find a vessel from either port. You would have no difficulty in persuading General Hermona to this?"
"I hope not, as he voluntarily gave you permission to enter his territory. I will ask for his safe-conduct in the morning. To-night you are safe, if you remain here. I request that you will take possession of the inner apartment, and rely upon my protection."
"Thankyou. I knew my best way was to come here," said Papalier, rising.
"Therese will bring me some refreshment; and then I shall be glad of rest, for we travelled half last night."
"For how many shall the safe-conduct be?" asked Toussaint, who had also risen. "For yourself alone, or more?"
"No one knows better than you," said Papalier, hastily, "that I have only one servant left," pointing again to the couch. "And," lowering his voice, so that Therese could not hear, "she, poor thing, is dreadfully altered, you see--has never got over the loss of her child, that night." Then, raising his voice again, he pursued: "My daughters at Paris will be glad to see Therese, I know; and she will like Paris, as everybody does. All my other people are irrecoverable, I fear; but Therese goes with me."
"No," said Therese, from the conch, "I will go nowhere with you."
"Hey-day! what is that?" said Papalier, turning in the direction of the voice. "Yes, you will go, my dear. You are tired to-night, as you well may be. You feel as I do--as if you could not go anywhere, to-morrow or the next day. But we shall be rested and ready enough, when the time comes."
"I am ready at this moment to go anywhere else--anywhere away from you," replied Therese.
"What do you mean, Therese?" asked her master, sharply.
"I mean what you said just now--that I hate you."
"Oh! silence!" exclaimed Toussaint. He then added in a mild tone to Therese, "This is my house, in which God is worshipped and Christ adored, and where therefore no words of hatred may be spoken." He then addressed himself to Papalier, saying, "You have then fully resolved that it is less dangerous to commit yourself to the Spaniards than to attempt to reach Cap?"
"To reach Cap! What! after the decree? Upon my soul, Toussaint, I never doubted you yet; but if--" He looked Toussaint full in the face.
"I betray no one," said Toussaint. "What decree do you speak of?"
"That of the Convention of the 4th of February last."
"I have not heard of it."
"Then it is as I hoped--that decree is not considered here as of any importance. I trusted it would be so. It is merely a decree of the Convention, confirming and proclaiming the liberty of the negroes, and declaring the colony henceforth an integrant part of France. It is a piece of folly and nonsense, as you will see at once; for it can never be enforced. No one of any sense will regard it; but just at present it has the effect, you see, of making it out of the question for me to cross the frontier."
"True," said Toussaint, in a voice which made Papalier look in his face, which was working with some strong emotion. He turned away from the light, and desired Therese to follow him. He would commit her to the charge of one of the suttlers' wives for the night.
Having put on the table such fruit, bread, and wine as remained from his own meal (Papalier forbidding further preparation, for fear of exciting observation without), Toussaint went out with Therese, committed her to safe hands, and then entered the tent next his own, inhabited by his sons, and gave them his accustomed blessing. On his return, he found that Papalier had retired.
Toussaint was glad to be alone. Never had he more needed solitude; for rarely, if ever, in the course of his life, had his calm soul been so disturbed. During the last words spoken by Papalier, a conviction had flashed across him, more vivid and more tremendous than any lightning which the skies of December had sent forth to startle the bodily eye; and amidst the storm which those words had roused within him, that conviction continued to glare forth at intervals, refusing to be quenched. It was this--that if it were indeed true that the revolutionary government of France had decreed to the negroes the freedom and rights of citizenship, to tight against the revolutionary government would be henceforth to fight against the freedom and rights of his race. The consequences of such a conviction were overpowering to his imagination. As one inference after another presented itself before him--as a long array of humiliations and perplexities showed themselves in the future--he felt as if his heart were bursting. For hour after hour of that night he paced the floor of his tent; and if he rested his limbs, so unused to tremble with fear or toil, it was while covering his face with his hands, as if even the light of the lamp disturbed the intensity of his meditation. A few hours may, at certain crises of the human mind and lot, do the work of years; and this night carried on the education of the noble soul, long repressed by slavery, to a point of insight which multitudes do not reach in a lifetime. No doubt, the preparation had been making through years of forbearance and meditation, and through the latter mouths of enterprise and activity; but yet, the change of views and purposes was so great as to make him feel, between night and morning, as if he were another man.
The lamp burned out, and there was no light but from the brilliant flies, a few of which had found their way into the tent. Toussaint made his repeater strike: it was three o'clock. As his mind grew calm under the settlement of his purposes, he became aware of the thirst which his agitation had excited. By the light of the flitting tapers, he poured out water, refreshed himself with a deep draught, and then addressed himself to his duty. He could rarely endure delay in acting on his convictions. The present was a case in which delay was treachery; and he would not lose an hour. He would call up Father Laxabon, and open his mind to him, that he might be ready for action when the camp should awake.
As he drew aside the curtain of the tent, the air felt fresh to his heated brow, and, with the calm starlight, seemed to breathe strength and quietness into his soul. He stood for a moment listening to the dash and gurgle of the river, as it ran past the camp--the voice of waters, so loud to the listening ear, but so little heeded amidst the hum of the busy hours of day. It now rose above the chirpings and buzzings of reptiles and insects, and carried music to the ear and spirit of him who had so often listened at Breda to the fall of water in the night hours, with a mind unburdened and unperplexed with duties and with cares. The sentinel stopped before the tent with a start which made his arms ring at seeing the entrance open, and some one standing there.
"Watch that no one enters?" said Toussaint to him. "Send for me to Father Laxabon's, if I am wanted."
As he entered the tent of the priest--a tent so small as to contain only one apartment--all seemed dark. Laxabon slept so soundly as not to awake till Toussaint had found the tinder-box, and was striking a light.
"In the name of Christ, who is there?" cried Laxabon.
"I, Toussaint Breda; entreating your pardon, father."
"Why are you here, my son? There is some misfortune, by your face. You look wearied and anxious. What is it?"
"No misfortune, father, and no crime. But my mind is anxious, and I have ventured to break your rest. You will pardon me?"
"You do right, my son. We are ready for service, in season and out of season."
While saying this, the priest had risen, and thrown on his morning-gown.
He now seated himself at the table, saying-- "Let us hear. What is this affair of haste?"
"The cause of my haste is this--that I may probably not again have conversation with you, father; and I desire to confess, and be absolved by you once more."
"Good. Some dangerous expedition--is it not so?"
"No. The affair is personal altogether. Have you heard of any decree of the French Convention by which the negroes--the slaves--of the colony of Saint Domingo are freely accepted as fellow-citizens, and the colony declared an integrant part of France?"
"Surely I have. The General was speaking of it last night; and I brought away a copy of the proclamation consequent upon it. Let me see," said he, rising, and taking up the lamp, "where did I put that proclamation?"
"With your sacred books, perhaps, father; for it is a gospel to me and my race."
"Do you think it of so much importance?" asked Laxabon, returning to the table with the newspaper containing the proclamation, officially given.
"The General does not seem to think much of it, nor does Jean Francais."
"To a commander of our allies the affair may appear a trifle, father; and such white planters as cannot refuse to hear the tidings may scoff at them; but Jean Francais, a negro and a slave--is it possible that he makes light of this?"
"He does; but he has read it, and you have not. Read it, my son, and without prejudice."
Toussaint read it again and again.
"Well!" said the priest, as Toussaint put down the paper, no longer attempting to hide with it the streaming tears which covered his face.
"Father," said he, commanding his voice completely, "is there not hope, that if men, weakened and blinded by degradation, mistake their duty when the time for duty comes, they will be forgiven?"
"In what case, my son? Explain yourself."
"If I, hitherto a slave, and wanting, therefore, the wisdom of a free man, find myself engaged on the wrong side--fighting against the providence of God--is there not hope that I may be forgiven on turning to the right?"
"How the wrong side, my son? Are you not fighting for your king, and for the allies of France?"
"I have been so pledged and so engaged; and I do not say that I was wrong when I so engaged and so pledged myself. But if I had been wise as a free man should be, I should have foreseen of late what has now happened, and not have been found, when last night's sun went down (and as to-morrow night's sun shall not find me), holding a command against the highest interests of my race--now, at length, about to be redeemed."
"You--Toussaint Breda--the loyal! If Heaven has put any of its grace within you, it has shown itself in your loyalty; and do you speak of deserting the forces raised in the name of your king, and acting upon the decrees of his enemies? Explain to me, my son, how this can be. It seems to me that I can scarcely be yet awake."
"And to me, it seems, father, that never till now have I been awake.
Yet it was in no vain dream that I served my king. If he is now where he can read the hearts of his servants, he knows that it was not for my command, or for any other dignity and reward, that I came hither, and have fought under the royal flag of France. It was from reverence and duty to him, under God. He is now in heaven; we have no king; and my loyalty is due elsewhere. I know not how it might have been if he had still lived; for it seems to me now that God has established a higher royalty among men than even that of an anointed sovereign over the fortunes of many millions of men. I think now that the rule which the free man has over his own soul, over time and eternity--subject only to God's will--is a nobler authority than that of kings; but, however I might have thought, our king no longer lives; and, by God's mercy, as it seems to me now, while the hearts of the blacks feel orphaned and desolate, an object is held forth to us for the adoration of our loyalty--an object higher than throne and crown, and offered us by the hand of the King of kings."
"Do you mean freedom, my son? Remember that it is in the name of freedom that the French rebels have committed the crimes which--which it would consume the night to tell of, and which no one knows better, or abhors more, than yourself."
"It is true; but they struggled for this and that, and the other right and privilege existing in societies of those who are fully admitted to be men. In the struggle, crime has been victorious, and they have killed their king. The object of my devotion will now be nothing that has to be wrenched from an anointed ruler, nothing which can be gained by violence--nothing but that which, being already granted, requires only to be cherished, and may best be cherished in peace--the manhood of my race. To this must I henceforth be loyal."
"How can men be less slaves than the negroes of Saint Domingo of late?
No real change has taken place; and yet you, who wept that freedom as rebellion, are now proposing to add your force to it."
"And was it not rebellion? Some rose for the plunder of their masters-- some from ambition--some from revenge--many to escape from a condition they had not patience to endure. All this was corrupt; and the corruption, though bred out of slavery, as the fever from the marshes, grieved my soul as if I had not known the cause. But now, knowing the cause, and others (knowing it also) having decreed that slavery is at an end, and given the sanction of law and national sympathy to our freedom--is not the case changed? Is it now a folly or a sin to desire to realise and purify and elevate this freedom, that those who were first slaves and then savages may at length become men--not in decrees and proclamations only, but in their own souls? You do not answer, father. Is it not so?"
"Open yourself further, my son. Declare what you propose. I fear you are perplexing yourself."
"If I am deceived, father, I look for light from heaven through you."
"I fear--I fear, my son! I do not find in you to-night the tone of humility and reliance upon religion in which you found comfort the first time you opened the conflicts of your heart to me. You remember that night, my son?"
"The first night of my freedom? Never shall I forget its agonies."
"I rejoice to hear it. Those agonies were safer, more acceptable to God, than the comforts of self-will."
"My father, if my will ensnares me, lay open the snare--I say not for the sake of my soul only--but for far, far more--for the sake of my children, for the sake of my race, for the sake of the glory of God in His dealings with men, bring me back if I stray."
"Well. Explain--explain what you propose."
"I cannot remain in an army opposed to what are now the legal rights of the blacks."
"You will give up your command?"
"I shall."
"And your boys--what will you do with them?"
"Send them whence they came for the present. I shall dismiss them by one road, while the resignation of my rank goes by another."
"And you yourself by a third."
"When I have declared myself to General Hermona."
"Have you thoughts of taking your soldiers with you?"
"No."
"But what is right for you is right for them."
"If they so decide for themselves. My power over them is great. They would follow me with a word. I shall therefore avoid speaking that word, as it would be a false first step in a career of freedom, to make them enter upon it as slaves to my opinion and my will."
"But you will at least address them, that they may understand the course you pursue. The festival of this morning will afford an opportunity-- after mass. Have you thought of this?--I do not say that I am advising it, or sanctioning any part of your plan, but have you thought of this?"
"I have, and dismissed the thought. The proclamation will speak for itself. I act from no information which is not open to them all. They can act, thank God, for themselves; and I will not seduce them into subservience, or haste, or passion."
"But you will be giving up everything. What can make you think that the French at Cap, all in the interest of the planters, will receive you?"
"I do not think it; and I shall not offer myself."
"Then you will sink into nothing. You will no longer be an officer, nor even a soldier. You will be a mere negro, where negroes are wholly despised. After all that you have been, you will be nothing."
"I shall be a true man."
"You will sink to less than nothing. You will be worse than useless before God and man. You will be held a traitor."
"I shall; but it will be for the sake of a higher fidelity."
There was a long pause, after which Laxabon said, in a tone half severe, and half doubting-- "So, here ends your career! You will dig a piece of ground to grow maize and plantains for your family; you will read history in your piazza, and see your daughters dance in the shade, while your name will never be mentioned but as that of a traitor. So here ends your career!"
"From no one so often as you, father, have I heard that man's career never ends."
The priest made no reply.
"How lately was it," pursued Toussaint, "that you encouraged my children, when they, who fear neither the wild bull nor the tornado, looked somewhat fearfully up to the eclipsed moon? Who was it but you who told them, that though that blessed light seemed blotted out from the sky, it was not so; but that behind the black shadow, God's hand was still leading her on, through the heaven, still pouring radiance into her lamp, not the less bright because it was hidden from men? A thick shadow is about to pass upon my name; but is it not possible, father, that God may still be feeding my soul with light--still guiding me towards Himself? Will you not once more tell me, that man's career never ends?"
"In a certain sense--in a certain sense, that is true, my son. But our career here is what God has put into our own hands: and it seems to me that you are throwing away His gift and His favour. How will you answer when He asks you, `What hast thou done with the rank and the power I put into thy hand? How hast thou used them?' What can you then answer, but `I flung them away, and made myself useless and a reproach.' You know what a station you hold in this camp--how you are prized by the General for the excellence of the military discipline you have introduced; and by me, and all the wise and religious, for the sobriety of manners and purity of morals of which you are an example in yourself, and which you have cherished among your troops, so that your soldiers are the boast of the whole alliance. You know this--that you unite the influence of the priest with the power of the commander; and yet you are going to cast off both, with all the duties which belong to them, and sink yourself in infamy--and with yourself, the virtues you have advocated. How will you answer this to God?"
"Father, was there not One in whose path lay all the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them, and who yet chose ignominy--to be despised by the world, instead of to lead it? And was God severe with Him?
Forgive me, father; but have you not desired me to follow Him, though far-off as the eastern moon from the setting sun?"
"That was a case, my son, unique in the world. The Saviour had a lot of His own. Common men have rulers appointed them whom they are to serve; and, if in rank and honour, so much the greater the favour of God. You entered this service with an upright mind and pure intent; and here, therefore, can you most safely remain, instead of casting yourself down from the pinnacle of the temple, which, you know, the Son of God refused to do. Remember His words, `Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.' Be not tempted yourself, by pride of heart, to compare your lot with that of Christ, which was unique."
"He devoted Himself for the whole race of man: He, and He alone. But it seems to me that there may be periods of time when changes are appointed to take place among men--among nations, and even among races; and that a common man may then be called to devote himself for that nation, or for that race. Father, I feel that the hour may be come for the negro race to be redeemed; and that I, a common man, may so far devote myself as not to stand in the way of their redemption. I feel that I must step out from among those who have never admitted the negroes' claims to manhood. If God should open to me a way to serve the blacks better, I shall be found ready. Meantime, not for another day will I stand in the light of their liberties. Father," he continued, with an eagerness which grew as he spoke, "you know something of the souls of slaves. You know how they are smothered in the lusts of the body, how they are debased by the fear of man, how blind they are to the providence of God!
You know how oppression has put out the eyes of their souls, and withered its sinews. If now, at length, a Saviour has once more for them stretched out His healing hand, and bidden them see, and arise and be strong, shall I resist the work? And you, father, will you not aid it? I would not presume; but if I might say all--" "Say on, my son."
"Having reproved and raised the souls of slaves, would it not henceforth be a noble work for you to guide their souls as men? If you would come among us as a soldier of Christ, who is bound to no side in earthly quarrels--if you would come as to those who need you most, the lowest, the poorest, the most endangered, what a work may lie between this hour and your last! What may your last hour be, if, day by day, you have trained our souls in the glorious liberty of the children of God! The beginning must be lowly; but the kind heart of the Christian priest is lowly: and you would humble yourself first to teach men thus,--`you were wrong to steal'--`you were wrong to drink'--`you were wrong to take more wives than one, and to strike your children in passion.' Thus humbly must you begin; but among free men, how high may you not rise? Before you die, you may have led them to rule their own spirits, and, from the throne of that sovereignty, to look far into the depths of the heavens, and over the history of the world; so that they may live in the light of God's countenance, and praise Him almost like the angels--for, you know, He has made us, even us, but a little lower than they."
"This would be a noble work," said Laxabon, much moved: "and if God is really about to free your race, He will appoint a worthy servant for the office. My duty, however, lies here. I have here souls in charge, without being troubled with doubts as to the intentions of God and of men. As I told you, the General does not think so much as you do of this event; nor even does Jean Francais. If you act rashly, you will repent for ever having quitted the path of loyalty and duty. I warn you to pause, and see what course events will take. I admonish you not hastily to desert the path of loyally and duty."
"If it had pleased God," said Toussaint, humbly, "to release me from the ignorance of slavery when He gave me freedom, I might now be able to lay open my heart as I desire to do; I might declare the reasons which persuade me so strongly as I feel persuaded. But I am ignorant, and unskilful in reasoning with one like you, father."
"It is therefor that we are appointed to guide and help you, my son.
You now know my mind, and have received my admonition. Let us proceed to confession; for the morning draws on towards the hour for mass."
"Father, I cannot yield to your admonition. Reprove me as you will, I cannot. There is a voice within me stronger than yours."
"I fear so, my son; nor can I doubt what that voice is, nor whence it comes. I will pray for you, that you may have strength to struggle with the tempter."
"Not so, father; rather pray that I may have strength to obey this new voice of duty, alone as I am, discountenanced as I shall be."
"Impossible, my son. I dare not so pray for one self-willed and precipitate; nor, till you bring a humble and obedient mind, can I receive your confession. There can be no absolution where there is reservation. Consider, my dear son! I only desire you to pause."
"Delay is treachery," said Toussaint. "This day the decree and proclamation will be made known through the forces; and if I remain, this night's sun sets on my condemnation. I shall not dare to pray, clothed in my rank, this night."
"Go now, my son. You see it is dawning. You have lost the present opportunity; and you must now leave me to my duties. When you can return hither to yours, you will be welcome."
Toussaint paid him his wonted reverence, and left the tent.
Arrived in his own, he threw himself on the couch like a heart-broken man.
"No help! no guidance!" thought he. "I am desolate and alone. I never thought to have been left without a guide from God. He leaves me with my sins upon my soul, unconfessed, unabsolved; and, thus burdened and rebuked, I must enter upon the course which I dare not refuse. But this voice within me which bids me go--whence and what is it? Whence is it but from God? And how can I therefore say that I am alone? There is no man that I can rely on--not even one of Christ's anointed priests; but is there not He who redeemed men? and will He reject me if, in my obedience, I come to Him? I will try--I will dare. I am alone; and He will hear and help me."
Without priest, without voice, without form of words, he confessed and prayed, and no longer felt that he was alone. He arose, clear in mind and strong in heart: wrote and sealed up his resignation of his commission, stepped into the next tent to rouse the three boys, desiring them to dress for early mass, and prepare for their return to their homes immediately afterwards. He then entered his own inner apartment, where Papalier was sleeping so soundly that it was probable the early movements of saint's-day festivities in the camp would not awaken him.
As he could not show himself abroad till the General's protection was secured, his host let him sleep on; opening and shutting his clothes' chest, and going through the whole preparation for appearance on the parade in full uniform, without disturbing his wearied guest, who hardly moved even at the roll of the drum, and the stir of morning in the camp.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
THE ACT.
Papalier was probably the only person in the valley who did not attend mass on this saint's-day morning. The Spanish general was early seen, surrounded by his staff, moving towards the rising ground, outside the camp, on which stood the church, erected for the use of the troops when the encampment was formed. The soldiers, both Spanish and negro, had some time before filed out of their tents, and been formed for their short march; and they now came up in order, the whites approaching on the right, and the blacks on the left, till their forces joined before the church. The sun had not yet shone down into the valley, and the dew lay on the grass, and dropped like rain from the broad eaves of the church-roof--from the points of the palm-leaves with which it was thatched.
This church was little more than a covered enclosure. It was well shaded from the heat of the sun by its broad and low roof; but, between the corner posts, the sides could hardly be said to be filled in by the bamboos which stood like slender columns at intervals of several inches, so that all that passed within could be seen from without, except that the vestry and the part behind the altar had their walls interwoven with withes, so as to be impervious to the eye. The ground was strewn thick with moss,--cushioned throughout for the knees of the worshippers. The seats were rude wooden benches, except the chair, covered with damask, which was reserved for the Marquis d'Hermona.
Here the General took his place, his staff ranging themselves on the benches behind. Jean Francais entered after him, and seated himself on the opposite range of benches. Next followed Toussaint Breda, alone, having left his sons outside with the soldiers. Some few more advanced towards the altar; it being understood that those who did so wished to communicate. An interval of a few empty benches was then left, and the lower end of the church was thronged by such of the soldiery as could find room; the rest closing in round the building, so as to hear the voice of the priest, and join in the service.
There was a gay air about the assemblage, scarcely subdued by the place, and the occasion which brought them to it. Almost every man carried a stem of the white amaryllis, plucked from among the high grass, with which it grew thickly intermixed all over the valley; and beautiful to the eye were the snowy, drooping blossoms, contrasted with the rich dark green of their leaves. Some few brought twigs of the orange and the lime; and the sweet odour of the blossoms pervaded the place like a holy incense, as the first stirring airs of morning breathed around and through the building. There were smiles on almost every face; and a hum of low but joyous greetings was heard without, till the loud voice of the priest, reciting the Creed, hushed every other. The only countenance of great seriousness present was that of Toussaint, and his bore an expression of solemnity, if not of melancholy, which struck every one who looked upon him--and he always was looked upon by every one. His personal qualities had strongly attracted the attention of the Spanish general. Jean Francais watched his every movement with the mingled triumph and jealousy of a superior in rank, but a rival in fame; and by the negro troops he was so beloved, that nothing but the strict discipline which he enforced could have prevented their following him in crowds wherever he went. Whenever he smiled, as he passed along, in conversation, they laughed without inquiring why; and now, this morning, on observing the gravity of his countenance, they glanced from one to another, as if to inquire the cause.
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