of his loyal heart. There was no word from Bonaparte among the first papers; and it was scarcely possible that there should be in the other packet; yet he could not keep his eye from it. Other eyes were watching from behind the jalousies. He cast a glance, a half smile that way; the consequence of which was that Aimee, forgetting the time, the deputation, the officers, the whole crowd, sprang into the room, and received the letter from Isaac, which was the only thing in all that room that she saw. She disappeared in another moment, followed, however, by General Vincent.

The father's smile died away from the face of Toussaint, and his brow darkened, as he caught at a glance the contents of the proclamations contained in Petion's packet. A glance was enough. Before the eyes of the company had returned from the window, whither they had followed the apparition of Aimee, he had folded up the papers. His secretary's hand was ready to receive them: but Toussaint put them into his bosom.

"Those proclamations," said Hedouville, rising from the sofa, and standing by Toussaint's side, "you will immediately publish. You will immediately exhibit on your colours the words imposed, 'Brave blacks, remember that the French people alone recognise your freedom, and the legality of your rights!'"

As the commissary spoke these, words aloud, he looked round upon the assembled blacks, who, in their turn, all fixed their eyes upon their chief. Toussaint merely replied that he would give his best attention to all communications from the government of France.

"In order," said Hedouville, as if in explanation of a friend's purposes, "in order to yield implicit obedience to its commands." Then resuming his seat, he observed to Toussaint, "I believe General Michel desires some little explanation of certain circumstances attending his landing at Cap."

"I do," said General Michel, resuming his solemn air. "You are aware that General Vincent and I were arrested on landing?"

"I am aware of it. It was by my instant command that you were set free."

"By whose command, or by what error, then, were we arrested?"

"I hoped that full satisfaction had been afforded you by Monsieur Raymond, the Governor of Cap Francais. Did he not explain to you that it was by an impulse of the irritated blacks—an impulse of which they repent, and to which they will not again yield, proceeding from anger for which there is but too much cause? As you, however, are not to be made responsible for the faults of your government towards us, the offending parties have been amply punished."

"I," said Hedouville, from the sofa behind, "I am held responsible for the faults of our government towards you. What are they?"

"We will discuss them at Cap," replied Toussaint. "There you will be surrounded by troops of your own colour; and you will feel more at liberty to open your whole mind to me than, it grieves me to perceive, you are when surrounded by blacks. When you know the blacks better, you will become aware that the highest security is found in fully trusting them."

"What is it that you suppose we fear from the blacks?"

"When we are at Cap, I will ask you what it was that you feared, Monsieur Hedouville, when you chose to land at Saint Domingo, instead of at Cap—when you showed your mistrust of your fellow-citizens by selecting the Spanish city for your point of entrance upon our island. I will then ask you what it is that your government fears, that it commits the interests of the blacks to a new legislature, which understands neither their temper nor their affairs."

"This was, perhaps, the cause of the difficulty we met with at Cap," observed General Michel.

"It is the chief cause. Some jealousy on this account is not to be wondered at; but it has not the less been punished. I would further ask," he continued, turning again to Hedouville, "what the First Consul fears, that—"

"Who ever heard of the First Consul fearing anything?" cried Hedouville, with a smile.

"Hear it now, then."

"In this place?" said Hedouville, looking round. "In public?"

"In this place—among the most loyal of the citizens of France," replied Toussaint, casting a proud look round upon his officers and assembled friends. "If I were about to make complaints of the First Consul, I would close my doors upon you and myself, and speak in whispers. But it is known that I honour him, and hold him to my heart, as a brother in destiny and in glory: though his glory is now at its height, while mine will not be so till my race is redeemed from the consequences of slavery, as well as from slavery itself. Still, we are brothers; and I therefore mourn his fears, shown in the documents that he sends to my soldiers, and shown no less in his sending none to me."

"I bring you from him the confirmation of your dignity," observed General Michel.

"You do so by message. The honour is received through the ear. But that which should plant it down into my heart—the greeting from a brother—is wanting. It cannot be that the First of the Whites has not time, has not attention, for the First of the Blacks. It is that he fears—not for himself, but for our country: he fears our ambition, our revenge. He shall experience, however, that we are loyal—from myself, his brother, to the mountain child who startles the vulture from the rocks with his shouts of Bonaparte the Great. To engage our loyalty before many witnesses," he continued, once more looking round upon the assemblage, "I send this message through you, in return for that which I have received. Tell the First Consul that, in the absence of interference with the existing laws of the colony, I guarantee, under my personal responsibility, the submission to order, and the devotion to France, of my black brethren. Mark the condition, gentlemen, which you will pronounce reasonable. Mark the condition, and you will find happy results. You will soon see whether I pledge in vain my own responsibility and your hopes."

Even while he spoke, in all the fervour of unquestionable sincerity, of his devotion to France, his French hearers fell that he was virtually a monarch. The First of the Blacks was not only supreme in this palace, and throughout the colony; he had entered upon an immortal reign over all lands trodden by the children of Africa. To the contracted gaze of the diplomatists present, all might not be visible—the coming ages when the now prophetic name of L'Ouverture should have become a bright fact in the history of man, and should be breathed in thanksgiving under the palm-tree, sung in exultation in the cities of Africa, and embalmed in the liberties of the Isles of the West:—such a sovereignty as this was too vast and too distant for the conceptions of Michel and Hedouville to embrace; but they were impressed with a sense of his power, with a feeling of the majesty of his influence; and the reverential emotions which they would fain have shaken off, and which they were afterwards ashamed of, were at the present moment enhanced by sounds which reached them from the avenue. There was military music, the firing of salutes, the murmur of a multitude of voices, and the tramp of horses and of men.

Toussaint courteously invited the commissaries to witness the presentation to him, for the interests of France, of the keys of the cities of the island, late in the possession of Spain, and now ceded to France by the treaty of Bale. The commissaries could not refuse, and took their stand on one side of the First of the Blacks, while Paul L'Ouverture assumed the place of honour on the other hand.

The apartment was completely filled by the heads of the procession—the late Governor of the city of Saint Domingo, his officers, the magistracy of the city, and the heads of the clergy.

Among these last was a face which Toussaint recognised with strong emotion. The look which he cast upon Laxabon, the gesture of greeting which he offered, caused Don Alonzo Dovaro to turn round to discover whose presence there could be more imposing to the Commander-in-chief than his own. The flushed countenance of the priest marked him out as the man.

Don Alonzo Dovaro ordered the keys to be brought, and addressed himself in Spanish to Toussaint. Toussaint did not understand Spanish, and knew that the Spaniard, could speak French. The Spaniard, however, chose to deliver up a Spanish city in no other language than that of his nation. Father Laxabon stepped forward eagerly, with an offer to be interpreter. It was an opportunity he was too thankful to embrace—a most favourable means of surmounting the awkwardness of renewed intercourse with one, by whom their last conversation could not be supposed to be forgotten.

"This is well—this fulfilment of the treaty of Bale," said Toussaint. "But it would have been better if the fulfilment had been more prompt. The time for excuses and apologies is past. I merely say, as sincerity requires, that the most speedy fulfilment of treaties is ever the most honourable; and that I am guiltless of such injury as may have arisen from calling off ten thousand blacks from the peaceful pursuits of agriculture and commerce, to march them to the gates of Saint Domingo. You, the authorities of the city, compelled me to lead them there, in enforcement of the claims of France. If warlike thoughts have sprung up in those ten thousand minds, the responsibility is not mine. I wish that nothing but peace should be in the hearts of men of all races. Have you wishes to express, in the name of the citizens? Show me how I can gratify them."

"Don Alonzo Dovaro explains," said the interpreter, "that it will be acceptable to the Spanish inhabitants that you take the customary oath, in the name of the Holy Trinity, respecting the government of their whole region."

"It is indeed a holy duty. What is the purport of the oath?"

"In the name of the Holy Trinity, to govern wisely and well."

"Has there lived a Christian man who would take that oath?"

"Every governor of the Spanish colony in this island, from Diego, the brother of Columbus, to this day."

"What is human wisdom," said Toussaint, "that a man should swear that he will be always wise? What is human virtue, that he should pledge his salvation on governing well? I dare not take the oath."

The Spaniards showed that they understood French by the looks they cast upon each other, before Laxabon could complete his version.

"This, however, will I do," said Toussaint. "I will meet you to-morrow, at the great church in Port-au-Prince, and there bind myself before the altar, before the God who hears me now, on behalf of your people, to be silent on the past, and to employ my vigilance and my toils in rendering happy the Spanish people, now become my fellow-citizens of France."

A profusion of obeisances proved that this was satisfactory. The late governor of the city took from one of his officers the velvet cushion on which were deposited the keys of Saint Domingo, and transferred it to the hands of the Commander-in-chief. At the moment, there was an explosion of cannon from the terrace on which stood the town; the bells rang in all the churches; and bursts of military music spread over the calm bay, with the wreaths of white smoke from the guns. The flamingoes took flight again from the strand; the ships moved in their anchorage; the shouts of the people arose from the town, and those of the soldiery from the square of the great avenue. Their idol, their Ouverture, was now in command of the whole of the most beautiful of the isles of the west.

As soon as he could be heard, Toussaint introduced his brother to the Spaniards. Placing the cushion containing the keys upon the table, and laying his hand upon the keys, he declared his intention of giving to the inhabitants of the city of Saint Domingo a pledge of the merciful and gentle character of the government under which they were henceforth to live, in the person of the new governor, Paul L'Ouverture, who had never been known to remember unkindness from day-to-day. The new governor would depart for the east of the island on the morrow, from the door of the church, at the close of the celebration.

The levee was now over. Spanish, French, and the family and guests of the Commander-in-chief, were to meet at a banquet in the evening. Meantime, Toussaint and his brother stepped out together upon the northern piazza, and the room was cleared.

"I wish," said Paul, "that you had appointed any one but me to be governor of that city. How should a poor negro fisherman like me govern a city?"

"You speak like a white, Paul. The whites say of me, 'How should a poor negro postillion govern a colony?' You must do as I do—show that a negro can govern."

"But Heaven made you for a ruler."

"Who thought so while I was yet a slave? As for you—I know not what you can do till you have tried; nor do you. I own that you are not the man I should have appointed, if I had had a choice among all kinds of men."

"Then look around for some other."

"There is no other, on the whole, so little unfit as you. Henri must remain in the field while Rigaud is in arms. Jacques—"

"Ay, Dessalines—and he might have a court—such a wife as he would carry."

"Dessalines must not govern a city of whites. He hates the whites. His passion of hatred would grow with power; and the Spaniards would be wretched. They are now under my protection. I must give them a governor who cannot hate; and therefore I send you. Your love of our people and of me, my brother, will rouse you to exertion and self-denial. For the rest you shall have able counsellors on the spot. For your private guidance, I shall be ever at your call. Confide wholly in me, and your appeal shall never be unanswered."

"You shall be governor, then. I will wear the robes, and your head shall do the work. I will amuse the inhabitants with water-parties, and you—"

"No more of this!" said Toussaint, somewhat sternly. "It seems that you are unwilling to do your part of the great duty of our age and our race. Heaven has appointed you the opportunity of showing that blacks are men—fit to govern as to serve;—and you would rather sleep in the sunshine than listen to the message from the sky. My own brother does what he can to deepen the brand on the forehead of the negro!"

"I am ashamed, brother," said Paul, "I am not like you; but yet I will do what I can. I will go to-morrow, and try whether I can toil as you do. There is one thing I can do which Henri, and Jacques, and even you, cannot;—I can speak Spanish."

"You have discovered one of your qualifications, dear Paul. You will find more. Will you take Moyse with you?"

"Let it be a proof that I can deny myself, that I leave my son with you. Moyse is passionate."

"I know it," said Toussaint.

"He governs both his love and his hatred before you, while with me he indulges them. He must remain with you, in order to command his passions. He inherited them from me; and I must thus far help him to master them. You are all-powerful with him. I have no power."

"You mean that Genifrede and I together are all-powerful with him. I believe it is so."

"To you, then, I commit him. Moyse is henceforth your son."

"As Genifrede is your daughter, Paul. If I die before the peace of the island is secured, there are two duties which I assign to you—to support the spirit of the blacks, and to take my Genifrede for your daughter. The rest of my family love each other, and the world we live in. She loves only Moyse."

"She is henceforth my child. But when will you marry them?"

"When Moyse shall have done some act to distinguish himself—for which he shall not want opportunity. I have a higher duty than that to my family—it is my duty to call out all the powers of every black. Moyse must therefore prove what he can do, before he can marry his love. For him, however, this is an easy condition."

"I doubt not you are right, brother; but it is well for me that the days of my love are past."

"Not so, Paul. The honour of your race must now be your love. For this you must show what you can do."

They had paced the northern piazza while conversing. They now turned into the eastern, where they came upon the lovers, who were standing half shrouded by creeping plants—Moyse's arm round Genifrede's waist, and Genifrede's head resting on her lover's shoulder. The poor girl was sobbing violently, while Moyse was declaring that he would marry her, with or without consent, and carry her with him, if he was henceforth to live in the east of the island.

"Patience, foolish boy!" cried his father. "You go not with me. I commit you to my brother. You will stay with him, and yield him the duty of a son—a better duty than we heard you planning just now."

"As soon as you prove yourself worthy, you shall be my son indeed," said Toussaint. "I have heard your plans of marriage. You shall hear mine. I will give you opportunities of distinguishing yourself, in the services of the city and of the field. After the first act which proves you worthy of responsibility, I will give you Genifrede. As a free man, can you desire more?"

"I am satisfied—I am grateful," said Moyse. "I believe I spoke some hasty words just now; but we supposed I was to be sent among the whites—and I had so lately returned from the south—and Genifrede was so wretched!"

Genifrede threw herself on her father's bosom, with broken words of love and gratitude. It was the first time she had ever voluntarily approached so near him; and she presently drew back, and glanced in his face with timid awe.

"My Genifrede! My child!" cried Toussaint, in a rapture of pleasure at this loosening of the heart. He drew her towards him, folded his arms about her, kissed the tears from her cheek, and hushed her sobs, saying, in a low voice which touched her very soul—

"He can do great deeds, Genifrede. He is yours, my child; but we shall all be proud of him."

She looked up once more, with a countenance so radiant, that Toussaint carried into all the toils and observance of the day the light heart of a happy father.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. I have to acknowledge that injustice is done in this work to the character of General Vincent. The writer of historical fiction is under that serious liability, in seizing on a few actual incidents, concerning a subordinate personage, that he makes himself responsible for justice to the whole character of the individual whose name he introduces into his story. Under this liability I have been unjust to Vincent, as Scott was to Edward Christian, in "Peveril of the Peak," and Campbell to Brandt, in "Gertrude of Wyoming." Like them, I am anxious to make reparation on the first opportunity. It is true that in my Appendix I avowed that Vincent was among those of my personages whose name alone I adopted, without knowing his character; but such an explanation in an appendix does not counteract the impression already made by the work. Finding this, I had thoughts of changing the name in the present edition; but I feared the character being still identified with Vincent, from its being fact that it was Vincent who accompanied Toussaint's sons to Paris, and returned with the deputation, as I have represented; I think it best, therefore, to say here that, from all I can learn, General Vincent was an honourable and useful man, and that the delineation of character under that name in my book is purely fictitious. The following extract from Clarkson's pamphlet on Negro Improvement will show in what estimation General Vincent is held by one whose testimony is of the highest value:—

"The next witness to whom I shall appeal is the estimable General Vincent, who now lives at Paris, though at an advanced age. He was a Colonel, and afterwards a General of Brigade of Artillery in Saint Domingo. He was detained there during the time both of Santhonax and Toussaint. He was also a proprietor of estates in the island. He was the man who planned the renovation of its agriculture after the abolition of slavery, and one of the great instruments in bringing it to the perfection mentioned by La Croix. In the year 1801 he was called upon by Toussaint to repair to Paris, to lay before the Directory the new Constitution, which had been agreed on in Saint Domingo. He obeyed the summons. It happened that he arrived in France just at the moment of the Peace of Amiens. Here he found, to his inexpressible surprise and grief, that Bonaparte was preparing an immense armament, under Leclerc, to restore slavery in Saint Domingo. He remonstrated against the expedition: he told him to his face that though the army destined for this purpose was composed of the brilliant conquerors of Europe, they could do nothing in the Antilles. He stated, as another argument against the expedition, that it was totally unnecessary, and, therefore, criminal; for that everything was going on well in Saint Domingo; the proprietors in peaceable possession of their estates, cultivation making rapid progress, the Blacks industrious, and beyond example happy."



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

L'ETOILE AND ITS PEOPLE.

One radiant day of the succeeding spring, a party was seen in the plain of Cul-de-Sac, moving with such a train as showed that one of the principal families of the island was travelling. Rigaud and his forces were so safely engaged in the south, that the plain was considered secure from their incursions. Port-au-Prince, surrounded on three sides by hills, was now becoming so hot, that such of its inhabitants as had estates in the country were glad to retire to them, as soon as the roads were declared safe; and among these were the family of the Commander-in-Chief, who, with tutors, visitors, and attendants, formed the group seen in the Cul-de-Sac this day. They were removing to their estate of Pongaudin, on the shores of the bay of Gonaves, a little to the north of the junction of the Artibonite with the sea; but instead of travelling straight and fast, they intended to make a three days' journey of what might have been accomplished in less than two—partly for the sake of the pleasure of the excursion, and partly to introduce their friends from Europe to some of the beauties of the most beautiful island in the world.

Madame L'Ouverture had had presents of European carriages, in which she did not object to take airings in the towns and their neighbourhood; but nowhere else were the roads in a state to bear such heavy vehicles. In the sandy bridle-paths they would have sunk half their depth; in the green tracks they would have been caught in thickets of brambles and low boughs; while many swamps occurred which could be crossed only by single horses, accustomed to pick their way in uncertain ground. The ladies of the colony, therefore, continued, as in all time past, to take their journeys on horseback, each attended by some one—a servant, if there were neither father, brother, nor lover—to hold the umbrella over her during rain, or the more oppressive hours of sunshine.

The family of L'Ouverture had left the palace early, and were bound, for an estate in the middle of the plain, where they intended to rest, either till evening, or till the next morning, as inclination might determine. As their train, first of horses, and then of mules, passed along, now under avenues of lofty palms, which constituted a deep, moist shade in the midst of the glare of the morning—now across fields of sward, kept green by the wells which were made to overflow them; and now through swamps where the fragrant flowering reeds reached up to the flanks of the horses, and courted the hands of the riders, the inhabitants of the region watched their progress, and gave them every variety of kindly greeting. The mother who was sitting at work under the tamarind-tree called her children down from its topmost branches to do honour to the travellers. Many a half-naked negro in the rice-grounds slipped from the wet plank on which, while gazing, he forgot his footing, and laughed his welcome from out of the mud and slime. The white planters who were taking their morning ride over their estates, bent to the saddle-bow, the large straw hat in hand, and would not cover their heads from the hot sun till the ladies had passed. These planters' wives and daughters, seated at the shaded windows, or in the piazzas of their houses, rose and curtsied deep to the ladies L'Ouverture. Many a little black head rose dripping from the clear waters, gleaming among the reeds, where negro children love to watch the gigantic dragon-flies of the tropics creeping from their sheaths, and to catch them as soon as they spread their gauzy wings, and exhibit their gem-like bodies to the sunlight. Many a group of cultivators in the cane-grounds grasped their arms, on hearing the approach of numbers— taught thus by habitual danger—but swung back the gun across the shoulder, or tucked the pistol again into the belt, at sight of the ladies; and then ran to the road-side to remove any fancied obstruction in the path; or, if they could do no more, to smile a welcome. It was observable that, in every case, there was an eager glance, in the first place, of search for L'Ouverture himself; but when it was seen that he was not there, there was still all the joy that could be shown where he was not.

The whole country was full of song. As Monsieur Loisir, the architect from Paris, said to Genifrede, it appeared as if vegetation itself went on to music. The servants of their own party sang in the rear; Moyse and Denis, and sometimes Denis' sisters, sang as they rode; and if there was not song already on the track, it came from behind every flowering hedge—from the crown of the cocoa-nut tree—from the window of the cottage. The sweet wild note of the mocking-bird was awakened in its turn; and from the depths of the tangled woods, where it might defy the human eye and hand, it sent forth its strain, shrill as the thrush, more various than the nightingale, and sweeter than the canary. But for the bird, the Spanish painter, Azua, would have supposed that all this music was the method of reception of the family by the peasantry; but, on expressing his surprise to Aimee, she answered that song was as natural to Saint Domingo, when freed, as the light of sun or stars, when there were no clouds in the sky. The heart of the negro was, she said, as naturally charged with music as his native air with fragrance. If you dam up his mountain-streams, you have, instead of fragrance, poison and pestilence; and if you chain up the negro's life in slavery, you have, for music, wailing and curses. Give both free course, and you have an atmosphere of spicy odours, and a universal spirit of song.

"This last," said Azua, "is as one long, but varied, ode in honour of your father. Men of some countries would watch him as a magician, after seeing the wonders he has wrought. Who, looking over this wide level, on which plenty seems to have emptied her horn, would believe how lately and how thoroughly it was ravaged by war?"

"There seems to be magic in all that is made," said Aimee; "so that all are magicians who have learned to draw it forth. Monsieur Loisir was showing us yesterday how the lightning may now be brought down from the thunder-cloud, and carried into the earth at some given spot. Our servants, who have yearly seen the thunderbolt fire the cottage or the mill, tremble, and call the lightning-rods magic. My father is a magician of the same sort, except that he deals with a deeper and higher magic."

"That which lies in men's hearts—in human passions."

"In human affections; by which he thinks more in the end is done than by their passions."

"Did you learn this from himself?" asked Azua, who listened with much surprise and curiosity to this explanation from the girl by whose side he rode. "Does your father explain to you his views of men, and his purposes with regard to them?"

"There is no need," she replied. "From the books he has always read, we know what he thinks of men's minds and ways: and from what happens, we learn his purposes; for my father always fulfils his purposes."

"And who led you to study his books, and observe his purposes?"

"My brother Isaac."

"One of those who is studying at Paris? Does he make you study here, while he is being educated there?"

"No; he does not make me study. But I know what he is doing—I have books—Isaac and I were always companions—He learns from me what my father does—But I was going to tell you, when you began asking about my father, that this plain will not appear to you throughout so, flourishing as it does now, from the road. When we reach the Etoile estate, you will see enough of the ravages of war."

"I have perceived some signs of desertion in a house or two that we have passed," said Azua. "But these brothers of yours—when will they return?"

"Indeed I wish I knew," sighed Aimee. "I believe that depends on the First Consul."

"The First Consul has so much to do, it is a pity their return should depend upon his memory. If he should forgot, you will go and see Paris, and bring your brothers home."

"The First Consul forgets nothing," replied Aimee. "He knows and heeds all that we do here, at the distance of almost half the world. He never forgets my brothers: he is very kind to them."

"All that you say is true," said Vincent, who was now on the other side of Aimee. "Everything that you can say in praise of the First Consul is true. But yet you should go and see Paris. You do not know what Paris is—you do not know what your brothers are like in Paris—especially Isaac. He tells you, no doubt, how happy he is there?"

"He does; but I had rather see him here."

"You have fine scenery here, no doubt, and a climate which you enjoy: but there! what streets and palaces—what theatres—what libraries and picture-galleries—and what society!"

"Is it not true, however," said Azua, "that all the world is alike to her where her brother is?"

"This is L'Etoile," said Aimee. "Of all the country houses in the island, this was, not perhaps the grandest, but the most beautiful. It is now ruined; but we hear that enough remains for Monsieur Loisir to make out the design."

She turned to Vincent, and told him that General Christophe was about to build a house; and that he wished it to be on the model of L'Etoile, as it was before the war. Monsieur Loisir was to furnish the design.

The Europeans of the party were glad to be told that they had nearly arrived at their resting place; for they could scarcely sit their horses, while toiling in the heat through the deep sand of the road. They had left far behind them both wood and swamp; and, though the mansion seemed to be embowered in the green shade, they had to cross open ground to reach it. At length Azua, who had sunk into a despairing silence, cried out with animation—

"Ha! the opuntia! what a fence! what a wall!"

"You may know every deserted house in the plain," said Aimee, "by the cactus hedge round it."

"What ornament can the inhabited mansion have more graceful, more beautiful?" said Azua, forgetting the heat in his admiration of the blossoms, some red, some snow-white, some blush-coloured, which were scattered in profusion over the thick and high cactus hedge which barred the path.

"Nothing can be more beautiful," said Aimee, "but nothing more inconvenient. See, you are setting your horse's feet into a trap." And she pointed to the stiff, prickly green shoots which matted all the ground. "We must approach by some other way. Let us wait till the servants have gone round."

With the servants appeared a tall and very handsome negro, well-known throughout the island for his defence of the Etoile estate against Rigaud. Charles Bellair was a Congo chief, kidnapped in his youth, and brought into Saint Domingo slavery; in which state he had remained long enough to keep all his detestation for slavery, without losing his fitness for freedom. He might have returned, ere this, to Africa, or he might have held some military office under Toussaint; but he preferred remaining on the estate which he had partly saved from devastation, bringing up his little children to revere and enthusiastically obey the Commander-in-chief—the idol of their colour. The heir of the Etoile estate did not appear, nor transmit his claim. Bellair, therefore, and two of his former fellow bondsmen, cultivated the estate, paying over the fixed proportion of the produce to the public funds.

Bellair hastened to lead Madame L'Ouverture's horse round to the other side of the house, where no prickly vegetation was allowed to encroach. His wife was at work and singing to her child under the shadow of the colonnade—once an erection of great beauty, but now blackened by fire, and at one end crumbling into ruins.

"Minerve!" cried Madame, on seeing her.

"Deesha is her name," said Bellair, smiling.

"Oh, you call her by her native name! Would we all knew our African names, as you know hers! Deesha!"

Deesha hastened forward, all joy and pride at being the hostess of the Ouverture family. Eagerly she led the way into the inhabited part of the abode—a corner of the palace-like mansion—a corner well covered in from the weather, and presenting a strange contrast of simplicity and luxury.

The courtyard through which they passed was strewed with ruins, which, however, were almost entirely concealed by the brushwood, through which only a lane was kept cleared for going in and out. The whole was shaded, almost as with an awning, by the shrubs which grew from the cornices, and among the rafters which had remained where the roof once was. Ropes of creepers hung down the wall, so twisted, and of so long a growth, that Denis had climbed half-way up the building by means of this natural ladder, when he was called back again. The jalousies were decayed—starting away from their hinges, or hanging in fragments; while the window-sills were gay with flowering weeds, whose seeds even took root in the joints of the flooring within, open as it was to the air and the dew. The marble steps and entrance-hall were kept clear of weeds and dirt, and had a strange air of splendour in the midst of the desolation. The gilding of the balustrades of the hall was tarnished; and it had no furniture but the tatters of some portraits, whose frame and substance had been nearly devoured by ants; but it was weather-tight and clean. The saloon to the right constituted the family dwelling. Part of its roof had been repaired with a thatch of palm-leaves, which formed a singular junction with the portion of the ceiling which remained, and which exhibited a blue sky-ground, with gilt stars. An alcove had been turned into the fireplace, necessary for cooking. The kitchen corner was partitioned off from the sitting-room by a splendid folding screen of Oriental workmanship, exhibiting birds-of-paradise, and the blue rivers and gilt pagodas of China. The other partitions were the work of Bellair's own hands, woven of bamboo and long grass, dyed with the vegetable dyes, with whose mysteries he was, like a true African, acquainted. The dinner-table was a marble slab, which still remained cramped to the wall, as when it had been covered with plate, or with ladies' work-boxes. The seats were benches, hewn by Bellair's axe. On the shelves and dresser of unpainted wood were ranged together porcelain dishes from Dresden, and calabashes from the garden; wooden spoons, and knives with enamelled handles. A harp, with its strings broken, and its gilding tarnished, stood in one corner; and musical instruments of Congo origin hung against the wall. It was altogether a curious medley of European and African civilisation, brought together amidst the ruins of a West Indian revolution.

The young people did not remain long in the house, however tempting its coolness might have appeared. At one side of the mansion was the colonnade, which engrossed the architect's attention; on the other bloomed the garden, offering temptations which none could resist—least of all those who were lovers. Moyse and his Genifrede stepped first to the door which looked out upon the wilderness of flowers, and were soon lost sight of among the shrubs.

Genifrede had her sketch-book in her hand. She and her sister were here partly for the sake of a drawing lesson from Azua; and perhaps she had some idea of taking a sketch during this walk with Moyse. He snatched the book from her, however, and flung it through the window of a garden-house which they passed, saying—

"You can draw while I am away. For this hour you are all my own."

"And when will you be away? Wherever you go, I will follow you. If we once part, we shall not meet again."

"We think so, and we say so, each time that we part; and yet we meet again. Once more, only the one time when I am to distinguish myself, to gain you—only that once will we be parted; and then we will be happy for over."

"Then you will be killed—or you will be sent to France, or you will love some one else and forget me—"

"Forgot you!—love some one else! Oh! Heaven and earth!" cried Moyse, clasping her in his arms, and putting his whole soul into the kisses he impressed on her forehead. "And what," he continued, in a voice which thrilled her heart, "what would you do if I were killed?"

"I would die. Oh, Moyse! if it should be so, wait for me! Let your spirit wait for mine! It shall not be long."

"Shall my spirit come—shall I come as a ghost, to tell you that I am dead? Shall I come when you are alone, and call you away?"

"Oh! no, no!" she cried, shuddering. "I will follow—you need not fear. But a ghost—oh! no, no!" And she looked up at him, and clasped him closer.

"And why?" said Moyse. "You do not fear me now—you cling to me. And why fear me then? I shall be yours still. I shall be Moyse. I shall be about you, haunting you, whether you see and hear me or not. Why not see and hear me?"

"Why not?" said Genifrede, in a tone of assent. "But I dare not—I will not. You shall not die. Do not speak of it."

"It was not I, but you, love, that spoke of it. Well, I will not die. But tell me—if I forget you—if I love another—what then?" And he looked upon her with eyes so full of love, that she laughed, and withdrew herself from his arms, saying, as she sauntered on along the blossom-strewn path—

"Then I will forget you too."

Moyse lingered for a moment, to watch her stately form, as she made a pathway for herself amidst the tangled shrubs. The walk, once a smooth-shaven turf, kept green by trenches of water, was now overgrown with the vegetation which encroached on either hand. As the dark beauty forced her way, the maypole-aloe shook its yellow crown of flowers, many feet above her head; the lilac jessamine danced before her face; and the white datura, the pink flower-fence, and the scarlet cordia, closed round her form, or spread themselves beneath her feet. Her lover was soon again by her side, warding off every branch and spray, and saying—

"The very flowers worship you: but they and all—all must yield you to me. You are mine; and yet not mine till I have won you from your father. Genifrede, how shall I distinguish myself? Show me the way, and I shall succeed."

"Do not ask me," she replied, sighing.

"Nay, whom should I ask?"

"I never desired you to distinguish yourself."

"You do not wish it?"

"No."

"Not for your sake?"

"No."

And she looked around her with wistful eyes, in which her lover read a wish that things would ever remain as they were now—that this moment would never pass away.

"You would remain here—you would hide yourself here with me for ever!" cried the happy Moyse.

"Here, or anywhere;—in the cottage at Breda;—in your father's hut on the shore;—anywhere, Moyse, where there is nothing to dread. I live in fear; and I am wretched."

"What is it that you fear, love? Why do you not trust, me to protect you?"

"Then I fear for you, which is worse. Why cannot we live in the woods or the mountains, where there would be no dangerous duties, and no cares?"

"And if we lived in the woods, you would be more terrified still. There would never be a falling star, but your heart would sink. You would take the voices of the winds for the spirits of the woods, and the mountain mists for ghosts. Then, there are the tornado and the thunderbolt. When you saw the trees crashing, you would be for making haste back to the plain. Whenever you heard the rock rolling and bounding down the steep, or the cataract rising and roaring in the midst of the tempest, you would entreat me to fly to the city. It is in this little beating heart that the fear lies."

"What then is to be done?"

"This little heart must beat yet a while longer; and then, when I have once come back, it shall rest upon mine for ever."

"Beside my father? He never rests. Your father would leave us in peace; but he has committed you to one who knows not what rest is."

"Nor ever will," said Moyse. "If he closed his eyes, if he relaxed his hand, we should all be sunk in ruin."

"We? Who? What ruin?"

"The whole negro race. Do you suppose the whites are less cruel than they were? Do you believe that their thirst for our humiliation, our slavery, is quenched? Do you believe that the white man's heart is softened by the generosity and forgiveness of the blacks?"

"My father believes so," replied Genifrede; "and do they not adore him— the whites whom he has reinstated? Do they not know that they owe to him their lives, their homes, the prosperity of the island? Does he not trust the whites? Does he not order all things for their good, from reverence and affection for them?"

"Yes, he does," replied Moyse, in a tone which made Genifrede anxiously explore his countenance.

"You think him deceived?" she said.

"No, I do not. It is not easy to deceive L'Ouverture."

"You do not think—no, you cannot think, that he deceives the whites, or any one."

"No. L'Ouverture deceives no one. As you say, he reveres the whites. He reveres them for their knowledge. He says they are masters of an intellectual kingdom from which we have been shut out, and they alone can let us in. And then again.—Genifrede, it seems to me that he loves best those who have most injured him."

"Not best," she replied. "He delights to forgive: but what white has he ever loved as he loves Henri? Did he ever look upon any white as he looked upon me, when—when he consented? Moyse, you remember?"

"I do. But still he loves the whites as if they were born, and had lived and died, our friends, as he desires they should be. Yet more—he expects and requires that all his race should love them too."

"And you do not?" said Genifrede, timidly.

"I abhor them."

"Oh! hush! hush! Speak lower. Does my father know this?"

"Why should he? If he once knew it—"

"Nay, if he knew it, he would give up his purposes of distinction for you; and we might live here, or on the shore."

"My Genifrede, though I hate the whites, I love the blacks. I love your father. The whites will rise upon us at home, as they are always scheming against us in France, if we are not strong and as watchful as we are strong. If I and others leave L'Ouverture alone to govern, and betake ourselves to the woods and the mountains, the whites will again be masters, and you and I, my Genifrede, shall be slaves. But you shall not be a slave, Genifrede," he continued, soothing her tremblings at the idea. "The bones of the whites shall be scattered over the island, like the shells on the sea-shore, before my Genifrede shall be a slave. I will cut the throat of every infant at every white mother's breast, before any one of that race shall lay his grasp upon you. The whites never will, never shall again, be masters: but then, it must be by L'Ouverture having an army always at his command; and of that army I must be one of the officers. We cannot live here, or on the sea-shore, love, while there are whites who may be our masters. So, while I am away, you must pray Christ to humble the whites. Will you? This is all you can do. Will you not?"

"How can I, when my father is always exalting them?"

"You must choose between him and me. Love the whites with him, or hate them with me."

"But you love my father. Moyse?"

"I do. I adore him as the saviour of the blacks. You adore him, Genifrede. Every one of our race worships him. Genifrede, you love him—your father."

"I know not—Yes, I loved him the other day. I know not, Moyse. I know nothing but that—I will hate the whites as you do. I never loved them: now I hate them."

"You shall. I will tell you things of them that will make you curse them. I know every white man's heart."

"Then tell my father."

"Does he not know enough already? Is not his cheek furrowed with the marks of the years during which the whites were masters; and is there any cruelty, any subtlety, in them that he does not understand? Knowing all this, he curses, not them, but the flower which, he says, corrupted them. He keeps from them this power, and believes that all will be well. I shall tell him nothing."

"Yes, tell him all—all except—"

"Yes, and tell me first," cried a voice near at hand. There was a great rustling among the bushes, and Denis appeared, begging particularly to know what they were talking about. They, in return, begged to be told what brought him this way, to interrupt their conversation.

"Deesha says Juste is out after wild-fowl, and, most likely, among some of the ponds hereabouts."

"One would think you had lived in Cap all your days," said Moyse. "Do you look for wild-fowl in a garden?"

"We will see presently," said the boy, thrusting himself into the thicket in the direction of the ponds, and guiding himself by the scent of the blossoming reeds—so peculiar as to be known among the many with which the air was filled. He presently beckoned to his sister; and she followed with Moyse, till they found themselves in the field where there had once been several fish-ponds, preserved in order with great care. All were now dried up but two; and the whole of the water being diverted to the service of these two, they were considerable in extent and in depth. What the extent really was, it was difficult to ascertain at the first glance, so hidden was the margin with reeds, populous with wild-fowl.

Denis was earnestly watching these fowl, as he lay among the high grass at some little distance from the water, and prevented his companions from approaching any nearer. The sun was hot, and Genifrede was not long in desiring to return to the garden.

"Let us go back," said she. "Juste is not here."

"Yes he is," said Denis. "However, go back if you like. I shall go fowling with Juste." And he began to strip off his clothes.

His companions were of opinion, however, that a son of the Commander-in-chief must not sport with a farmer's boy, without leave of parents or tutor; and they begged him to put on his clothes again, at least till leave was asked. Denis had never cared for his rank, except when riding by his father's side on review-days; and now he liked it less than ever, as the pond lay gleaming before him, the fowl sailing and fluttering on the surface, and his dignity prevented his going among them.

"What makes you say that Juste is here?" said Genifrede.

"I have seen him take five fowl in the last five minutes."

As he spoke, he plucked the top of a bulrush, and threw it with such good aim, that it struck a calabash which appeared to be floating among others on the surface of the pond. That particular calabash immediately rose, and the face of a negro child appeared, to the consternation of the fowl, whose splashing and screaming might be heard far and wide. Juste came out of the water, displaying at his belt the result of his sport. He had, as Denis had said, taken five ducks in five minutes by pulling them under the water by the feet, while lying near them with his head covered by the calabash. The little fellow was not satisfied with the admiration of the beholders; he ran homewards, with his clothes in his hand, Denis at his heels, and his game dangling from his waist, and dripping as he ran.

"Many a white would shudder to see that child," said Moyse, as Juste disappeared. "That is the way Jean's blacks wore their trophies during the first days of the insurrection."

"Trophies!" said Genifrede. "You mean heads: heads with their trailing hair;" and her face worked with horror as she spoke. "But it is not for the whites to shudder, after what they did to Oge, and have done to many a negro since."

"But they think we do not feel as they do."

"Not feel! O Christ! If any one of them had my heart before I knew you—in those days at Breda, when Monsieur Bayou used to come down to us!"

"Here comes that boy again," cried Moyse. "Let us go into the thicket, among the citrons."

Denis found them, however—found Moyse gathering the white and purple blossoms for Genifrede, while she was selecting the fruit of most fragrant rind from the same tree, to carry into the house.

"You must come in—you must come to dinner," cried Denis. "Aimee has had a drawing lesson, while you have been doing nothing all this while. They said you were sketching; but I told them how idle you were."

"I will go back with Denis," said Genifrede. "You threw away my sketch-book, Moyse. You may find it, and follow us."

Their path lay together as far as the garden-house. When there, Moyse seized Denis unawares, shot him through the window into the house, and left him to get out as he might, and bring the book. The boy was so long in returning, that his sister became uneasy, lest some snake or other creature should have detained him in combat. She was going to leave the table in search of him, because Moyse would not, when he appeared, singing, and with the book upon his head.

"Who calls Genifrede idle?" cried he, flourishing the book. "Look here!" And he exhibited a capital sketch of herself and Moyse, as he had found them, gathering fruits and flowers.

"Can it be his own?" whispered Genifrede to her lover.

Denis nodded and laughed, while Azua gravely criticised and approved, without suspicion that the sketch was by no pupil of his own.

In the cool evening, Genifrede was really no longer idle. While Denis and Juste were at play, they both at once stumbled and fell over something in the long grass, which proved to be a marble statue of a Naiad, lying at length. Moyse seized it, and raised it where it was relieved by a dark green back-ground. The artist declared it an opportunity for a lesson which was not to be lost: and the girls began to draw, as well as they could for the attempts of the boys to restore the broken urn to the arm from which it had fallen. When Denis and Juste found that they could not succeed, and were only chidden for being in the way, they left the drawing party seated under their clump of cocoa-nut trees, and went to hear what Madame was relating to Bellair and Deesha, in the hearing of Monsieur Moliere, Laxabon, and Vincent. Her narration was one which Denis had often heard, but was never tired of listening to. She was telling of the royal descent of her husband— how he was grandson of Gaou Guinou, the king of the African tribe of Arrudos: how this king's second son was taken in battle, and sold, with other prisoners of war, into slavery: how he married an African girl on the Breda estate, and used to talk of home and its wars, and its haunts, and its sunshine idleness—how he used thus to talk in the evenings, and on Sundays, to the boy upon his knee; so that Toussaint felt, from his infancy, like an African, and the descendant of chiefs. This was a theme which Madame L'Ouverture loved to dwell on, and especially when listened to as now. The Congo chief and his wife hung upon her words, and told in their turn how their youth had been spent at home—how they had been kidnapped, and delivered over to the whites. In the eagerness of their talk, they were perpetually falling unconsciously into the use of their negro language, and as often recalled by their hearers to that which all could understand. Moliere and Laxabon listened earnestly; and even Loisir, occupied as he was still with the architecture of the mansion, found himself impatient if he lost a word of the story. Vincent alone, negro as he was, was careless and unmoved. He presently sauntered away, and nobody missed him.

He looked over the shoulder of the architect.

"What pains you are taking!" he said. "You have only to follow your own fancy and convenience about Christophe's house. Christophe has never been to France. Tell him, or any others of my countrymen, that any building you choose to put up is European, and in good taste, and they will be quite pleased enough."

"You are a sinner," said Loisir; "but be quiet now."

"Nay—do not you find the blacks one and all ready to devour your travellers' tales—your prodigious reports of European cities? You have only to tell like stories in stone and brick, and they will believe you just as thankfully."

"No, no, Vincent. I have told no tales so wicked as you tell of your own race. My travellers' tales are all very well to pass an hour, and be forgotten; but Christophe's mansion is to stand for an age—to stand as the first evidence, in the department of the arts, of the elevation of your race. Christophe knows, as well as you do without having been to Paris, what is beautiful in architecture; and, if he did not, I would not treacherously mislead him."

"Christophe knows! Christophe has taste!"

"Yes. While you have been walking streets and squares, he has been studying the aisles of palms, and the crypts of the banyan, which, to an open eye, may teach as much as a prejudiced mind can learn in all Rome."

"So Loisir is of those who flatter men in power?" said Vincent, laughing.

"I look further," said Loisir; "I am working for men unborn. I am ambitious; but my ambition is to connect my name honourably with the first great house built for a negro general. My ambition is to build here a rival to the palaces of Europe."

"Do what you will, you will not rival your own tales of them—unless you find Aladdin's lamp among these ruins."

"If you find it, you may bring it me. Azna has found something half as good—a really fine statue in the grass."

Vincent was off to see it. He found the drawing party more eager in conversation than about their work. Aimee was saying as he approached—

"General Vincent declares that he is as affectionate to us as if we were the nearest to him of all the children of the empire.—Did you not say so?" she asked, eagerly. "Is not the First Consul's friendship for us real and earnest? Does he not feel a warm regard for my father? Is he not like a father to my brothers?"

"Certainly," said Vincent. "Do not your brothers confirm this in their letters?"

"Do they not, Genifrede?" repeated Aimee.

"They do; but we see that they speak as they think: not as things really are."

"How can you so despise the testimony of those who see what we only hear of?"

"I do not despise them or their testimony. I honour their hearts, which forget injuries, and open to kindness. But they are young; they went from keeping cattle, and from witnessing the desolations of war here, to the first city of the world, where the first men lavish upon them instructions, and pleasures, and flatteries; and they are pleased. The greatest of all—the First of the Whites, smiles upon the sons of the First of the Blacks; and their hearts beat with enthusiasm for him. It is natural. But, while they are in Paris, we are in Saint Domingo; and we may easily view affairs, and judge men differently."

"And so," said Aimee, "distrust our best friends, and despise our best instructors; and all from a jealousy of race!"

"We think the jealousy of race is with them," said Moyse, bitterly. "There is not a measure of L'Ouverture's which they do not neutralise— not a fragment of authority which they will yield. As to friends, if the Consul Bonaparte is our best friend among the Whites, may we be left thus far friendless!"

"You mean that he has not answered my father's letters. Monsieur Vincent doubts not that an answer is on the way. Remember, my brothers have been invited to his table."

"There are blacks in Paris, who look on," replied Moyse, drily.

"And are there not whites too, from this island, who watch every movement?"

"Yes: and those whites are in the private closet, at the very ear of Bonaparte, whispering to him of L'Ouverture's ambition; while your brothers penetrate no further than the saloon."

"My brothers would lay down their lives for Bonaparte and France," said Aimee; "and you speak treason. I am with them."

"And with me," said Vincent, in a whisper at her ear. "Where I find the loyal heart in woman, mine is ever loyal too."

Aimee was too much excited to understand in this what was meant. She went on—

"Here is Monsieur Vincent, of our own race, who has lived here and at Paris—who has loved my father.—You love my father and his government?" she said, with questioning eyes, interrupting herself.

"Certainly. No man is more devoted to L'Ouverture."

"Devoted to my father," pursued Aimee, "and yet devoted to Bonaparte. He is above the rivalry of races—as the First Consul is, and as Isaac is."

"Isaac and the First Consul—these are the idols of Aimee's worship," said Genifrede. "Worship Isaac still; for that is a harmless idolatry; but give up your new religion, Aimee; for it is not sound."

"Why not sound? How do you know that it is not sound?"

"When have the blacks ever trusted the whites without finding themselves bound victims in the end?"

"I have," said Vincent. "I have lived among them a life of charms, and I am free," he continued, stretching his arms to the air—"free to embrace the knees of both Bonaparte and L'Ouverture—free to embrace the world."

"The end has not come yet," said Moyse.

"What end?" asked Aimee.

"Nay, God knows what end, if we trust the French."

"You speak from prejudice," said Aimee. "Monsieur Vincent and my brothers judge from facts."

"We speak from facts," said Genifrede; "from, let us see—from seven— no, eight, very ugly facts."

"The eight Commissaries that the colony has been blessed with," said Moyse. "If they had taken that monkey which is looking down at your drawing, Aimee, and seven of its brethren, and installed them at Cap, they would have done us all the good the Commissaries have done, and far less mischief. The monkeys would have broken the mirrors, and made a hubbub within the walls of Government-house. These Commissaries, one after another, from Mirbeck to Hedouville, have insulted the colony, and sown quarrels in it, from end to end."

"Mirbeck! Here is Mirbeck," said Denis, who had come up to listen. And the boy rolled himself about like a drunken man—like Mirbeck, as he had seen him in the streets of Cap.

"Then they sent Saint Leger, the Irishman," continued Moyse, "who kept his hand in every man's pocket, whether black or white."

Denis forthwith had his hands, one in Vincent's pocket, the other in Azua's. Azua, however, was drawing so fast that he did not find it out.

"Then there was Roume."

"Roume. My father speaks well of Roume," said Aimee.

"He was amiable enough, but so weak that he soon had to go home, where he was presently joined by his successor, Santhonax, whom, you know, L'Ouverture had to get rid of, for the safety of the colony. Then came Polverel. What the tranquillity of Saint Domingo was in his day we all remember."

Denis took off Polverel, spying from his ship at the island, on which he dared not land.

"For shame, Denis?" said Aimee. "You are ridiculing him who first called my father L'Ouverture."

"And do you suppose he knew the use that would be made of the word?" asked Genifrede. "If he had foreseen its being a tide, he would have contented himself with the obsequious bows I remember so well, and never have spoken the word."

Denis was forthwith bowing, with might and main.

"Now, Denis, be quiet! Raymond, dear Raymond, came next;" and she looked up at Vincent as she praised his friend.

"Raymond is excellent as a man, whatever he may be as governor of Cap," said Moyse. "But we have been speaking of whites, not of mulattoes— which is another long chapter."

"Raymond was sent to us by France, however," said Aimee.

"So was our friend Vincent there; but that is nothing to the purpose."

"Well; who next?" cried Denis.

"Do not encourage him," said Aimee. "My father would be vexed with you for training him to ridicule the French—particularly the authorities."

"Now we are blessed with Hedouville," pursued Moyse. "There you have him, Denis—only scarcely sly, scarcely smooth enough. Yet, that is Hedouville, who has his eye and his smiles at play in one place, while his heart and hands are busy in another."

"Busy," said Genifrede, "in undermining L'Ouverture's influence, and counteracting his plans; but no one mentioned Ailbaud. Ailbaud—"

"Stay a moment," said Azua, whose voice had not been heard till then.

All looked at him in surprise, nobody supposing that, while so engrossed with his pencil, he could have cared for their conversation. Aimee saw at a glance that his paper was covered with caricatures of the commissaries who had been enumerated.

"You must have known them," was Aimee's involuntary testimony, as the paper went from hand to hand, amidst shouts of laughter, while Azua sat, with folded arms, perfectly grave.

"I have seen some of the gentlemen," said he, "and Monsieur Denis helped me to the rest."

The laughter went on till Aimee was somewhat nettled. When the paper came back to her, she looked up into the tree under which she sat. The staring monkey was still there. She made a vigorous spring to hand up the caricature, which the creature caught. As it sat demurely on a branch, holding the paper as if reading it, while one of its companions as gravely looked over its shoulder, there was more laughter than ever.

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur Azua," said Aimee; "but this is the only worthy fate of a piece of mockery of people wiser than ourselves, and no less kind. The negroes have hitherto been thought, at least, grateful. It seems that this is a mistake. For my part, however, I leave it to the monkeys to ridicule the French."

Vincent seized her hand, and covered it with kisses. She was abashed, and turned away, when she saw her father behind her, in the shade of the wood. Monsieur Pascal, his secretary, was with him.

"My father!"

"L'Ouverture!" exclaimed one after another of the party; for they all supposed he had been far away. Even Denis at once gave over pelting the monkeys, and left them to their study of the arts in peace.

"Your drawings, my daughters!" said L'Ouverture, with a smile, as if he had been perfectly at leisure. And he examined the Naiad, and then Genifrede's drawing, with the attention of an artist. Genifrede had made great progress, under the eye of Moyse. Not so Aimee; her pencil had been busy all the while, but there was no Naiad on her page.

"They are for Isaac," she said, timidly. "Among all the pictures he sees, there are no—"

"No sketches of Denis and his little companions," said her father; "no cocoa-nut clumps—no broken fountains among the aloes—no groups that will remind him of home. Isaac shall presently have these, Aimee. I am on my way to Cap, and will send them."

"On your way to Cap!" cried every one—some in a tone of fear.

"To Cap," said he, "where Father Laxabon will follow me immediately, with Monsieur Pascal. By them, Aimee, you will send your packet for Isaac. My own horse is waiting."

"Do not go alone—do not go without good escort," said Moyse. "I can give you reason."

"I know your thoughts, Moyse. I go for the very reason that there are, or will be, troubles at Cap.—The French authorities may sometimes decree and do that which we feel to be unwise—unsuitable to the blacks," he continued, with an emphasis which gave some idea of his having overheard more or less of the late conversation; "but we islanders maybe more ignorant still of the thoughts and ways of their practised race."

"But you are personally unsafe," persisted Moyse. "If you knew what is said by the officers of Hedouville's staff—"

"They say," proceeded Toussaint, smiling, "that they only want three or four brigands to seize the ape with the Madras head dress; and then all would go well. These gentlemen are mistaken; and I am going to prove this to them. An armed escort proves nothing. I carry something stronger still in my mind and on my tongue. General Vincent, a word with you."

While he and Vincent spoke apart, Aimee exclaimed, "Oh, Moyse! Go with my father!"

"Do not—Oh, do not!" cried Genifrede. "You will never return!" she muttered to him, in a voice of terror. "Aimee, you would send him away: and my mother—all of us, are far from home. Who knows but that Rigaud—"

"Leave Rigaud to me," cried Vincent, gaily, as he rejoined the party. "I undertake Rigaud. He shall never alarm you more. Farewell, Mademoiselle Aimee! I am going to the south. Rigaud is recruiting in the name of France; and I know France too well to allow of that. I shall stop his recruiting, and choke his blasphemy with a good French sword. Farewell, till I bring you news at Pongaudin that you may ride along the southern coast as securely as in your own cane-pieces."

"You are going?" said Aimee.

"This very hour. I south—L'Ouverture north—"

"And the rest to Pongaudin with the dawn," said Toussaint.

"What is your pleasure concerning me?" asked Moyse. "I wait your orders."

"I remember my promise," said Toussaint; "but I must not leave my family unprotected. You will attend them to Pongaudin: and then let me see you at Cap, with the speed of the wind."

"With a speed like your own, if that be possible," said Moyse.

"Is there danger, father?" asked Genifrede, trembling.

"My child, there is danger in the air we breathe, and the ground we tread on: but there is protection also, everywhere."

"You will see Afra, father," said Aimee. "If there is danger, what will become of Afra? Her father will be in the front, in any disturbance: and Government-house is far from being the safest place."

"I will not forget Afra. Farewell, my children! Go now to your mother; and, before this hour to-morrow, I shall think of you resting at Pongaudin."

They saw him mount before the courtyard, and set off, followed by one of his two trompettes—the only horsemen in the island who could keep up with him, and therefore his constant attendants in his most important journeys. The other was gone forward, to order horses from post to post.

Vincent, having received written instructions from the secretary, set off in an opposite direction, more gay than those he left behind.

The loftiest trees of the rich plain were still touched with golden light; and the distant bay glittered so as to make the gazers turn away their eyes, to rest on the purple mountains to the north: but their hearts were anxious; and they saw neither the glory nor the beauty of which they heard talk between the painter, the architect, and their host.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

A NIGHT OF OFFICE.

As soon as Toussaint was out of hearing of his family and suite, he put his horse to its utmost speed. There was not a moment to be lost, if the peace of the island was to be preserved. Faster than ever fugitive escaped from trouble and danger, did the negro commander rush towards them. The union between the black and white races probably depended on his reaching Cap by the early morning—in time to prevent certain proclamations of Hedouville, framed in ignorance of the state of the colony and the people, from being published. Forty leagues lay between L'Etoile and Cap, and two mountain ridges crossed his road: but he had ridden forty leagues in a night before, and fifty in a long day; and he thought little of the journey. As he rode, he meditated the work of the next day, while he kept his eye awake, and his heart open, to the beauty of the night.

He had cleared the plain, with his trompette at his heels, before the woods and fields had melted together into the purple haze of evening; and the labourers returning from the cane-pieces, with their tools on their shoulders, offered their homage to him as he swept by. Some shouted, some ran beside him, some kneeled in the road and blessed him, or asked his blessing. He came to the river, and found the ford lined by a party of negroes, who, having heard and known his horse's tread, above the music of pipe and drum, had thrown themselves into the water to point out the ford, and save his precious moments. He dashed through uncovered, and was lost in the twilight before their greeting was done. The evening star was just bright enough to show its image in the still salt-lake, when he met the expected relay, on the verge of the mountain woods. Thence the ascent was so steep, that he was obliged to relax his speed. He had observed the birds winging home to these woods; they had reached it before him, and the chirp of their welcome to their nests was sinking into silence; but the whirring beetles were abroad. The frogs were scarcely heard from the marshes below; but the lizards and crickets vied with the young monkeys in noise, while the wood was all alight with luminous insects. Wherever a twisted fantastic cotton-tree, or a drooping wild fig, stood out from the thicket and apart, it appeared to send forth streams of green flame from every branch; so incessantly did the fireflies radiate from every projecting twig.

As he ascended, the change was great. At length there was no more sound; there were no more flitting fires. Still as sleep rose the mountain-peaks to the night. Still as sleep lay the woods below. Still as sleep was the outspread western sea, silvered by the steady stars which shone, still as sleep, in the purple depths of heaven. Such was the starlight on that pinnacle, so large and round the silver globes, so bright in the transparent atmosphere were their arrowy rays, that the whole, vault was as one constellation of little moons, and the horse and his rider saw their own shadows in the white sands of their path. The ridge passed, down plunged the horseman, hurrying to the valley and the plain; like rocks loosened by the thunder from the mountain-top. The hunter, resting on the heights from his day's chase of the wild goats, started from his sleep, to listen to what he took for a threatening of storm. In a little while, the child in the cottage in the valley nestled close to its mother, scared at the flying tramp; while the trembling mother herself prayed for the shield of the Virgin's grace against the night-fiends that were abroad. Here, there was a solitary light in the plain; there, beside the river; and yonder, behind the village; and at each of these stations were fresh horses, the best in the region, and smiling faces to tender their use. The panting animals that were left behind were caressed for the sake of the burden they had carried, and of the few kind words dropped by their rider during his momentary pause.

Thus was the plain beyond Mirbalais passed soon after midnight. In the dark the horsemen swam the Artibonite, and leaped the sources of the Petite Riviere. The eastern sky was beginning to brighten as they mounted the highest steeps above Atalaye; and from the loftiest point, the features of the wide landscape became distinct in the cool grey dawn. Toussaint looked no longer at the fading stars. He looked eastwards, where the green savannahs spread beyond the reach of human eye. He looked northwards, where towns and villages lay in the skirts of the mountains, and upon the verge of the rivers, and in the green recesses where the springs burst from the hill-sides. He looked westwards, where the broad and full Artibonite gushed into the sea, and where the yellow bays were thronged with shipping, and every green promontory was occupied by its plantation or fishing hamlet. He paused, for one instant, while he surveyed what he well knew to be virtually his dominions. He said to himself that with him it rested to keep out strife from this paradise—to detect whatever devilish cunning might lurk in its by-corners, and rebuke whatever malice and revenge might linger within its bounds. With the thought he again sprang forward, again plunged down the steeps, scudded over the wilds, and splashed through the streams; not losing another moment till his horse stood trembling and foaming under the hot sun, now touching the Haut-du-Cap, where the riders had at length pulled up. Here they had overtaken the first trompette, who, having had no leader at whose heels he must follow, had been unable, with all his zeal, quite to equal the speed of his companion. He had used his best efforts, and showed signs of fatigue; but yet they had come upon his traces on the grass road from the Gros Morne, and had overtaken him as he was toiling up the Haut-du-Cap.

Both waited for orders, their eyes fixed on their master's face, as they saw him stand listening, and glancing his eye over the city, the harbour, and the road from the Plain du Nord. He saw afar signs of trouble: but he saw also that he was not too late. He looked down into the gardens of Government-house. Was it possible that he would show himself there, heated, breathless, covered with dust as he was? No. He dismounted, and gave his horse to the trompettes, ordering them to go by the most public way to the hotel, in Place Mont Archer, to give notice of the approach of his secretary and staff; and thence to the barracks, where he would appear when he had bathed.

The trompettes would have gone round five weary miles for the honour of carrying messages from the Commander-in-chief through the principal streets of Cap. They departed with great zeal, while Toussaint ascended to the mountain-pool, to take the plunge in which he found his best refreshment after a long ride. He was presently walking leisurely down the sloping field, through which he could drop into the grounds of Government-house by a back gate, and have his interview with Hedouville before interruption came from the side of the town. As he entered the gardens, he looked, to the wondering eyes he met there, as if he had just risen from rest, to enjoy a morning walk in the shrubberies. They were almost ready to understand, in its literal sense, the expression of his worshippers, that he rode at ease upon the clouds.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

AN OLD MAN IN NEW DAYS.

Before the sun had touched the roofs of the town of Cap—while the streets lay cool and grey under the heights, which glowed in the flames of sunrise—most of the inhabitants were up and stirring. Euphrosyne Revel was at her grandfather's chamber-door; first listening for his call, and then softly looking in, to see whether he could still be sleeping. The door opened and shut by a spring, so that the old man did not hear the little girl as she entered, though his sleep was not sound. As Euphrosyne saw how restless he was, and heard him mutter, she thought she would rouse him: but she stayed her hand, as she remembered that he might have slept ill, and might still settle for another quiet doze, if left undisturbed. With a gentle hand she opened one of the jalousies, to let in more air; and she chose one which was shaded by a tree outside, that no glare of light might enter with the breeze.

What she saw from this window drew her irresistibly into the balcony. It was a tree belonging to the convent which waved before the window; and below lay the convent garden, fresh with the dews of the night. There stretched the green walks, so glittering with diamond-drops and with the gossamer as to show that no step had passed over them since dawn. There lay the parterres—one crowded with geraniums of all hues; another with proud lilies, white, orange, and purple; and another with a flowering pomegranate in the centre, while the gigantic white and blue convolvulus coveted the soil all around, mixing with the bright green leaves and crimson blossoms of the hibiscus. No one seemed to be abroad, to enjoy the garden during this the freshest hour of the day; no one but the old black gardener, Raphael, whose cracked voice might be heard at intervals from the depths of the shrubbery in the opposite corner, singing snatches of the hymns which the sisters sung in the chapel. When his hoarse music ceased, the occasional snap of a bough, and movements among the bushes, told that the old man was still there, busy at his work.

Euphrosyne wished that he would come out, within sight of the beckon of her hand. She dared not call, for fear of wakening her grandfather: but she very much wanted a flowering orange branch. A gay little humming-bird was sitting and hovering near her; and she thought that a bunch of fragrant blossoms would entice it in a moment. The little creature came and went, flew round the balcony and retired: and still old Raphael kept out of sight behind the leafy screen.

"It will be gone, pretty creature!" said Euphrosyne to herself; "and all for want of a single bough from all those thickets!"

A thought struck her. Her morning frock was tied round the waist with a cord, having tassels which hung down nearly to her feet. She took off the cord, made a noose in it, and let it down among the shrubs below, swinging the end this way and that, as she thought best for catching some stray twig. She pursued her aim for a time, sending showers of dew-drops paltering down, and knocking off a good many blossoms, but catching nothing. She was so busy, that she did not see that a grey-suited nun had come out, with a wicker cage in her hand, and was watching her proceedings.

"What are you doing, my child?" asked the nun, approaching, as a new shower of dew-drops and blossoms was shaken abroad. "If you desire to fish, I doubt not our reverend mother will make you welcome to our pond yonder."

"Oh, sister Christine! I am glad you are come out," said Euphrosyne, bending over the balcony, and speaking in a low, though eager voice. "Do give me a branch of something sweet,—orange, or citron, or something. This humming-bird, will be gone if we do not make haste— Hush! Do not call. Grandpapa is not awake yet. Please, make haste."

Sister Christine was not wont to make haste; but she did her best to gratify Euphrosyne. She went straight to the corner of the shrubbery where the abbess's mocking-bird spent all its summer days, hung up the cage, and brought back what Euphrosyne had asked. The branch was drawn up in the noose of the cord, and the nun could not but stand and watch the event.

The bough was stuck between two of the bars of the jalousie, and the girl withdrew to the end of the balcony. The humming-bird appeared, hovered round, and at last inserted its long beak in a blossom, sustaining itself the while on its quivering wings. Before proceeding to another blossom it flew away. Euphrosyne cast a smile down to the nun, and placed herself against the jalousie, holding the branch upon her head. As she had hoped, two humming-birds returned. After some hesitation, they came for more of their sweet food, and Euphrosyne felt that her hair was blown about on her forehead by the motion of their busy wings. She desired, above everything, to keep still; but this strong desire, and the sight of sister Christine's grave face turned so eagerly upwards, made her laugh so as to shake the twigs very fearfully. Keeping her hand with the branch steady, she withdrew her head from beneath, and then stole slowly and cautiously backward within the window—the birds following. She now heard her grandfather's voice, calling feebly and fretfully. She half turned to make a signal for silence, which the old man so far observed as to sink his complaints to a mutter. The girl put the branch into a water-jar near the window, and then stepped lightly to the bed.

"What is all this nonsense?" said Monsieur Revel. "Why did not you come the moment I called?"

"Here I am, grandpapa—and do look—look at my humming-birds!"

"Humming-birds—nonsense! I called you twice."

Yet the old gentleman rubbed his eyes, which did not seem yet quite awake. He rubbed his eyes and looked through the shaded room, as if to see Euphrosyne's new plaything. She brought him his spectacles from the toilette, helped to raise him up, threw a shawl over his shoulders, and placed his pillows at his back. Perceiving that he still could not see very distinctly, she opened another blind, so as to let one level ray of sunshine fall upon the water-jar, and the little radiant creatures that were hovering about it.

"There! there!" cried Monsieur Revel, in a pleased tone.

"Now I will go and bring you your coffee," said Euphrosyne.

"Stop, stop, child! Why are you in such a hurry? I want to know what is the matter. Such a night as I have had!"

"A bad night, grandpapa? I am sorry."

"Bad enough! How came my light to go out? And what is all this commotion in the streets?"

Euphrosyne went to the night-lamp, and found that a very large flying beetle had disabled itself by breaking the glass, and putting out the light. There it lay dead—a proof at least that there were no ants in the room.

"Silly thing!" said Euphrosyne. "I do wish these beetles would learn to fly properly. He must have startled you, grandpapa. Did not you think it was a thief, when you were left in the dark?"

"It is very odd that nobody about me can find me a lamp that will serve me. And then, what is all this bustle in the town? Tell me at once what is the matter."

"I know of nothing the matter. The trompettes have been by this morning; and they say that the Commander-in-chief is here: so there will be nothing the matter. There was some talk last night, Pierre said— some fright about to-day. But L'Ouverture is come; and it will be all right now, you know."

"You know nothing about it, child—teazing one with your buzzing, worrying humming-birds! Go and get my coffee, and send Pierre to me."

"The birds will come with me, I dare say, if I go by the balcony. I will take them away."

"No, no. Don't lose time with them. Let them be. Go and send Pierre."

When Euphrosyne returned with the coffee, she found, as Pierre had found before her, Monsieur Revel so engrossed in looking through his spectacles at the water-jar, as to have forgotten what he had to ask and to say.

"You will find the bath ready whenever you want it, grandpapa," said Euphrosyne, as she placed the little tray before him: "and it is a sweet airy morning."

"Ay; I must make haste up, and see what is to be done. It is not safe to lie and rest in one's bed, in this part of the world." And he made haste to stir his coffee with his trembling hands.

"Oh, you have often said that—almost ever since I can remember—and here we are, quite safe still."

"Tell the truth, child. How dare you say that we have been safe ever since you remember?"

"I said 'almost,' grandpapa. I do not forget about our being in the woods—about—but we will not talk of that now. That was all over a long time ago; and we have been very safe since. The great thing of all is, that there was no L'Ouverture then, to take care of us. Now, you know, the Commander-in-chief is always thinking how he can take the best care of us."

"'No L'Ouverture then!' One would think you did not know what and where Toussaint was then. Why, child, your poor father was master over a hundred such as he."

"Do you think they were like him? Surely, if they had been like him, they would not have treated us as they did. Afra says she does not believe, anybody like him ever lived."

"Afra is a pestilent little fool."

"Oh, grandpapa!"

"Well, well! She is a very good girl in her way; but she talks about what she does not understand. She pretends to judge of governors of the colony, when her own father cannot govern this town, and she never knew Blanchelande! Ah! if she had known Blanchelande, she would have seen a man who understood his business, and had spirit to keep up the dignity and honour of the colony. If that sort of rule had gone on till now, we should not have had the best houses in the island full of these black upstarts; nor a mulatto governor in this very town."

"And then I should not have had Afra for a friend, grandpapa."

"You would have been better without, child. I do not like to see you for ever with a girl of her complexion, though she is the governor's daughter. There must be an end of it—there shall be an end of it. It is a good time now. There is a reason for it to-day. It is time you made friends of your own complexion, child; and into the convent you go—this very day."

"Oh, grandpapa, you don't mean that those nuns are of my complexion! Poor pale creatures! I would not for the world look like them: and I certainly shall, if you put me there. I had much rather look like Afra than like sister Benoite, or sister Cecile. Grandpapa! you would not like me to look like sister Benoite?"

"How do I know, child? I don't know one from another of them."

"No, indeed! and you would not know me by the time I had been there three months. How sorry you would be, grandpapa, when you asked for me next winter, to see all those yellow-faced women pass before you, and when the yellowest of all came, to have to say, 'Can this be my poor Euphrosyne!'"

Monsieur Revel could not help laughing as he looked up at the girl through his spectacles. He pinched her cheek, and said that there was certainly more colour there than was common in the West Indies; but that it must fade, in or out of the convent, by the time she was twenty; and she had better be in a place where she was safe. The convent was the only safe place.

"You have often said that before," replied she, "and the time has never come yet. And no more it will now. I shall go with Afra to the cacao-gathering at Le Zephyr, as I did last year. Oh, that sweet cool place in the Mornes du Chaos! How different from this great ugly square white convent, with nothing that looks cheerful, and nothing to be heard but teaching, teaching, and religion, religion, for ever."

"I advise you to make friends among the sisters, however, Euphrosyne; for there you will spend the next few years."

"I will not make friends with anything but the poor mocking-bird. I have promised Afra not to love anybody instead of her; but she will not be jealous of the poor bird. It and I will spend the whole day in the thicket, mocking and pining—pining and mocking. The sisters shall not get a word out of me—not one of them. I may speak to old Raphael now and then, that I may not forget how to use my tongue; but I vow that poor bird shall be my only friend."

"We shall see that. We shall see how long a giddy child like you can keep her mocking-bird tone in the uproar that is coming upon us! What will you do, child, without me, when the people of this colony are cutting one another's throats over my grave? What will become of you when I am gone?"

"Dear grandpapa, before that comes the question, What will you do without me? What will become of you when I am gone into that dull place? You know very well, grandpapa, that you cannot spare me."

The old man's frame was shaken with sobs. He put his thin hands before his face, and the tears trickled between his fingers. Euphrosyne caressed him, saying, "There! I knew how it would be. I knew I should never leave you. I never will leave you. I will bring up your coffee every morning, and light your lamp every night, as long as you live."

As she happened to be looking towards the door, she saw it opening a little upon its noiseless hinges, and a hand which she knew to be Pierre's beckoning to her. Her grandfather did not see it. She withdrew herself from him with a sportive kiss, ordered him to rest for a while, and think of nothing but her humming-birds, and carried the tray out of the room.

Pierre was there, waiting impatiently with a note from Afra.

"I did not bring it in, Mademoiselle," said he, "because I am sure there is something amiss. A soldier brought the note; and he says he has orders to stay for my master's commands."

Afra's note told what this meant. It was as follows:—

"Dearest Euphrosyne,

"Do not be frightened. There is time, if you come directly. There is no danger, if you come to us. The cultivators are marching hither over the plain. It is with the whites that they are angry; so you had better make yourselves secure with us. The soldier who brings this will escort Monsieur Revel and you this little way through the streets: but you must lose no time. We are sorry to hurry your grandfather; but it cannot be helped. Come, my dearest, to your

"Afra Raymond."

Pierre saw his young lady's face turn as pale as any nun's, as she glanced over this note.

"The carriage, Pierre! Have it to the door instantly."

"With your leave. Mademoiselle, the soldier says no French carriages will be safe in the streets this morning."

"Oh, mercy! A chair, then. Send for a chair this moment. The soldier will go for it—ask him as a favour. They will not dare to refuse one to a governor's guard. Then come, and dress your master, and do not look so grave, Pierre, before him."

Pierre went, and was met at the door by a servant with another note. It was—

"Do not come by the street, dearest Euphrosyne. The nuns will let you through their garden, into our garden alley, if you can only get your grandfather over the balcony. My two messengers will help you; but they are much wanted:—so make haste.

"A.E."

"Make the soldiers sling an arm-chair from the balcony, Pierre; and send one of them round into the convent garden, to be ready to receive us there. The abbess will have the gate open to the Government-house alley. Then come, and dress your master; and leave it to me to tell him everything."

"Likely enough," muttered Pierre; "for I know nothing of what is in those notes myself."

"And I do not understand what it is all about," said Euphrosyne, as she returned to her grandfather.

He had fallen into a light doze, lulled by the motion and sound of the humming-birds. Euphrosyne kissed his forehead, to rouse him, and then told him gaily that it was terribly late—he had no idea how late it was—he must get up directly. The bath! no; there must be no bath to-day. There was not time for it; or, at least, he must go a little ride first. A new sort of carriage was getting ready—

She now looked graver, as Pierre entered. She said, that while Pierre dressed him, she would put up some clothes for a short visit to Government-house.

Monsieur Revel, being now alarmed, Euphrosyne admitted that some confusion in the streets was expected, and that the Governor and Afra thought that their friends would be most quiet at the back of Government-house.

To her consternation, Monsieur Revel suddenly refused to stir a step from his own dwelling. He would not be deceived into putting himself and his child into the hands of any mulattoes upon earth, governors or other. Not one of his old friends, in Blanchelande's time, would have countenanced such an act; and he would not so betray his colour and his child. He had rather die on his own threshold.

"You must do as you please about that, sir," said Pierre; "but, for Mademoiselle Euphrosyne, I must say, that I think it is full early for her to die—and when she might be safe too!"

"Oh, grandpapa! I cannot let you talk of our dying," cried Euphrosyne, her cheeks bathed in tears. "Indeed I will not die—nor shall you either. Besides, if that were all—"

The old man knew what was in her mind—that she was thinking of the woods. He sank down on his knees by the bedside, and prayed that the earth might gape and swallow them up—that the sea might rush in, and overflow the hollow where the city had been, before he and his should fall into the hands of the cursed blacks.

"Grandpapa," said Euphrosyne, gravely, "if you pray such a prayer as that, do not pray aloud. I cannot hear such a prayer as that." Struggling with her tears, she continued: "I know you are very much frightened—and I do not wonder that you are: but I do wish you would remember that we have very kind friends who will protect us, if we will only make haste and go to them. And as for their being of a different colour—I do wonder that you can ask God to cause the earth to swallow us up, when you know (at least, you have taught me so) we must meet people of all races before the throne of God. He has made of one blood all the nations of the earth, you know."

Monsieur Revel shook his head impatiently, as if to show that she did not understand his feelings. She went on, however:—

"If we so hate and distrust them at this moment, here, how can we pray for death, so as to meet them at the next moment there? Oh, grandpapa! let us know them a little better first. Let us go to them now."

"Don't waste time so, child; you hinder my dressing."

He allowed himself to be dressed, and made no further opposition till he found himself at the balcony of the next room.

"Here is your new coach," said Euphrosyne, "and plenty of servants:" showing him how one of the soldiers and old Raphael stood below to receive the chair, and the abbess herself was in waiting in a distant walk, beside the wicket they were to pass through.

Of course, the old gentleman said he could never get down that way; and he said something about dying on his own threshold—this time, however, in a very low voice. But, in the midst of his opposition, Euphrosyne seated herself in the chair, and was let down. When she could no longer hear his complaints, but was standing beckoning to him from the grass-plat below, he gave up all resistance, was let down with perfect ease, and carried in the chair, followed by all the white members of his household, through the gardens, and up the alley where Afra was awaiting them. There was a grey sister peeping from behind every blind as they crossed the garden, and trembling with the revived fears of that terrible night of ninety-one, when they had fled to the ships. It was some comfort to them to see old Raphael busy with rake and knife, repairing the damage done to the bed under the balcony—all trampled as it was. Each nun said to herself that Raphael seemed to have no fears but that the garden would go on as usual, whatever disturbance was abroad.