The priest, having communicated, at length descended from before the altar, to administer the water to such as desired to receive it. Among these, Toussaint bent his head lowest—so low, that the first slanting sunbeam that entered beneath the thatch seemed to rest upon his head, while every other head remained in the shadow of the roof. In after days, the negroes then present recalled this appearance. Jean Francais, observing that General Hermona was making some remark about Toussaint to the officers about him, endeavoured to assume an expression of deep devotion also; but in vain. No one thought of saying of him what the General was at that moment saying of his brother in arms—"God could not visit a soul more pure."

When the blessing had been given, and the few concluding verses of Scripture read, the General was the first to leave his place. It seemed as if he and Toussaint moved towards one another by the same impulse, for they met in the aisle between the benches.

"I have a few words of business to speak with you, General—a work of justice to ask you to perform without delay," said Toussaint.

"Good!" said the General. "In justice there should be no delay. I will therefore breakfast with you in your tent. Shall we proceed?"

He put his arm within that of Toussaint, who, however, gently withdrew his, and stepped back with a profound bow of respect. General Hermona looked as if he scarcely knew whether to take this as an act of humility, or to be offended; but he smiled on Toussaint's saying—

"It is not without reasons that I decline honour in this place this morning—reasons which I will explain. Shall I conduct you to my tent? And these gentlemen of your staff?"

"As we have business, my friend, I will come alone. I shall be sorry if there is any quarrel between us, Toussaint. If you have to ask justice of me, I declare to you I know not the cause."

"It is not for myself, General, that I ask justice. I have ever received from you more than justice."

"You have attached your men to yourself with singular skill," said the General, on their way down the slope from the church, as he closely observed the countenances of the black soldiers, which brightened, as if touched by the sunlight, on the approach of their commander. "Their attachment to you is singular. I no longer wonder at your achievements in the field."

"It is by no skill of mine," replied Toussaint; "it is by the power of past tyranny. The hearts of negroes are made to love. Hitherto, all love in which the mind could share has been bestowed upon those who degraded and despised them. In me they see one whom, while obeying, they may love as a brother."

"The same might be said of Jean Francais, as far as your reasons go; but Jean Francais is not beloved like you. He looks gayer than you, my friend, notwithstanding. He is happy in his new rank, probably. You have heard that he is ennobled by the court of Spain?"

"I had not heard it. It will please him."

"It evidently does. He is made a noble; and his military rank is now that of lieutenant-General. Your turn will come next, my friend; and if promotion went strictly according to personal merit, no one would have been advanced sooner than you."

"I do not desire promotion, and—"

"Ah! there your stoical philosophy comes in. But I will show you another way of applying it. Rank brings cares; so that one who is not a stoic may have an excuse for shrinking from it; but a stoic despises cares. Ha! we have some young soldiers here," he said, as Moyse and his cousins stood beside the way, to make their obeisance; "and very perfect soldiers they look, young as they are. They seem born for military service."

"They were born slaves, my lord; but they have now the loyal hearts of freemen within them, amidst the ignorance and follies of their youth."

"They are—"

"My nephew and my two sons, my lord."

"And why mounted at this hour?"

"They are going to their homes, by my direction."

"If it were not that you have business with me, which I suppose you desire them not to overhear—"

"It is as you say, General."

"If it had not been so, I would have requested that they might be at our table this morning. As it is, I will not delay their journey."

And the General touched his hat to the lads, with a graciousness which made them bend low their uncovered heads, and report marvels at home of the deportment of the Marquis d'Hermona. Seeing how their father was occupied, they were satisfied with a grasp of his hand as he passed, received from him a letter for their mother, and waited only till he and his guest had disappeared within the tent, to gallop off. They wondered at being made the bearers of a letter, as they knew that his horse was ordered to be ready beside his tent immediately after breakfast, and had not a doubt of his arriving at the shore almost as soon as themselves.

Papalier was lounging on the couch beside the table where breakfast was spread, when General Hermona and his host offered. He started up, casting a look of doubt upon Toussaint.

"Fear nothing, Monsieur Papalier," said Toussaint; "General Hermona has engaged to listen to my plea for justice. My lord, Monsieur Papalier was amicably received by your lordship on crossing the frontier, and, on the strength of your welcome, has remained on the island till too late to escape, without your especial protection, a fate he dreads."

"You mean being delivered up as a republican?"

"Into the hands of my own negroes, my lord," said Papalier, bitterly. "That is the fate secretly designed for any unfortunate planter who may yet have survived the recent troubles over the frontier."

"But how can I protect you? The arrangement is none of mine: I cannot interfere with it."

"Only by forgetting in this single instance the point of time at which we have arrived, and furnishing me with a pass which shall enable me to sail for Europe, as I acknowledge I ought to have done long ago."

"So this is the act of justice you asked from me, Toussaint. Why did you not say favour? I shall do it with much more pleasure as a slight favour to one whom I strongly regard. You shall have your safe-conduct, Monsieur Papalier. In the meantime—"

And he looked towards the steaming chocolate and the piles of fruit on the table, as if his appetite were growing urgent.

"One word more, my lord, before offering you my welcome to my table," said Toussaint. "I beseech you to consider the granting this pass as an act of justice, or of anything rather than favour to me. Yesterday, I would have accepted a hundred favours from you: to-day, with equal respect, I must refuse even one. I pledge myself to tell you why before you rise from table, to which I now invite you."

"I do not understand all this, Toussaint."

"I have pledged myself to explain."

"And you say there is no personal feeling—no offence between us?"

"If any, my lord, I alone am the offender. Will you be pleased to—"

"Oh, yes, I will breakfast; and was never more ready. Monsieur Papalier, our morning mass has kept you waiting, I fear."

Papalier seated himself, but was near starting up again when he saw his negro host preparing to take his place between his two quests, Papalier had never yet sat at table with a negro, and his impulse was to resent the necessity; but a stern look from the General warned him to submit quietly to the usages of the new state of society which he had remained to witness; and he sat through the meal, joining occasionally in the conversation, which, for his sake, was kept clear of subjects which might annoy him.

As soon as the servants, after producing pen, ink, and paper, had withdrawn, the General wrote a safe-conduct, and delivered it to Monsieur Papalier, with an intimation that an attendant should be ready to guide him to the nearest port, at his earliest convenience. Papalier understood this as it was meant—as a hint that there must be no delay. He declared, therefore, his wish to depart, as soon as the heat of the day should decline.

"And now, my lord—," said Toussaint, "Yes, now for the explanation of this fancy of not receiving kindness from your best friends. Let us hear."

"I have this morning, my lord, despatched letters to Don Joachim Garcia, at Saint Domingo—"

"You are in communication with the Colonial Government; and not through me! What can this mean?"

"And here, my lord, are exact copies of my letters, which I request the favour of you to read, and, if I may be permitted to say so, without haste or prejudice—though, in this case, it is much to ask."

Toussaint disappeared in the inner apartment; but not before he saw a smile on Papalier's face—a smile which told of amusement at the idea of a negro sending dispatches of any importance to the head of the government of the Spanish colony.

The General did not seem to feel any of the same amusement. His countenance was perplexed and anxious. He certainly obeyed Toussaint's wishes as to not being in haste: for he read the papers (which were few and short) again and again. He had not laid them down when Toussaint re-appeared from within—no longer glittering in his uniform and polished arms, but dressed in his old plantation clothes, and with his woollen cap in his hand. Both his guests first gazed at him, and then started from their seats.

Toussaint merely passed through the tent, bowing low to the General, and bidding him farewell. A confused noise outside, followed by a shout, roused Hermona from his astonishment.

"He is addressing the troops!" he cried, drawing his sword, and rushing forth.

Toussaint was not addressing the troops. He was merely informing Jacques, whom he had requested to lie in waiting there, beside his horse, that he was no longer a commander—no longer in the forces; and that the recent proclamation, by showing him that the cause of negro freedom was now one with that of the present government of France, was the reason of his retirement from the Spanish territory. He explained himself thus far, in order that he might not be considered a traitor to the lost cause of royalty in France; but, rather, loyal to that of his colour, from the first day of its becoming a cause.

Numbers became aware that something unusual was going forward, and were thronging to the spot, when the General rushed forth, sword in hand, shouting aloud—

"The traitor! Seize the traitor! Soldiers! seize the traitor!"

Toussaint turned in an instant, and sprang upon his horse. Not a negro would lay hands on him; but they cast upon him, in token of honour, the blossoms of the amaryllis and the orange that they carried. The Spanish soldiers, however, endeavoured to close round him and hem him in, as the General's voice was still heard—

"Seize him! Bring him in, dead or alive!"

Toussaint, however, was a perfect horseman; and his favourite horse served him well in this crisis. It burst through, or bounded over, all opposition, and, amidst a shower of white blossoms which strewed the way, instantly carried him beyond the camp. Well-mounted soldiers, and many of them, were behind, however; and it was a hard race between the fugitive and his pursuers, as it was witnessed from the camp. Along the river bank, and over the bridge, the danger of Toussaint appeared extreme; and the negroes, watching the countenance of Jacques, preserved a dead silence when all the horsemen had disappeared in the woods which clothed the steep. Then all eyes were turned towards the summit of that ridge, where the road crossed a space clear of trees; and there, in an incredibly short time, appeared the solitary horseman, who, unencumbered with heavy arms, and lightly clothed, had greatly the advantage of the soldiers in mounting the ascent. He was still followed; but he was just disappearing over the ridge, when the foremost soldier issued from the wood behind him.

"He is safe! he is safe!" was murmured through the throng; and the words reached the ears of the General in a tone which convinced him that the attachment of the black troops to Toussaint Breda was as strong as he himself had that morning declared it to be.

"Now you see, General," said Papalier, turning into the tent, from which he too had come forth in the excitement of the scene—"you see what you have to expect from these negroes."

"I see what I have to expect from you," replied the General, with severity. "It is enough to witness how you speak of a man to whom you owe your life this very day—and not for the first time."

"Nay, General, I have called him no names—not even 'traitor.'"

"I have not owed him my life, Monsieur Papalier; and you are not the commander of these forces. It is my duty to prevent the defection of the negro troops; and I therefore used the language of the government I serve in proclaiming him a traitor. Had it been in mere speculation between him and myself that those papers had come in question, God knows I should have called him something very different."

"There is something in the man that infatuates—that blinds one's judgment, certainly," said Papalier. "His master, Bayou, spoiled him with letting him educate himself to an absurd extent. I always told Bayou so; and there is no saying now what the consequences may be. It is my opinion that we have not heard the last of him yet."

"Probably," said the General, gathering up his papers as his aide entered, and leaving the tent in conversation with him, almost without a farewell notice of Papalier.

The negro troops were busy to a man, in learning from Jacques, and repeating to one another, the particulars of what was in the proclamation, and the reasons of Toussaint's departure. General Hermona found that the two remaining black leaders, Jean Francais and Biasson, were not infected by Toussaint's convictions; that, on the contrary, they were far from sorry that he was thus gone, leaving them to the full enjoyment of Spanish grace. They addressed their soldiers in favour of loyalty, and in denunciation of treason, and treated the proclamation as slightly as Don Joachim Garcia could possibly have wished. They met with little response, however; and every one felt, amidst the show and parade and festivity of the day, a restlessness and uncertainty which he perceived existed no less in his neighbour than in himself. No one's mind was in the business or enjoyment of the festival; and no one could be greatly surprised at anything that might take place, though the men were sufficiently orderly in the discharge of their duty to render any interference with them unwarrantable, and any precautions against their defection impossible. The great hope lay in the influence of the two leaders who remained, as the great fear was of that of the one who was gone.

The Spanish force was small, constituting only about one-fourth of the whole; and of these, the best mounted had not returned from the pursuit of Toussaint;—not because they could follow him far in the enemy's country, but because it required some skill and caution to get back in broad day, after having roused expectation all along the road.

While the leaders were anxiously calculating probabilities, and reckoning forces, Jacques was satisfying himself that the preponderance of numbers was greatly on the side of his absent friend. His hatred of the whites, which had never intermitted, was wrought up to strong passion this day by the treatment the proclamation and his friend had received. He exulted in the thought of being able to humble the Spaniards by withdrawing the force which enabled them to hold their posts, and by making him whom they called a traitor more powerful in the cause of the blacks than they could henceforth be in that of royalist France. Fired with these thoughts, he was hastily passing the tent of Toussaint, which he had supposed deserted, when he heard from within, speaking in anger and fear, a voice which he well knew, and which had power over him. He had strong reasons for remembering the first time he had seen Therese—on the night of the escape across the frontier. She was strongly associated with his feelings towards the class to which her owner belonged; and he knew that she, beautiful, lonely, and wretched, shared those feelings. If he had not known this from words dropped by her during the events of this morning, he would have learned it now; for she was declaring her thoughts to her master, loudly enough for any one who passed by to overhear.

Jacques entered the tent, and there stood Therese, declaring that she would leave her master, and never see him more, but prevented from escaping by Papalier having intercepted her passage to the entrance. Her eyes glowed with delight on the appearance of Jacques, to whom she immediately addressed herself.

"I will not go with him—I will not go with him to Paris, to see his young ladies. He shall not take care of me. I will take care of myself. I will drown myself sooner than go with him. I do not care what becomes of me, but I will not go."

"Yes, you will care what becomes of you, Therese, because your own people care," said Jacques. "I will protect you. If you will be my wife, no white shall molest you again."

"Be your wife!"

"Yes. I love the blacks; and none so much as those whom the whites have oppressed—no one so much as you. If you will be my wife, we will—"

Here, remembering the presence of a white, Jacques explained to Therese in the negro language (which she understood, though she always spoke French), the new hopes which had arisen for the blacks, and his own intention of following Toussaint, to make him a chief. He concluded in good French, smiling maliciously at Papalier as he spoke—

"You will come with me now to the priest, and be my wife."

"I will," replied Therese, calmly.

"Go," said Papalier. "You have my leave. I am thus honourably released from the care of you till times shall change. I am glad that you will not remain unprotected, at least."

"Unprotected!" exclaimed Therese, as she threw on the Spanish mantle which she was now accustomed to wear abroad. "Unprotected! And what has your protection been?"

"Very kind, my dear, I am sure. I have spent on your education money which I should be very glad of now. When people flatter you, Therese (as they will do; for there is not a negress in all the island to compare with you),—remember who made you a lady. You will promise me that much, Therese, at parting?"

"Remember who made me a lady!—I have forgotten too long who made me a woman," said Therese, devoutly upraising her eyes. "In serving Him and loving my husband, I will strive to forget you."

"All alike!" muttered Papalier, as the pair went out. "This is what one may expect from negroes, as the General will leant when he has had enough to do with them. They are all alike."

This great event in the life of Jacques Dessalines did not delay his proceedings for more than half-an-hour. Noon was but just past, when he led forth his wife from the presence of the priest, mounted her on his own horse before his tent, and sent her forward under the escort of his personal servant, promising to overtake her almost as soon as she should have crossed the river. When she was gone, he sent the word through the negro soldiery, who gathered round him almost to a man, and with the quietness which became their superior force. Jean Francais and Biasson were left with scarcely twenty followers each; and those few would do nothing. The whites felt themselves powerless amidst the noonday heats, and opposed to threefold numbers: and their officers found that nothing was to be done but to allow them to look on quietly, while Jacques led away his little army, with loud music and a streaming white flag. A few horsemen led the van, and closed in the rear. The rest marched, as if on a holiday trip, now singing to the music of the band, and now making the hills ring again with the name of Toussaint Breda.

As General Hermona, entirely indisposed for his siesta, watched the march through his glass from the entrance of his tent, while the notes of the wind-instruments swelled and died away in the still air, one of his aides was overheard by him to say to another—

"The General has probably changed his opinion since he said to you this morning, of Toussaint Breda, that God could not visit a soul more pure. We have all had to change our minds rather more rapidly than suits such a warm climate."

"You may have changed your opinions since the sun rose, gentlemen," said Hermona; "but I am not sure that I have."

"How! Is it possible? We do not understand you, my lord."

"Do you suppose that you understand him? Have we been of a degraded race, slaves, and suddenly offered restoration to full manhood and citizenship? How otherwise can we understand this man? I do not profess to do so."

"You think well of him, my lord?"

"I am so disposed. Time, however, will show. He has gone away magnanimously enough, alone, and believing, I am confident, from what Father Laxabon tells me, that his career is closed; but I rather think we shall hear more of him."

"How these people revel in music!" observed one of the staff. "How they are pouring it forth now!"

"And not without reason, surely," said Hermona. "It is their exodus that we are watching."



CHAPTER EIGHT.

BREDA AGAIN.

The French proclamation was efficiently published along the line of march of the blacks. They shouted and sang the tidings of their freedom, joining with them the name of Toussaint Breda. These tidings of freedom rang through the ravines, and echoed up the sides of the hills, and through the depths of the forests, startling the wild birds on the mountain-ponds and the deer among the high ferns; and bringing down from their fastnesses a multitude of men who had fled thither from the vengeance of the whites and mulattoes, and to escape sharing in the violence of the negro force which Jean Francais had left behind him, to pursue uncontrolled their course of plunder and butchery. Glad, to such, were the tidings of freedom, with order, and under the command of one whose name was never mentioned without respect, if not enthusiasm. The negro who did not know that there was any more world on the other side the Cibao peaks, had yet learned to be proud of the learning of Toussaint. The slave who conceived of God as dwelling in the innermost of the Mornes, and coming forth to govern His subjects with the fire of the lightning and the scythe of the hurricane, was yet able to revere the piety of Toussaint. The black bandit who had dipped his hands in the blood of his master, and feasted his ear with the groans of the innocent babes who had sat upon his knee, yet felt that there was something impressive in the simple habit of forgiveness, the vigilant spirit of mercy which distinguished Toussaint Breda from all his brethren in arms—from all the leading men of his colour, except his friend Henri Christophe. At the name of Toussaint Breda, then, these flocked down into the road by hundreds, till they swelled the numbers of the march to thousands. The Spanish soldiers, returning to their camp by such by-ways as they could find, heard again and again from a distance the cries of welcome and of triumph; and one or two of them chanced to witness from a high point of rock, or through a thick screen of foliage, the joyous progress of the little army, hastening on to find their chief. These involuntary spies gathered at every point of observation news which would gall the very soul of Jean Francais, if they should get back to the camp to tell it.

Jacques knew where to seek his friend, and led the way, on descending from the hills, straight across the plain to the Breda estate, where Toussaint meant to await his family. How unlike was this plantation to what it was when these negroes had seen it last! The cane-fields, heretofore so trim and orderly, with the tall canes springing from the clean black soil, were now a jungle. The old plants had run up till they had leaned over with their own weight, and fallen upon one another. Their suckers had sprung up in myriads, so that the racoon which burrowed among them could scarcely make its way in and out. The grass on the little enclosed lawns grew so rank, that the cattle, now wild, were almost hidden as they lay down in it; and so uneven and unsightly were the patches of growth, that the blossoming shrubs with which it had been sprinkled for ornament, now looked forlorn and out of place, flowering amidst the desolation. The slave-quarter was scarcely distinguishable from the wood behind it, so nearly was it overgrown with weeds. A young foal was browsing on the thatch, and a crowd of glittering lizards darted out and away on the approach of human feet.

Jacques did not stay at the slave-quarter; but he desired his company to remain there and in the neighbouring field, while he went with Therese to bring out their chief to them. They went up to the house; but in no one of its deserted chambers did they find Toussaint.

"Perhaps he is in his own cottage," said Therese.

"Is it possible," replied Jacques, "that, with this fine house all to himself, he should take up with that old hut?"

"Let us see," said Therese; "for he is certainly not here."

When they readied Toussaint's cottage, it was no easy matter to know how to effect an entrance. Enormous gourds had spread their network over the ground, like traps for the feet of trespassers. The front of the piazza was completely overgrown with the creepers which had been brought there only to cover the posts, and hang their blossoms from the eaves. They had now spread and tangled themselves, till they made the house look like a thicket. In one place, however, between two of the posts, they had been torn down, and the evening wind was tossing the loose coils about. Jacques entered the gap, and immediately looked out again, smiling, and beckoning Therese to come and see. There, in the piazza, they found Toussaint, stretched asleep upon the bench—so soundly asleep, for once, that the whispers of his friends did not alter, for a moment, his heavy breathing.

"How tired he must be!" said Jacques. "At other times I have known his sleep so light, that he was broad awake as quick as a lizard, if a beetle did but sail over his head."

"He may well be tired," said Therese. "You know how weary he looked at mass this morning. I believe he had no rest last night; and now this march to-day—"

"Well! He must rouse up now, however; for his business will not wait." And he called him by his name.

"Henri!" cried Toussaint, starting up.

"No, not Henri. I am Jacques. You are not awake yet, and the place is dark. I am your friend Jacques, five inches shorter than Henri. You see?"

"You here, Jacques! and Therese! Surely I am not awake yet."

"Yes, you are, now you know Therese—whom you will henceforth look upon as my wife. We are both free of the whites now, for ever."

"Is it possible?"

"It is true; and we will fell you all presently. But first explain why you called me Henri as you woke. If we could see Henri—Why did you name Henri—"

"Because he was the next person I expected to see. I met one on the way who knew where he was, and took a message to him."

"If we could learn from Henri—" said Jacques.

"Here is Henri," said the calm, kindly, well-known voice of the powerful Christophe, who now showed himself outside. The other went out to him, and greeted him heartily.

"What news, Henri?" asked Toussaint. "How are affairs at Cap? What is doing about the proclamation there?"

"Affairs are going badly at Cap. The mulattoes will no more bear our proclamation than the whites would bear theirs. They have shut up General Laveaux in prison; and the French, without their military leader, do not know what to do next. The commissary has no authority, and talks of embarking for France; and the troops are cursing the negroes, for whose sake, they say, their General is imprisoned, and will soon die of the heats."

"We must deliver General Laveaux," said Toussaint. "Our work already lies straight before us. We must raise a force. Henri, can you bring soldiers?"

"Ay, Henri," said Jacques, "what force can you bring to join ours? General Toussaint Breda has six thousand here at hand, half of whom are disciplined soldiers, well armed. The rest are partially armed, and have strong hearts and ready hands."

Toussaint turned round, as if to know what Jacques could mean.

"General," said Jacques, "the army I speak of is there, among those fields, burning to greet you their commander; but in the meantime, I believe, supping heartily on whatever they can find in your wilderness here, in the shape of maize, pumpkins, and plantains—and what else, you know better than? That is right, Therese; rest yourself in the piazza, and I will bring you some supper, too."

"Six thousand, did you say, Jacques?" said Henri. "I can rally two thousand this night, and more will join on the way."

"We must free Laveaux before sunrise," said Toussaint. "Will our troops be fit for a march after this supper of theirs, Jacques—after supper and three hours' rest?"

"They are fit at this moment to march over the island—to swim from Saint Domingo to France, if you will only lead them," replied Jacques. "Go to them, and they will do what you will."

"So be it!" said Toussaint, his bosom for a moment heaving with the thought that his career, even as viewed by Father Laxabon, was not ended. "Henri, what is the state of the plain? Is the road open?"

"Far from it. The mulattoes are suspicious, and on the watch against some danger—I believe they are not clear what. I avoided some of their scouts; and the long way they made me go round was the reason of my being late."

Observing that Toussaint looked thoughtful, he proceeded: "I imagine there is no force in the plain that could resist your numbers, if you are sure of your troops. The road is open, if they choose that it be so."

"I am sure of only half of them; and then there is the town. It seems to me, Jacques, that I may more depend upon my troops, in their present mood, for a merry night march, though it be a long one, than for a skirmish through the plain, though it be a short one."

Jacques assented. It was agreed that the little army should proceed by the mountain tracts, round by Plaisance and Gros Morne, so as to arrive by the Haut-du-Cap, in which direction it was not likely that a foe should be looked for. Thus they could pour into the town from the western heights before sunrise, while the scouts of the mulatto rebels were looking for them across the eastern plain.

This settled, Jacques went down among his forces, to tell them that their general was engaged in a council of war—Henri Christophe having joined from Cap, with a promise of troops, and with intelligence which would open the way to victory and freedom. The general allowed them ten minutes more for refreshment, and to form themselves into order; and he would then present himself to them. Shouting was forbidden, lest any foe should be within hearing; but a murmur of delight and mutual congratulation ran through the ranks, which were beginning to form while the leader of their march was yet speaking. He retreated, carrying with him the best arms he could select for the use of his general.

While he was gone, Toussaint stepped back into the piazza, where Therese sat quietly watching the birds flitting in and out among the foliage and flowers.

"Therese," said he, "what will you do this night and to-morrow? Who will take care of you?"

"I know not—I care not," said she. "There are no whites here; and I am well where they are not. Will you not let me stay here?"

"Did Jacques say, and say truly, that you are his wife?"

"He said so, and truly. I have been wretched, for long—"

"And sinful. Wretchedness and sin go together."

"And I was sinful; but no one told me so. I was ignorant, and weak, and a slave. Now I am a woman and a wife. No more whites, no more sin, no more misery! Will you not let me stay here?"

"I will: and here you will presently be safe, and well cared for, I hope. My wife and my children are coming home—coming, probably in a few hours. They will make this a home to you till Jacques can give you one of your own. You shall be guarded here till my Margot arrives. Shall it be so?"

"Shall it? Oh, thank God! Jacques," she cried, as she heard her husband's step approaching. "Oh, Jacques! I am happy. Toussaint Breda is kind—he has forgiven me—he welcomes me—his wife will—"

Tears drowned her voice. Toussaint said gently—

"It is not for me to forgive, Therese, whom you have never offended. God has forgiven, I trust, your young years of sin. You will atone (will you not?) by the purity of your life—by watching over others, lest they suffer as you have done. You will guard the minds of my young daughters: will you not? You will thank God through my Genifrede, my Aimee?"

"I will, I will," she eagerly cried, lifting up her face, bright through her tears. "Indeed my heart will be pure—longs to be pure."

"I know it, Therese," said Toussaint. "I have always believed it, and I now know it."

He turned to Jacques and said—

"You declare yourself to be under my command?"

"Yes, Toussaint; you are my general."

"Well, then, I appoint you to the duty of remaining here, with a troop, to guard my family (who are coming in a few hours), and this estate. I have some hopes of doing what I want at Cap without striking a blow; and you will be better here. You hate the whites too much to like my warfare. Farewell, Therese! Jacques, follow me, to receive your troop."



CHAPTER NINE.

THE MAN.

The town of Cap Francais was next morning in a hurry, which attracted the attention of General Laveaux in his prison, and the French commissary, Polverel, on board the vessel in the roads, in which he had taken refuge from the mulattoes, and where he held himself in readiness to set sail for France, in case of any grave disaster befalling the General or the troops. From his cell, Laveaux heard in the streets the tramp of horses and of human feet; and from the deck of the Orphee, Polverel watched through his glass the bustle on the wharves, and the putting off of more than one boat, which prepared him to receive news.

The news came. The report was universal in the town that Toussaint Breda had gone over from the allies to the side of republican France; and that this step had been followed by a large defection from the allied forces. Messengers had arrived, one after another, with dispatches which had been intercepted by the mulattoes. These who brought them, however, had given out that some posts had been surrendered, without a summons, into the hands of the French. This was certainly the case with Marmalade and Plaisance; and others were confidently spoken of.

"Offered to our hands just when our hands are tied, and we cannot take them!" said Polverel. "If our fresh regiments would only arrive to-day, and help us to wrench the prison keys from the hands of those devils of mulattoes, and let out Laveaux, the colony would be ours before night."

As he spoke, he swept the horizon to the north and east with his glass; but no welcome sail was visible.

"Now look the other way," said the commander of the vessel; "if there is no help at sea, try if there be none on land. I have been watching that mountain-side for some time; and, if I am not much mistaken, there is an army of dusky fellows there."

"Dusky! mulattoes! then we are lost!" cried Polverel. "If the mulattoes from the south have come up in any numbers—"

"They are black as the night that is just gone," said the commander, still keeping his eye fixed on the western heights above the town. "See, the sun strikes them now. They are blacks. The negroes under Toussaint himself, very probably. I shall not have the pleasure of carrying you to France just yet, Monsieur Polverel."

Notwithstanding the display of black forces on the Haut-du-Cap, the bustle of the town seemed to be in the opposite direction. A few shots were fired in the south-east quarter, and some smoke arose from thence. This was soon explained by the news that Henri Christophe had approached the town from the plain, with four or five thousand men, and was forcing an entrance that way. There was little conflict. Toussaint poured down his force through the barracks, where the French soldiers gave him a hearty welcome, and along the avenues of Government-House, and the neighbouring public offices, in which quarter the mulattoes had little interest. Within an hour, the mulattoes had all slunk back into their homes, telling their families that they could have dealt with the French alone, but that they could not withstand an army of twenty thousand men (only doubling the real number), which had dropped from the clouds, for aught they knew. The few dead bodies were removed, the sand sucked up their blood, and the morning wind blew dust over its traces. A boat was sent off, in due form, to bring Commissary Polverel home to Government-House. Toussaint himself went to the prison to bring out General Laveaux, with every demonstration of respect; and all presently wore the aspect of a jour-de-fete.

Hour by hour tidings were spread which increased the joy of the French, and the humiliation of their foes. The intercepted dispatches were given up, and more arrived with the news of the successive defection from the allies of all the important posts in the colony, held by negro forces. In the name of Toussaint Breda, the garrisons of Marmalade and Plaisance first declared for republican France; and after them, Gros Morne, Henneri, and Le Dondon.

The news of the acquisition of these last arrived in the evening, when the French officials were entertaining the negro chief in the salon of Government-House. It was late: the house was brilliantly lighted; and its illuminations were reflected from a multitude of faces without. Late as it was, and great as had been the fatigues of the negro troops, they were not yet weary of hearing the praises of their own Toussaint. Adding their numbers to those of the white inhabitants of Cap, they thronged the court of Government-House and the Jesuits' Walk; and even in the Place d'Archer and the Rue Espagnole, passengers found it difficult to make their way. The assemblage could scarcely have told what detained them there, unless it were the vague expectation of more news, the repetition of the praises they loved to hear, and, perhaps, some hope of getting one more glimpse of Toussaint on this night of his triumph. From mouth to mouth circulated the words which General Laveaux had spoken in the morning, when released from his prison—"This man is the saviour of the whites—the avenger of the authorities. He is surely the black, the Spartacus predicted by Raynal, whose destiny it should be to avenge the wrongs of his race." From mouth to month went these words; and from heart to heart spread the glow they kindled.

Toussaint himself had heard these words; and in his heart also were they glowing. As he sat at table, refreshing himself with fruits, but (according to his invariable custom) refusing wine, he was reminded by all that passed that his career was not ended. He wore the uniform of brigadier-general—a token that he had not lost rank. Monsieur Polverel had declared his intention of soon returning to France; and General Laveaux had said that when he was thus left in charge of the colony, he should entreat General Toussaint, who best understood its affairs, to fill the office of lieutenant-governor, and should also be guided in military affairs implicitly by his counsels. Toussaint heard, and felt that, in truth, his career was not ended. He was requested to name a day when he would take the oaths publicly, and receive the homage of the grateful colony; and in his reply he took occasion to declare with earnestness that his present course of action originated altogether in the decree of the Convention in favour of the negroes; and that the resources of his power and influence should all be directed towards raising his race to that intellectual and moral equality with the whites, without which they could neither enjoy nor retain the political equality which the Convention had decreed. In the midst of the strongly expressed sympathy of his hosts, who were this day disposed to approve and admire all he said and did—while they were uttering hopes for his own people which touched his soul, the final news of this great day was brought in, contained in dispatches which told of the acquisition of the posts of Limbe and l'Aeul—the two bars to the north-western peninsula of the colony. The commanders declared their adhesion to the cause of the blacks and Toussaint Breda.

"Bravo!" cried the French general: "that obstinate region is ours! We will march through those posts to hold our festival, and the oaths shall be taken at Port Paix. Was not that district considered the most obstinate, general?"

Toussaint did not answer. He did not hear. The mention of Port Paix carried back his thoughts to the night when he was last there, heavy at heart, assisting his master to escape.

"All is ours, now, through him," said Monsieur Polverel, gazing at his guest, "Yes," rejoined Laveaux; "he is the Napoleon Bonaparte of Saint Domingo."

"Who is he?—who is Napoleon Bonaparte?" asked Toussaint, roused to listen. "I have heard his name. What has he done?"

"He is a young French artillery officer—"

"A Corsican by birth," interposed Polverel.

"Is he really? I was not aware of that," said Laveaux. "That circumstance somewhat increases the resemblance of the cases. He was ill-used (or thought he was) by his officers, and was on the point of joining the Turkish service, when he was employed in the defence of the Convention, the other day. He saved the Convention—he saved Paris—and he is about to put off his uniform of brigadier-general" (and Laveaux smiled and bowed as he spoke)—"like yourself, he is about to put off his uniform of brigadier-general for that of a higher rank. His name was known before in connection with the siege of Toulon. But this last achievement is the grand one. He has cleaved the path of the Convention. Polverel, did I not say rightly that General Toussaint is the Napoleon Bonaparte of Saint Domingo?"

"Yes. General Toussaint also is making for us an opening everywhere."

Toussaint heard the words, but they made a faint impression at the moment of his imagination being fixed on the young artillery officer. There were those present, however, who lost nothing of what was spoken, and who conveyed it all to the eager ears outside. The black attendants, the gazers and listeners who went in and out, intoxicated with the glory of the negro general, reported all that was said of him. These last few words of Polverel wrought wonderfully, and were instantly spread through the excited multitude. A shout was presently heard, which must have sounded far up the mountains and over the bay; and Polverel started with surprise when his word came back to him in a response like that of an assembled nation. "L'ouverture!" "L'ouverture!" cried the multitude, fully comprehending what the word contained in its application to their chief, "Toussaint L'Ouverture!" Henceforth, the city, the colony, the island, and, after a time, all Europe, rang with the name of Toussaint L'Ouverture.

When Toussaint heard the cry from without, he started to his feet; and his hosts rose also, on seeing the fire in his eye—brighter than during the deeds of the morning.

"The general would address them," said Polverel. "You wish to speak to the people, General Toussaint."

"No," said Toussaint.

"What then?" inquired Laveaux.

"I would be alone," said Toussaint, stepping backwards from the table.

"Your fatigues have doubtless been great," observed Laveaux. "Lights shall be ordered in your apartment."

"I cannot sleep yet," said Toussaint. "I cannot sleep till I have news from Breda. But I have need of thought, gentlemen; there is moonlight and quiet in these gardens. Permit me to leave you now."

He paced the shrubberies, cool with moonlight and with dews; and his agitation subsided when all eyes but those of Heaven were withdrawn. Here no flatteries met his ear—no gestures of admiration made him drop his eyes, abashed. Constrained as he yet felt himself in equal intercourse with whites, new to his recognised freedom, unassured in his acts, uncertain of the future, and (as he believed) unprepared for such a future as was now unfolding, there was something inexpressibly irksome and humbling in the homage of the whites—of men who understood nothing of him, and little of his race, and who could have none but political purposes in their intercourse with him. He needed this evening the sincerities as well as the soothings of nature; and it was with a sense of relief that he cast himself once again upon her bosom, to be instructed, with infantine belief, how small an atom he was in the universe of God—how low a rank he held in the hierarchy of the ministers of the Highest.

"Yet I am one," thought he, as the shout of his name and now title reached his ear, distinct, though softened by distance. "I am an appointed minister. It seems as if I were the one of whom I myself have spoken as likely to arise—not, as Laveaux says, after Raynal, to avenge, but to repair the wrongs of my colour. Low, indeed, are we sunk, deep is our ignorance, abject are our wills, if such a one as I am to be the leader of thousands—I, whose will is yet unexercised—I, who shrink ashamed before the knowledge of the meanest white—I, so lately a slave—so long dependent that I am an oppression to myself—am at this hour the ruler over ten thousand wills! The ways of God are dark, or it might seem that He despised His negro children in committing so many of them to so poor a guide. But He despises nothing that He has made. It may be that we are too weak and ignorant to be fit for better guidance in our new state of rights and duties. It may be that a series of teachers is appointed to my colour, of whom I am to be the first, only because I am the lowest; destined to give way to wiser guides when I have taught all that I know, and done all that I can. May it be so! I will devote myself wholly; and when I have done may I be more willing to hide myself in my cottage, or lie down in my grave, than I have been this day to accept the new lot which I dare not refuse!—Deal gently with me, O God! and, however I fail, let me not see my children's hearts hardened, as hearts are hardened, by power! Let me not see in their faces the look of authority, nor hear in their voices the tones of pride! Be with my people, O Christ! The weaker I am, the more be Thou with them, that Thy gospel may be at last received! The hearts of my people are soft—they are gentle, they are weak:—let Thy gospel make them pure—let it make them free. Thy gospel—who has not heard of it, and who has seen it? May it be found in the hearts of my people, the despised! and who shall then despise them again? The past is all guilt and groans. Into the future open a better way—"

"Toussaint L'Ouverture!" he heard again from afar, and bowed his head, overpowered with hope.

"Toussaint L'Ouverture!" repeated some light gay voices close at hand. His boys were come, choosing to bring themselves the news from Breda— that Margot and her daughters, and old Dessalines and Moyse were all there, safe and happy, except for their dismay at finding the cottage and field in such a state of desolation.

"They will not mind when they hear that they are to live in a mansion henceforward," said Placide. "Jean Francais had better have stood by his colour, as we do."

"And how have you stood by your colour, my young hero?"

"I told Jean in the camp to-day—"

"Jean! In the camp! How came you there?"

"We were so near, that I galloped in to see what they thought of your leaving, and who had followed you."

"Then I thank God that you are here."

"Jean caught me; but the General bade him let me go, and asked whether the blacks made war upon children. I told him that I was not a child; and I told Jean that you had rather live in a cave for the sake of the blacks, than go off to the court of Spain—"

"What made you fancy I should go there?"

"Not you, but Jean. Jean is going, he says, because he is a noble. There will soon be peace between France and Spain, he says; and then he shall be a noble at the court of Spain. I am glad he is going."

"So am I, if he thinks he shall be happy there."

"We shall be better without him," said Isaac. "He would never be quiet while you were made Lieutenant-Governor of Saint Domingo. Now you will be alone and unmolested in your power. Where did you learn all this?"

"Every one knows it—every one in Cap. Every one knows that Jean has done with us, and that the Commissary is going home, and that General Laveaux means to be guided in everything by you; and that the posts have all surrendered in your name; and that at Port Paix—"

"Enough, enough! my boys. Too much, for I see that your hearts are proud."

"The Commissary and the General said that you are supreme—the idol of your colour. Those were their words."

"And in this there is yet no glory. I have yet done nothing, but by what is called accident. Our own people were ready—by no preparation of mine; the mulattoes were weak and taken by surprise, through circumstances not of my ordering. Glory there may hereafter be belonging to our name, my boys; but as yet there is none. I have power: but power is less often glory than disgrace."

"Oh, father! do but listen. Hark again! 'Toussaint L'Ouverture!'"

"I will strive to make that shout a prophecy, my sons. Till then, no pride! Are you not weary? Come in to rest. Can you sleep in my fine chamber here as well as at Breda?"

"Anywhere," said Isaac, sleepily.

Toussaint gave up his apartment to his sons, and went forth once more to survey the town, and see that his troops were in their quarters. This done, he repaired to his friend Henri, willing for one more night to forego his greatness; and there, in his friend's small barrack-room, the supreme in the colony—the idol of his colour—slept, as he had hoped for his boys, as tranquilly as if he had been at Breda.



CHAPTER TEN.

A MORNING OF OFFICE.

If the devastation attending the revolutionary wars of Saint Domingo was great, it was repaired with singular rapidity. Thanks to the vigorous agencies of nature in a tropical region, the desolated plains were presently covered with fresh harvests, and the burnt woods were buried deep under the shadow of young forests, more beautiful than the old. Thanks also to the government of the wisest mind in the island, the moral evils of the struggle were made subordinate to its good results. It was not in the power of man to bury past injuries in oblivion, while there were continually present minds which had been debased by tyranny, and hearts which had been outraged by cruelty; but all that could be done was done. Vigorous employment was made the great law of society— the one condition of the favour of its chief; and, amidst the labours of the hoe and the mill, the workshop and the wharf—amidst the toils of the march and the bustle of the court, the bereaved and insulted forgot their woes and their revenge. A now growth of veneration and of hope overspread the ruins of old delights and attachments, as the verdure of the plain spread its mantle over the wrecks of mansion and of hut. In seven years from the kindling of the first incendiary torch on the Plaine du Nord, it would have been hard for a stranger, landing in Saint Domingo, to believe what had been the horrors of the war.

Of these seven years, however, the first three or four had been entirely spent in war, and the rest disturbed by it. Double that number of years must pass before there could be any security that the crop planted would ever be reaped, or that the peasants who laid out their family burying-grounds would be carried there in full age, instead of perishing in the field or in the woods. The cultivators went out to their daily work with the gun slung across their shoulders and the cutlass in their belt: the hills were crested with forts, and the mountain-passes were watched by scouts. The troops were frequently reviewed in the squares of the towns, and news was perpetually arriving of a skirmish here or there. The mulatto general, Rigaud, had never acknowledged the authority of Toussaint L'Ouverture; and he was still in the field, with a mulatto force sufficient to interrupt the prosperity of the colony, and endanger the authority of its Lieutenant-Governor. It was some time, however, since Rigaud had approached any of the large towns. The sufferers by his incursions were the planters and field-labourers. The inhabitants of the towns carried on their daily affairs as if peace had been fully established in the island, and feeling the effects of such warfare as there was only in their occasional contributions of time and money.

The Commander-in-chief, as Toussaint L'Ouverture was called, by the appointment of the French commissaries, though his dignity had not yet been confirmed from Paris—the Commander-in-chief of Saint Domingo held his head-quarters at Port-au-Prince. Among other considerations which rendered this convenient, the chief was that he thus avoided much collision with the French officials, which must otherwise have taken place. All the commissaries, who rapidly succeeded one another from Paris, resided at Government-House, in Cap Francais. Thence, they issued orders and regulations in the name of the government at home; orders and regulations which were sometimes practicable, sometimes unwise, and often absurd. If Toussaint had resided at Cap, a constant witness of their ignorance of the minds, manners, and interests of the blacks—if he had been there to listen to the complaints and appeals which would have been daily made, he could scarcely have kept terms for a single week with the French authorities. By establishing himself in the south, while they remained in the north, he was able quietly to neutralise or repair much of the mischief which they did, and to execute many of his own plans without consulting them; while many a grievance was silently borne, many an order simply neglected, which would have been a cause of quarrel, if any power of redress had been at hand. Jealous as he was for the infant freedom of his race, Toussaint knew that it would be best preserved by weaning their minds from thoughts of anger, and their eyes from the sight of blood. Trust in the better part of negro nature guided him in his choice between two evils. He preferred that they should be misgoverned in some affairs of secondary importance, and keep the peace, rather than that they should be governed to their hearts' content by himself, at the risk of quarrel with the mother-country. He trusted to the singular power of forbearance and forgiveness which is found in the negro race for the preservation of friendship with the whites and of the blessings of peace; and he therefore reserved his own powerful influence over both parties for great occasions—interfering only when he perceived that, through carelessness or ignorance, the French authorities were endangering some essential liberty of those to whom they were the medium of the pleasure of the government at home. The blacks were aware that the vigilance of their Commander-in-chief over their civil rights never slept, and that his interference always availed; and these convictions ensured their submission, or at least their not going beyond passive resistance on ordinary occasions, and thus strengthened their habits of peace.

The Commander-in-chief held his levees at Port-au-Prince on certain days of the month, all the year round. No matter how far-off he might be, or how engaged, the night before, he rarely failed to be at home on the appointed day, at the fixed hour. On one particular occasion, he was known to have been out against Rigaud, day and night, for a fortnight, and to be closely engaged as far south as Aux Cayes, the very evening preceding the review and levee which had been announced for the 20th of January. Not the less for this did he appear in front of the troops in the Place Republicaine, when the daylight gushed in from the east, putting out the stars, whose reflection trembled in the still waters of the bay. The last evolutions were finished, and the smoke from the last volley had incited away in the serene sky of January, before the coolness of the northern breeze had yielded to the blaze of the mounting sun. The troops then lined the long streets of the town, and the avenue to the palace, while the Commander-in-chief and his staff passed on, and entered the palace-gates.

The palace, like every other building in Port-au-Prince, consisted of one storey only. The town had been destroyed by an earthquake in 1770; and, though earthquakes are extremely rare in Saint Domingo, the place had been rebuilt in view of the danger of another. The palace therefore covered a large piece of ground, and its principal rooms were each nearly surrounded by garden and grass-plat. The largest apartment, in which the levees were always held, was the best room in the island—if not for the richness of its furniture, for its space and proportions, and the views which it commanded. Not even the abode of the Commander-in-chief could exhibit such silken sofas, marble tables, gilded balustrades, and japanned or ivory screens, as had been common in the mansions of the planters; and Toussaint had found other uses for such money as he had than those of pure luxury. The essential and natural advantages of his palace were enough for him and his. The door of this, his favourite apartment, was covered with a fine India matting; the windows were hung with white muslin curtains; and the sofas, which stood round three sides of the room, between the numerous windows, were covered with green damask, of no very rich quality. In these many windows lay the charm, commanding, as they did, extensive prospects to the east, north, and west. The broad verandah cast a shadow which rendered it unnecessary to keep the jalousies closed, except during the hottest hours of the year. This morning every blind was swung wide open, and the room was cool and shady, while, without, all was bathed in the mild, golden sunshine of January—bright enough for the strongest eye, but without glare.

To the east and north spread the Cul-de-Sac—a plain of unequalled richness, extending to the foot of the mountains, fifteen miles into the interior. The sun had not yet risen so high but that these mountains cast a deep shadow for some distance into the plain, while their skirts were dark with coffee-groves, and their summits were strongly marked against the glowing sky. Amidst the wide, verdant level of the plain, arose many a white mansion, each marked by a cluster of trees, close at hand. Some of these plantation houses looked bluish and cool in the mountain shadows; others were like bright specks in the sunshine, each surmounted by a star, if its gilded weathercock chanced to turn in the breeze. To the north, also, this plain, still backed by mountains, extended till it joined the sands of the bight.

Upon these sands, on the margin of the deep blue waters, might be seen flashing in the sun a troop of flamingoes, now moving forward in a line into the waves, and diligently fishing; and then, on the alarm of a scout, all taking wing successively, and keeping their order, as they flew homewards, to the salt marshes in the interior—their scarlet bodies vividly contrasted with the dark green of the forests that clothed the mountain-sides. To the west lay the broad azure sheet of the bay, locked by the island of Gonave, and sprinkled with fishing-boats, while under the forest-tufted rocks of the island two vessels rode at anchor—a schooner belonging to Saint Domingo, and an English frigate.

In the shady western piazza sat a party who seemed much occupied in looking out upon the bay, and watching the vessels that lay under the island; from which vessels boats might be seen putting off for the town just at the time of the commencement of the levee. The party in the piazza consisted chiefly of women. Madame L'Ouverture was there—like, and yet unlike, the Margot of former years—employed, as usual—busy with her needle, and motherly, complacent, tenderly vigilant as of old; but with a matronly grace and dignity which evidently arose from a gratified mind, and not from external state. Her daughters were beside her, both wonderfully improved in beauty, though Genifrede still preserved the superiority there. She sat a little apart from her mother and sister netting. Moyse was at her feet, in order to obtain the benefit of an occasional gleam from the eyes which were cast down upon her work. His idolatry of her was no surprise to any who looked upon her in her beauty, now animated and exalted by the love which she had avowed, and which was sanctioned by her father and her family. The sisters were dressed nearly alike, though Aimee knew well that it would have been politic to have avoided thus bringing herself into immediate comparison with her sister. But Aimee cared not what was thought of her face, form, or dress. Isaac had always been satisfied with them. She had confided in Genifrede's taste when they first assumed their rank; and it was least troublesome to do so still. If Isaac should wish it otherwise when he should return from France, she would do as he desired. Meantime, they were dressed in all essentials exactly alike, from the pattern of the Madras handkerchief they wore (according to universal custom) on their heads, to the cut of the French-kid shoe. The dress was far from resembling the European fashion of the time. No tight lacing; no casing in whalebone—nothing like a hoop. A chemisette of the finest cambric appeared within the bodice, and covered the bosom. The short full sleeves were also of white cambric. The bodice, and short full skirt, were of deep yellow India silk; and the waist was confined with a broad band of violet-coloured velvet, gaily embroidered. The only difference in the dress of the sisters was in their ornaments. Aimee wore heavy ear-drops, and a large necklace and bracelets of amethyst; while Genifrede wore, suspended from a throat-band of velvet, embroidered like that which bound her waist, a massive plain gold crucifix, lately given her by Moyse. Her ear-rings were hoops of plain gold, and her bracelets again of embroidered velvet, clasped with plain gold. In her might be seen, and in her was seen by the Europeans who attended the levee of that day, what the negro face and form may be when seen in their native climate, unhardened by degradation, undebased by ignorance, unspoiled by oppression—all peculiarities of feature softened under the refining influence of mind, and all peculiarities of expression called out in their beauty by the free exercise of natural affections. The animated sweetness of the negro countenance is known only to those who have seen it thus.

Paul was of the party, looking very well in the French uniform, which he wore in honour of his brother on great occasions, though he was far from having grown warlike on his change of fortune. His heart was still in his cottage, or on the sea; and now, as he stood leaning against a pillar of the piazza, his eye was more busy in watching the fishing-boats in the bay than in observing what went on within the house. The only thing he liked about state-days was the hours of idleness they afforded—such hours as this, when, lounging in the shade, he could see Moyse happy at the feet of his beloved, and enjoy the soft wind as it breathed past, laden with spicy scents. During such an hour, he almost forgot the restraints of his uniform and of his rank.

There was yet another person in the piazza. Seated on its step, but sheltered by its broad eaves, sat Therese—more beautiful by far than Genifrede—more beautiful by far than in her days of girlhood— celebrated as she had then been throughout the colony. Her girlishness was gone, except its grace; her sensitiveness was gone, and (as those might think who did not watch the changes of her eye) much of her animation. Her carriage was majestic, her countenance, calm, and its beauty, now refined by a life of leisure and the consciousness of rank— leisure and rank both well employed—more imposing than ever. Her husband was now a general in Toussaint's army. When he was in the field, Madame Dessalines remained at home, on their estate near Saint Marc. When he was in attendance on the Commander-in-chief, she was ever a welcome guest in Toussaint's family. Madame L'Ouverture loved her as a daughter; and she had endeared herself to the girls. At this time, from an accidental circumstance, she was at the palace without her husband. It was evident that she felt quite at home there; for, though she had arrived only a few hours before, she did not appear disposed to converse. As she sat alone, leaning against the base of the pillar, she now and then cast her eyes on the book she held open in her hand, but for the most part looked abroad upon the terraced town, the bay, or the shadowy clefts of the rocky island which closed it in.

The sound of feet and of voices from within increased from moment to moment. The Commander-in-chief had assumed his place, with his aides on either hand; and presently the room was so nearly filled as to leave no more space than was required for the deputations to pass in at one entrance on the south of the apartment, appear before the General, and pass out at the other door. Toussaint stood at the centre of the north end, beside a table partly covered with papers, and at which sat his secretary. On this table lay his cocked hat. His uniform was blue, with scarlet capo and cuffs, richly embroidered. He had white trousers, long Hessian boots, and, as usual, the Madras handkerchief on his head. While walking up the apartment, he had been conversing on business with his officers, and continued to do so, without the loss of a moment, till, on his taking his place, two ushers came up with an account of the parties waiting for admittance, desiring to know his pleasure as to who should have precedence.

"The clergy," said Toussaint; "the first in duty must be first in honour."

In a few moments there was a loud announcement of the clergy from the districts of Saint Marc, Leogane, Mirbalais, and so on, through a long enumeration of districts. The priests entered, two and two, a long procession of black gowns. As they collected into a group before him, every one anxiously making way for them, Toussaint crossed his arms upon his breast, and bowed his head low for many moments. When he looked up again, an expression of true reverence was upon his countenance; and, in a tone of earnestness, he asked for what service they desired to command him.

Father Antioche, an old priest, assisted by a brother at least thirty years younger, offered sealed papers, which, he said, contained reports from the several districts concerning the religious and moral condition of the inhabitants. Toussaint received them, and laid them, with his own hand, upon the table beside him, saying, with much solicitude—

"Do I see rightly in your countenances that you bring good news of your flocks, my fathers!"

"It is so," replied the old priest. "Our wishes are fast fulfilling."

"Eight thousand marriages have been celebrated, as will appear in our reports," added the young priest.

"And in the difficult cases of a plurality of wives," resumed Father Antioche, "there is generally a willingness in the cultivators to maintain liberally those who are put away."

"And the children?"

"The children may be found in the schools, sitting side by side in peace. The quarrels of the children of different mothers (quarrels often fatal in the fields) disappear in the schools. The reports well exhibit the history of our expanding system."

"God be thanked!" Toussaint uttered in a low voice.

"Under the religions rule of your excellency," said the young priest, "enforced by so pure an example of piety, the morals of this colony will be established, and the salvation of its people secured."

"You," said Toussaint, "the servants of Christ, are the true rulers of this island and its inhabitants. I am your servant in guarding external order, during a period which you will employ in establishing your flocks in the everlasting wisdom and peace of religion. I hold the inferior office of keeping our enemies in awe, and enabling our people to find subsistence and comfort. My charge is the soil on which, and the bodies in which, men live. You have in charge their souls, in which lies the future of this world and of the next. You are the true rulers of Saint Domingo; and we bow to you as such."

Every head was immediately bowed, and the priests went out, amidst the obeisances of the whole assemblage—some of the order wondering, perhaps, whether every mind there was as sincere in its homage as that of the Commander-in-chief.

The superintendents of the cultivators came next—negroes dressed in check shirts, white linen jackets and trousers, and with the usual Madras handkerchief on the head. They, too, handed in reports; and to them also did Toussaint address his questions, with an air of respect almost equal to that with which he had spoken to the priests.

"I grieve," said he, "that you cannot yet fulfil your function altogether in peace. My generals and I have done what we can to preserve our fields from devastation, and our cultivators from the dangers and the fears of ambushed foes; but Rigaud's forces are not yet subdued; and for a while we must impose upon our cultivators the toil of working armed in the field. We are soldiers here," he added, looking round upon his officers, "but I hope there is not one of us who does not honour the hoe more than the gun. How far have you been able to repair in the south-eastern districts the interruption in the September planting?"

The superintendent of those districts came forward, and said that some planting had been effected in November, the sprouts of which now looked well. More planting had been done during the early part of the present month; and time would show the result.

"Good!" said Toussaint. "Some of the finest crops I have seen have risen from January plants, though it were best it were done in September. How do you report about the rats?"

"The nuisance is still great," replied the head superintendent; "their uninterrupted possession of the fields during the troubles has made them very powerful. Would that your excellency were as powerful to conquer the rats as the mulattoes!"

"We have allies," said Toussaint, gravely—"an army more powerful than that which I command. Where are the ants!"

"They have closed their campaign. They cleared the fields for us in the autumn; but they have disappeared."

"For a time only. While there are rats, they will reappear."

"And when there are no more rats, we must call in some force, if your excellency knows of such, to make war upon the an Is; for they are only a less evil than that which they cure."

"If they were absent, you would find some worse evil in their stead— pestilence, perhaps. Teach your children this, if you hear them complain of anything to which Providence has given life and an errand among us. The cocoa walks at Plaisance—are they fenced to the north?"

"Completely. The new wood has sprung up from the ashes of the fires, like a mist from the lake."

"Are the cottages enlarged and divided, as I recommended?"

"Universally. Every cottage inhabited by a family has now two rooms, at least. As your excellency also desired, the cultivators have spent their leisure hours in preparing furniture—from bedsteads to baskets. As the reports will explain, there are some inventions which it is hoped will be inspected by your excellency—particularly a ventilator, to be fixed in the roofs of cottages; a broad shoe for walking over the salt marshes; and—"

"The cooler," prompted a voice from behind.

"And a new kind of cooler, which preserves liquids, and even meats, for a longer time than any previously known to the richest planter in the island. This discovery does great credit to the sagacity of the labourer who has completed it."

"I will come and view it. I hope to visit all our cultivators—to verify your reports with my own eyes. At present, we are compelled, like the Romans, to go from arms to the plough, and from the plough to arms; but, when possible, I wish to show that I am not a negro of the coast, with my eye ever abroad upon the sea, or on foreign lands. I desire that we should make use of our own means for our own welfare. Everything that is good shall be welcomed from abroad as it arrives; but the liberty of the blacks can be secured only by the prosperity of their agriculture."

"I do not see why not by fisheries," observed Paul, to the party in the piazza, as he caught his brother's words. "If Toussaint is not fond of fish, he should remember that other people are."

"He means," said Therese, "that toil, peaceful toil, with its hope, and its due fruit, is best for the blacks. Now, you know, Paul L'Ouverture, that if the fields of the ocean had required as much labour as those of the plain, you would never have been a fisherman."

"It is pleasanter on a hot day to dive than to dig; and easier to draw the net for an hour than to cut canes for a day—is it not, uncle?" asked Aimee.

"If the Commander-in-chief thinks toil good for us," said Moyse, "why does he disparage war? Who knows better than he what are the fatigues of a march? and the wearisomeness of an ambush is greater still. Why does he, of all men, disparage war?"

"Because," said Madame, "he thinks there has been enough hatred and fighting. I have to put him in mind of his own glory in war, or he would be always forgetting it—except, indeed, when any one comes from Europe. When he hears of Bonaparte, he smiles; and I know he is then glad that he is a soldier too."

"Besides his thinking that there has been too much fighting," said Aimee, "he wishes that the people should labour joyfully in the very places where they used to toil in wretchedness for the whites."

Therese turned to listen, with fire in her eyes.

"In order," continued Aimee, "that they may lose the sense of that misery, and become friendly towards the whites."

Therese turned away again, languidly.

"There are whites now entering," said Paul; "not foreigners, are they?"

"No," said Madame. "Surely they are Creoles; yes, there is Monsieur Caze, and Monsieur Hugonin, and Monsieur Charrier. I think these gentlemen have all been reinstated in their properties since the last levee. Hear what they say."

"We come," exclaimed aloud Monsieur Caze, the spokesman of the party of white planters; "we come, overwhelmed with amazement, penetrated with gratitude, to lay our thanks at your feet. All was lost. The estates on which we were born, the lands bequeathed to us by our fathers, were wrenched from our hands, ravaged, destroyed. We and our families fled— some to the mountains—some to the woods—and many to foreign lands. Your voice reached us, inviting us to our homes. We trusted that voice; we find our lands restored to us, our homes secure, and the passions of war stilled, like this atmosphere after the storms of December. And to you do we owe all—to you, possessed by a magnanimity of which we had not dared to dream!"

"These passions of war, of which you speak," said Toussaint, "need never have raged, if God had permitted the whites to dream what was in the souls of the blacks. Let the past now be forgotten. I have restored your estates because they were yours; but I also perceive advantages in your restoration. By circumstances—not by nature, but by circumstances—the whites have been able to acquire a wide intelligence, a depth of knowledge, from which the blacks have been debarred. I desire for the blacks a perpetual and friendly intercourse with those who are their superiors in education. As residents, therefore, you are welcome; and your security and welfare shall be my care. You find your estates peopled with cultivators?"

"We do."

"And you understand the terms on which the labour of your fellow-citizens may be hired? You have only to secure to them one-fourth of the produce, and you will, I believe, be well served. If you experience cause of complaint, your remedy will be found in an appeal to the superintendent of cultivators of the district, or to myself. Over the cultivators no one else, I now intimate to you, has authority."

The gentlemen bowed, having nothing to say on this head.

"It may be in your power," continued Toussaint, after applying to his secretary for a paper from the mass on the table—"it may be in your power to do a service to the colony, and to individuals mentioned in this paper, by affording information as to where they are to be found, if alive; which of them are dead; and which of the dead have left heirs. Many estates remain unclaimed. The list is about to be circulated in the colony, in France, and in the United States. If you should chance to be in correspondence with any of the owners or their heirs, make it known to them from me that they will be welcome here, as you are. In the mean time we are taking the best care in empower of their estates. They must rebuild such of their houses as have been destroyed; but their lands are cultivated under a commission, a part of the produce being assigned to the cultivators, the rest to the public treasury."

Toussaint read the list, watching, as did every one present, the countenances of the Creoles as each name was pronounced. They had information to offer respecting one or two only; to the rest they gave sighs or mournful shakes of the head.

"It is afflicting to us all," said Toussaint, "to think of the slaughter and exile of those who drank wine together in the white mansions of yonder plain. But a wiser cheerfulness is henceforth to spread its sunshine over our land, with no tempest brewing in its heats."

"Have we heard the whole list?" asked Monsieur Charrier, anxiously.

"All except three, whose owners or agents have been already summoned. These three are, the Athens estate, Monsieur Dank; the Breda estate, the attorney of which, Monsieur Bayou—"

"Is here!" cried a voice from the lower part of the room. "I landed just now," exclaimed Bayou, hastening with extended arms to embrace Toussaint; "and I lose not a moment—"

"Gently, sir," said the Commander-in-chief, drawing back two steps. "There is now a greater distance between me and you than there, once was between you and me. There can be no familiarity with the chief of a newly-redeemed race."

Monsieur Bayou fell back, looking in every face around him, to see what was thought of this. Every face was grave.

"I sent for you," resumed Toussaint, in a mild voice, "to put you at the head of the interests of the good old masters;—for the good alone have been able to return. Show us what can be done with the Breda estate, with free labourers. Make the blacks work well. Be not only just, but firm. You were formerly too mild a master. Make the blacks work well, that, by the welfare of your small interests, you may add to the general prosperity of the administration of the Commander-in-chief of Saint Domingo."

Monsieur Bayou had no words ready. He stared round him upon the black officers in their splendid uniforms, upon the trains of liveried servants, handing coffee and fruits and sangaree on trays and salvers of massive silver, and on the throng of visitors who crowded upon one another's heels, all anxious, not merely to pay their respects, but to offer their enthusiastic homage at the feet of his former slave. His eye at length fixed upon the windows, through which he saw something of the outline of the group of ladies.

"You desire to greet Madame L'Ouverture?" said Toussaint, kindly. "You shall be conducted to her." And one of the aides stepped forward to perform the office of introducer.

Monsieur Bayou pulled from his pocket, on his way to the window, a shagreen jewel-case; and, by the time he was in front of Madame he had taken from it a rich gold chain, which he hung on her neck, saying, with a voice and air strangely made up of jocoseness, awkwardness, and deference—

"I have not forgotten, you see, though I suppose you have, what you gave me, one day long ago. I tried to bring back something prettier than I carried away—something for each of you—but—I don't know—I find everything here so different from what I had any idea of—so very strange—that I am afraid you will despise my little presents."

While speaking, he shyly held out little parcels to Genifrede and Aimee, who received them graciously, while their mother replied—

"In those old days, Monsieur Bayou, we had nothing really our own to give; and you deserved from us any aid that was in our power. My daughters and I now accept with pleasure the tokens of friendship that you bring. I hope no changes have taken place which need prevent our being friends, Monsieur Bayou."

He scarcely heard her.

"Is it possible," cried he, "that these can be your girls? Aimee I might have known—but can this lady be Genifrede?"

Genifrede looked up with a smile, which perplexed him still further.

"I do not know that I ever saw a smile from her before; and she would not so much as lift up her head at one of my jokes. One could never gain her attention with anything but a ghost story. But I see how it is," he added, stooping, and speaking low to her mother, while he glanced at Moyse—"she has learned at last the old song that she would not listen to when I wanted to tell her fortune:—

"'Your heart's your own this summer day; To-morrow 'twill be changed away.'

"And Aimee—is she married?"

"Aimee is a widow—at least, so we call her," said her mother, smiling. "Isaac (you remember Placide and Isaac)—her brother Isaac is all the world to her; and he is far away."

Aimee's eyes were full of tears in a moment; but she looked happy, as she always did when Isaac was spoken of as her own peculiar friend.

"I was going to ask about your boys," said Bayou. "The little fellow who used to ride the horses to water, almost before he could walk alone—he and his brothers, where are they?"

"Denis is with his tutor, in the palace here. Placide and Isaac are at Paris."

"At Paris! For education?"

"Partly so."

"And partly," interposed Paul, "for an object in which you, sir, have an interest, and respecting which you ought, therefore, to be informed. There are those who represent my brother's actions as the result of personal ambition. Such persons have perpetually accused him to the French Government as desiring to sever the connection between the two races, and therefore between this colony and France. At the moment when these charges were most strongly urged, and most nearly believed, my brother sent his two elder sons to Paris, to be educated for their future duties under the care of the Directory. I hope, sir, you see in this act a guarantee for the safety and honour of the whites in Saint Domingo."

"Certainly, certainly. All very right—very satisfactory."

"Everybody who understands, thinks all that the Commander-in-chief does quite right," said Madame, with so much of her old tone and manner as made Bayou ready to laugh. He turned to Paul, saying—

"May I ask if you are the brother who used to reside on the northern coast—if I remember right?"

"I am. I am Paul—Paul L'Ouverture." He sighed as he added, "I do not live on the northern coast now. I am going to live on the southern coast—in a palace, instead of my old hut."

"Monsieur Bayou will see—Monsieur Bayou will hear," interrupted Madame, "if he will stay out the levee. You will not leave us to-day, Monsieur Bayou?"

Monsieur Bayou bowed. He then asked if he had the pleasure of any acquaintance with the other lady, who had not once turned round since he arrived. Therese had indeed sat with her face concealed for some time past.

"Do not ask her," said Aimee, eagerly, in a low voice. "We do not speak to her of old times. She is Madame Dessalines."

"The lady of General Dessalines," said Madame. "Shall I introduce you?"

She called to Therese. Therese just turned round to notice the introduction, when her attention was called another way by two officers, who brought her some message from Toussaint. That one glance perplexed Monsieur Bayou as much as anything he had seen. That beautiful face and form were not new to him; but he had only a confused impression as to where and when he had seen them. He perceived, however, that he was not to ask. He followed her with his eyes as she rose from her low seat, and placed herself close by one of the open jalousies, so as to hear what passed within.

"It is the English deputation," said Paul. "Hear what my brother will say."

"What will become of them?" said Madame. "I do not know what would become of me if my husband were ever as angry with me as I know he is with them."

There were indeed signs of wrath in the countenance which was commonly gentle as the twilight. The rigid uprightness of his figure, the fiery eye, the distended nostril, all showed that Toussaint was struggling with anger. Before him stood a group of Englishmen—a sailor holding a wand, on which was fixed a small white banner, two gentlemen in plain clothes, the captain of the frigate which rode in the bay, and a colonel of the English troops in Jamaica.

"It is all very well, gentlemen," Toussaint was saying—"it is all very well as regards the treaty. Twenty-four hours ago we should have had no difficulty in concluding it. But what have you to say to this treatment of women on board the schooner you captured? What have you to say to your act of taking all the gentlemen out of your prize (except one who would not quit his sister), leaving the ladies in charge of a brutal prize-master, who was drunk—was it not so?" he added, turning to one of his officers.

"It was: he was drunk, and refused the ladies access to their trunks of clothes, denied them the wine left for their use, and alarmed them extremely by his language. These ladies were wives of our most distinguished officers."

"It matters not whose wives they were," said Toussaint: "they were women; and I will treat with none who thus show themselves not to be men."

"We do not ask you to treat with my prize-master," said Captain Reynolds. "If it be true—"

"It is true," said a voice from the window, to which all listened in a moment. "My maid and I were on board that schooner; from which we landed four hours ago. It is true that we were confined to the cabin, denied the refreshments that were before our eyes, and the use of our own clothes; and it is true that the oaths and threats of a drunken man were in our ears all night. When morning came, we looked out to see if we were really in the seas of Saint Domingo. It seemed as if we had been conveyed where the whites are still paramount." And Therese indignantly walked away.

"You hear!" said Toussaint. "And you ask me to trade with Jamaica! While permitted to obtain provisions from our coast, you have captured a French schooner and a sloop in our seas; you have insulted our women; and now you propose a treaty! If it were not for that banner, you would have to treat for mercy."

"When shall I be permitted to speak?" asked Captain Reynolds.

"Now."

"The blame is mine. I appointed a prize-master, who, it now appears, was not trustworthy. I was not aware of this; and I left in the cabin, for the use of the ladies, all their own property, two cases of wine, and such fruits as I could obtain for them. I lament to find that my confidence was misplaced; and I pledge myself that the prize-master shall be punished. After offering my apologies to the offended ladies, I will retire to my ship, leaving this business of the treaty to appear as unconnected as it really is with this mischance. Allow me to be conducted to the presence of the ladies."

"I will charge myself with your apologies," said Toussaint, who knew that any white stood a small chance of a good reception from Therese. "I accept your acknowledgment of error, Captain Reynolds, and shall be ready to proceed with the treaty, on proof of the punishment of the prize-master. Gentlemen, I regard this treaty with satisfaction, and am willing to enclose this small tract of peace in the midst of the dreary wilderness of war. I am willing to see trade established between Jamaica and Saint Domingo. There are days when your blue mountains are seen from our shores. Let to-morrow be a bright day when no cloud shall hide us from one another's friendship."

"To-morrow," the deputation from Jamaica agreed, as they bowed themselves out of the presence of the Commander-in-chief.

"More English! more English!" was whispered round, when the name of Gauthier was announced.

"No; not English," observed some, on seeing that the five who now entered, though in the English uniform, were mulattoes.

"Not English," said Toussaint, aloud. "English soldiers are honourable, whether as friends or foes. When we meet with the spying eye, and the bribing hand, we do not believe them to be English. Such are the eyes and hands of these men. They have the audacity to present themselves as guests, when their own hearts should tell them they are prisoners."

"Prisoners!" exclaimed Gauthier and his companions.

"Yes, surely—prisoners. Your conduct has already been judged by a military commission, and you are sentenced. If you have more to say than you had to plead to me, say it when I have read."

Toussaint took from among the papers on the table a letter brought, as Gauthier alleged, from the English commander, Sir Thomas Brisbane, declaring Gauthier empowered to treat for the delivery to the British of the posts of Gonaives, Les Verrettes, and some others, in order to secure to the British the freedom of the windward passage. Toussaint declared that the messengers had brought with them bags of money, with which they had endeavoured to bribe him to this treachery. He asked of them if this were not true.

"It is," said Gauthier; "but we and our authorities acted upon the precedent of your former conduct."

"What former conduct? Did those hands ever receive gold from the coffers of an enemy? Speak freely. You shall not suffer from anything you may say here."

"You have been the means by which posts have been delivered to an enemy. We remember hearing of the surrender of Marmalade, Gros Morne, and some others."

"I was the means, as you say; but it was done by a wiser will and a stronger hand than mine. In that transaction my heart was pure. My design was to lose rank, and to return to poverty by the step I took. You ought to have inquired into facts, clearly understood by all who know me, before you proceeded to insult me. Have you more to say?"

"It was natural that we should believe that he through whom posts had been delivered would deliver posts again; and this was confirmed by rumours, and I believe, even by letters which seemed to come from yourself, in relation to the posts now in question."

Gauthier appealed to his companions, who all assented.

"There are other rumours concerning me," said Toussaint, "which could not be perverted; and to these you should have listened. My actions are messages addressed to the whole world—letters which cannot be forged; and these alone you should have trusted. Such misunderstanding as yours could hardly have been foreseen; but it will be my fault, if it be repeated. The name of the First of the Blacks must never again be associated with bribery. You are sentenced by a military commission, before which your documents have been examined, to run the gauntlet. The sentence will immediately be executed in the Place d'Armes."

"Are you aware," cried Gauthier, "that I was second in command at Saint Marc when it was in the possession of the British?"

"I am aware of it."

"This is enmity to our colour," said another. "To our being mulattoes we owe our disgrace."

"I have beloved friends of your colour," said Toussaint. "Believe me, however, the complexion of your souls is so disgusting that I have no attention to spare for your faces. You must now depart."

"Change our punishment!" said Gauthier. "Consider that I am an emigrant officer. Some other punishment!"

"No other," said Toussaint. "This is the fit punishment—mean as your design—ridiculous as your attempt. Are the French Commissaries in waiting, Laroche? Let them be announced."

The prisoners were removed by one door, while the imposing party from France entered by the other.

Commissary Hedouville, who had been for some time resident at Cap Francais, entered, followed by a party of his countrymen, just arrived from Paris. There was among them one, at sight of whom Toussaint's countenance changed, while an exclamation was heard from the piazza, which showed that his family were moved like himself. The person who excited this emotion was a young black officer, who entered smiling, and as if scarcely able to keep his place behind the Commissary, and General Michel, the head of the new deputation.

The Commander-in-chief quitted his station, and advanced some steps, seizing the officer's hand, and asking eagerly—

"Vincent! Why here? My boys—how, where are they?"

"They are well: both well and happy in our beloved Paris. I am here with General Michel; sent by the government, with gifts and compliments, which—"

"Which we will speak of when I have offered my welcome to these representatives of the government we all obey," said Toussaint, turning to the Commissary and the General, and remembering that his emotions as a father had caused him, for the moment, to lose sight of the business of the hour. He made himself the usher of the French Commissaries to the sofa, in front of which he had himself been standing. There he would have seated Hedouville and General Michel. Hedouville threw himself down willingly enough; but the newly arrived messenger chose to stand.

"I come," said he, "the bearer to you of honours from the Republic, which I delight to present as the humblest of your servants.—Not a word of apology for your graceful action of welcome to Brigadier-General Vincent! What so graceful as the emotions of a parent's heart? I understand—I am aware—he went out as the guardian of your sons; and your first welcome was, therefore, due to him. The office of guardian of your sons is, ought to be, in your eyes, more important, more sacred, than that of Commissary, or any other. If our national Deliverer—if the conqueror of Italy—if our First Consul himself were here, he ought to step back while you embrace the guardian of your sons."

The party in the piazza saw and heard all.

"If," said Madame, in a whisper to Genifrede, "if these honours that they speak of come from Bonaparte—if he has answered your father's letter, your father will think his happiness complete—now we know that the boys are well."

"The First Consul has written, or will write, no doubt," said Aimee. "It must be pleasant to him as to my father, to greet a brother in destiny and in glory. Surely General Vincent will come and speak to us; will tell us of my brothers! He looked this way just now."

"The First Consul will not write," said Moyse. "He is a white; and therefore, though a brother in destiny and in glory, he will not notice the Commander-in-chief of Saint Domingo."

"You are right, Moyse," said Madame Dessalines. "And it is best so."

"But that will disappoint my husband very much," said Madame. "He likes the whites better than you do."

"He does," said Therese. "But let us listen."

Hedouville was at the moment exerting himself to introduce his secretary, Monsieur Pascal.

"An honoured name," observed Toussaint.

"And not only in name, but by blood connected with the great man you refer to," said Hedouville.

"None are more welcome here," said Toussaint, "than those who bring with them the honours of piety, of reason, and of science." And he looked with deep interest upon the countenance of the secretary, which did in truth show signs of that thoughtfulness and sagacity, though not of the morbid suffering, which is associated in all minds with the image of the author of the Provinciales. Monsieur Pascal returned the gaze which was fixed upon him with one in which intense curiosity was mingled with doubt, if not fear. His countenance immediately, however, relaxed into an expression of pleased surprise. During this brief moment, these two men, so unlike—the elderly, toil-worn negro, and the young, studious Frenchman—felt that they were friends.

Monsieur Pascal stepped aside to make way for Monsieur Moliere.

"Are we to welcome in you," asked Toussaint, "a messenger of mirth to our society?"

The group of Frenchmen could scarcely restrain their laughter at this question. Monsieur Moliere had a most lugubrious countenance—a thing not always inconsistent with a merry humour: but Monsieur Moliere's heart was believed never to have laughed, any more than his face. He answered, as if announcing a misfortune, that he claimed no connection with the dramatist, though he believed some of his family had attempted to do so.