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 Français 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 Français, 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 Français, as far as your reasons go; but Jean Français 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,