The Hour and the Man, An Historical Romance Read online

  CHAPTER SIX.

  THE HOUR.

  The lads found some of the details of military training less heroic andless agreeable than they had imagined--scarcely to be compared, indeed,under either aspect, to the chase of the wild goats, and search foryoung turtle, to which they had been of late accustomed. They had theirpleasures, however, amidst the heats, toils, and laborious offices ofthe camp. They felt themselves men, living among men: they were youngenough to throw off, and almost to forget, the habits of thought whichbelong to slavery; and they became conscious of a spirit growing upwithin them, by which they could look before and after, perceive thatthe future of their lives was in their own hands, and thereforeunderstand the importance of the present time. Their father looked uponthem with mixed feelings of tender pride in them, and regret for his ownlost youth. The strong and busy years on which they were entering hadbeen all spent by him in acquiring one habit of mind, to which histemperament and his training alike conduced--a habit of endurance. Itwas at this time that he had acquired the power of reading enough toseek for books; and the books that he had got hold of were Epictetus,and some fragments of Fenelon. With all the force of youth, he had beenby turns the stoic and the quietist; and, while busied in submittinghimself to the pressure of the present, he had turned from the past, andscarcely dreamed of the future. If his imagination glanced back to thecourt of his royal grandfather, held under the palm shades, or pursuingthe lion-hunt amidst the jungles of Africa, he had hastily withdrawn hismind's eye from scenes which might create impatience of his lot; and ifhe ever wondered whether a long succession of ignorant and sensualblacks were to be driven into the field by the whip every day in SaintDomingo, for evermore, he had cut short the speculation as inconsistentwith his stoical habit of endurance, and his Christian principle oftrust. It was not till his youth was past that he had learned anythingof the revolutions of the world--too late to bring them into hisspeculations and his hopes. He had read, from year to year, of theconquests of Alexander and of Caesar; he had studied the wars of France,and drawn the plans of campaigns in the sand before his door till heknew them by heart; but it had not occurred to him, that while empireswere overthrown in Asia, and Europe was traversed by powers which gaveand took its territories, as he saw the negroes barter their cocoa-nutsand plantains on Saturday nights--while such things had happened inanother hemisphere, it had not occurred to him that change would everhappen in Saint Domingo. He had heard of earthquakes taking place atintervals of hundreds of years, and he knew that the times of thehurricane were not calculable; but, patient and still as was his ownexistence, he had never thought whether there might not be a convulsionof human affections, a whirlwind of human passion, preparing under thegrim order of society in the colony. If a master died, his heirsucceeded him; if the "force" of any plantation was by any conjunctureof circumstances dispersed or removed, another negro company was on theshore, ready to re-people the slave-quarter. The mutabilities of humanlife had seemed to him to be appointed to whites--to be their privilegeand their discipline; while he doubted not that the eternal command toblacks was to bear and forbear. When he now looked upon his boys, andremembered that for them this order was broken up, and in time for themto grasp a future, and prepare for it--that theirs was the lot ofwhites, in being involved in social changes, he regarded them with a fardeeper solicitude and tenderness than in the darkest midnight hours oftheir childish illnesses, or during the sweetest prattle of theirSabbath afternoons, and with a far stronger hopefulness than can everenter the heart or home of a slave. They had not his habitual patience;and he saw that they were little likely to attain it; but they dailymanifested qualities and powers--enterprise, forecast, and aspiration ofvarious kinds, adorning their youth with a promise which made theirfather sigh at the retrospect of his own. He was amused, at the sametime, to see in them symptoms of a boyish vanity, to which he had eithernot been prone, or which he had early extinguished. He detected in eachthe secret eagerness with which they looked forward to displaying theirmilitary accomplishments to those with whom they were always exchangingthoughts over the ridge. He foresaw that when they should have improveda little in certain exercises, he should be receiving hints about avisit to the shore, and that there would then be such a display upon thesands as should excite prodigious admiration, and make Denis break hisheart that he must not go to the camp.

  Meantime, he amused them in the evenings, with as many of his officersas chose to look on, by giving them the history of the wars of Asia andEurope, as he had learned it from books, and thoroughly mastered it byreflection. Night after night was the map of Greece traced with hissword's point on the sand behind his tent, while he related thesuccession of the conflicts with Persia, with a spirit derived from oldHerodotus himself. Night after night did the interest of his hearersarouse more and more spirit in himself, till he became aware that hissympathies with the Greeks in their struggles for liberty had hithertobeen like those of the poet born blind, who delights in describingnatural scenery--thus unconsciously enjoying the stir within him ofpowers whose appropriate exercise is forbidden. Amidst this survey ofthe regions of history, he felt, with humble wonder, that while his boyswere like bright-eyed children sporting fearlessly in the fields, he waslike one lately couched, by whom the order of things was graduallybecoming recognised, but who was oppressed by the unwonted light, andinwardly ashamed of the hesitation and uncertainty of his tread. Whilesons, nephew, and a throng of his officers, were listening to him as toan oracle, and following the tracings of his sword, as he showed howthis advance and that retreat had been made above two thousand yearsago, he was full of consciousness that the spirit of the history offreedom was received more truly by the youngest of his audience than byhimself--that he was learning from their natural ardour something ofhigher value than all that he had to impart.

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

  "Why cannot you speak!--Or do you take me for some one else? Speak yourbusiness."

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

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

  "Close the tent," said Papalier, in the same tone in which he had beenwont to order his plate to be changed at home. "And _now_, give me somewater to wash off this horrid daubing. Some water--quick! Pah! I havefelt as if I were really a negro all this day."

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

  Papalier at length re-appeared, looking like himself, even as to hisclothes, which Therese must have brought in the bundle which shecarried. She now stood leaning against one of the tent-poles, lookinggrievously altered--worn and wearied.

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

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

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

  "He is."

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

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


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

  "You are in trouble, and therefore I will not speak with you to-nightabout Therese," said Toussaint. "You are in danger, from thedetermination of the Spaniards to deliver up the enemies of the lateking to--"

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

  "However that may be, your immediate danger is from the Spaniards--isit?"

  "Yes, I discovered that I was to be sent over the line to-morrow; so Iwas obliged to get here to-day in any way I could; and there was noother way than--pah! it was horrid!"

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

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

  "I hope not, as he voluntarily gave you permission to enter histerritory. I will ask for his safe-conduct in the morning. To-nightyou are safe, if you remain here. I request that you will takepossession 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 ofrest, for we travelled half last night."

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

  "No one knows better than you," said Papalier, hastily, "that I haveonly one servant left," pointing again to the couch. "And," loweringhis voice, so that Therese could not hear, "she, poor thing, isdreadfully altered, you see--has never got over the loss of her child,that night." Then, raising his voice again, he pursued: "My daughtersat 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; butTherese 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 thevoice. "Yes, you will go, my dear. You are tired to-night, as you wellmay be. You feel as I do--as if you could not go anywhere, to-morrow orthe next day. But we shall be rested and ready enough, when the timecomes."

  "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 toTherese, "This is my house, in which God is worshipped and Christadored, and where therefore no words of hatred may be spoken." He thenaddressed himself to Papalier, saying, "You have then fully resolvedthat it is less dangerous to commit yourself to the Spaniards than toattempt to reach Cap?"

  "To reach Cap! What! after the decree? Upon my soul, Toussaint, Inever 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 anyimportance. I trusted it would be so. It is merely a decree of theConvention, confirming and proclaiming the liberty of the negroes, anddeclaring the colony henceforth an integrant part of France. It is apiece of folly and nonsense, as you will see at once; for it can neverbe enforced. No one of any sense will regard it; but just at present ithas the effect, you see, of making it out of the question for me tocross 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 thelight, and desired Therese to follow him. He would commit her to thecharge of one of the suttlers' wives for the night.

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

  Toussaint was glad to be alone. Never had he more needed solitude; forrarely, if ever, in the course of his life, had his calm soul been sodisturbed. During the last words spoken by Papalier, a conviction hadflashed across him, more vivid and more tremendous than any lightningwhich the skies of December had sent forth to startle the bodily eye;and amidst the storm which those words had roused within him, thatconviction continued to glare forth at intervals, refusing to bequenched. It was this--that if it were indeed true that therevolutionary government of France had decreed to the negroes thefreedom and rights of citizenship, to tight against the revolutionarygovernment would be henceforth to fight against the freedom and rightsof his race. The consequences of such a conviction were overpowering tohis imagination. As one inference after another presented itself beforehim--as a long array of humiliations and perplexities showed themselvesin the future--he felt as if his heart were bursting. For hour afterhour of that night he paced the floor of his tent; and if he rested hislimbs, so unused to tremble with fear or toil, it was while covering hisface with his hands, as if even the light of the lamp disturbed theintensity of his meditation. A few hours may, at certain crises of thehuman mind and lot, do the work of years; and this night carried on theeducation of the noble soul, long repressed by slavery, to a point ofinsight which multitudes do not reach in a lifetime. No doubt, thepreparation had been making through years of forbearance and meditation,and through the latter mouths of enterprise and activity; but yet, thechange of views and purposes was so great as to make him feel, betweennight and morning, as if he were another man.

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

  As he drew aside the curtain of the tent, the air felt fresh to hisheated brow, and, with the calm starlight, seemed to breathe strengthand quietness into his soul. He stood for a moment listening to thedash and gurgle of the river, as it ran past the camp--the voice ofwaters, so loud to the listening ear, but so little heeded amidst thehum of the busy hours of day. It now rose above the chirpings andbuzzings of reptiles and insects, and carried music to the ear andspirit of him who had so often listened at Breda to the fall of water inthe night hours, with a mind unburdened and unperplexed with duties andwith cares. The sentinel stopped before the tent with a start whichmade his arms ring at seeing the entrance open, and some one standingthere.

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

  As he entered the tent of the priest--a tent so small as to contain onlyone apartment--all seemed dark. Laxabon slept so soundly as not toawake 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. Youlook wearied and anxious. What is it?"

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

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

  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 haveconversation with you, father; and I desire to confess, and be absolvedby you once more."

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

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

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

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

  "Do you think it of so much importance?" asked Laxabon, returning to thetable 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 scoffat them; but Jean Francais, a negro and a slave--is it possible that hemakes light of this?"

  "He does; but he has read it, and you have not. Read it, my son, andwithout prejudice."

  Toussaint read it again and again.

  "Well!" said the priest, as Toussaint put down the paper, no longerattempting 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 dutywhen 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 freeman, find myself engaged on the wrong side--fighting against theprovidence of God--is there not hope that I may be forgiven on turningto the right?"

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

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

  "You--Toussaint Breda--the loyal! If Heaven has put any of its gracewithin you, it has shown itself in your loyalty; and do you speak ofdeserting the forces raised in the name of your king, and acting uponthe decrees of his enemies? Explain to me, my son, how this can be. Itseems 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 wherehe can read the hearts of his servants, he knows that it was not for mycommand, or for any other dignity and reward, that I came hither, andhave fought under the royal flag of France. It was from reverence andduty to him, under God. He is now in heaven; we have no king; and myloyalty is due elsewhere. I know not how it might have been if he hadstill lived; for it seems to me now that God has established a higherroyalty among men than even that of an anointed sovereign over thefortunes of many millions of men. I think now that the rule which thefree man has over his own soul, over time and eternity--subject only toGod's will--is a nobler authority than that of kings; but, however Imight have thought, our king no longer lives; and, by God's mercy, as itseems to me now, while the hearts of the blacks feel orphaned anddesolate, an object is held forth to us for the adoration of ourloyalty--an object higher than throne and crown, and offered us by thehand of the King of kings."

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

  "It is true; but they struggled for this and that, and the other rightand privilege existing in societies of those who are fully admitted tobe men. In the struggle, crime has been victorious, and they havekilled their king. The object of my devotion will now be nothing thathas to be wrenched from an anointed ruler, nothing which can be gainedby violence--nothing but that which, being already granted, requiresonly to be cherished, and may best be cherished in peace--the manhood ofmy 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 asrebellion, 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 conditionthey had not patience to endure. All this was corrupt; and thecorruption, 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 thecause, and others (knowing it also) having decreed that slavery is at anend, and given the sanction of law and national sympathy to ourfreedom--is not the case changed? Is it now a folly or a sin to desireto realise and purify and elevate this freedom, that those who werefirst slaves and then savages may at length become men--not in decreesand 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 youare 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 ofhumility and reliance upon religion in which you found comfort the firsttime you opened the conflicts of your heart to me. You remember thatnight, 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 toGod, than the comforts of self-will."

  "My father, if my will ensnares me, lay open the snare--I say not forthe sake of my soul only--but for far, far more--for the sake of mychildren, for the sake of my race, for the sake of the glory of God inHis 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 ofthe 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 byone 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. Theywould follow me with a word. I shall therefore avoid speaking thatword, as it would be a false first step in a career of freedom, to makethem enter upon it as slaves to my opinion and my wi
ll."

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

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

  "But you will be giving up everything. What can make you think that theFrench 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, noreven a soldier. You will be a mere negro, where negroes are whollydespised. 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 uselessbefore 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 growmaize and plantains for your family; you will read history in yourpiazza, and see your daughters dance in the shade, while your name willnever 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 careernever ends."

  The priest made no reply.

  "How lately was it," pursued Toussaint, "that you encouraged mychildren, when they, who fear neither the wild bull nor the tornado,looked somewhat fearfully up to the eclipsed moon? Who was it but youwho told them, that though that blessed light seemed blotted out fromthe sky, it was not so; but that behind the black shadow, God's hand wasstill leading her on, through the heaven, still pouring radiance intoher lamp, not the less bright because it was hidden from men? A thickshadow 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 metowards Himself? Will you not once more tell me, that man's careernever ends?"

  "In a certain sense--in a certain sense, that is true, my son. But ourcareer here is what God has put into our own hands: and it seems to methat you are throwing away His gift and His favour. How will you answerwhen He asks you, `What hast thou done with the rank and the power I putinto 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 knowwhat a station you hold in this camp--how you are prized by the Generalfor the excellence of the military discipline you have introduced; andby me, and all the wise and religious, for the sobriety of manners andpurity of morals of which you are an example in yourself, and which youhave cherished among your troops, so that your soldiers are the boast ofthe whole alliance. You know this--that you unite the influence of thepriest with the power of the commander; and yet you are going to castoff both, with all the duties which belong to them, and sink yourself ininfamy--and with yourself, the virtues you have advocated. How will youanswer this to God?"

  "Father, was there not One in whose path lay all the kingdoms of theworld and the glory of them, and who yet chose ignominy--to be despisedby 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, thoughfar-off as the eastern moon from the setting sun?"

  "That was a case, my son, unique in the world. The Saviour had a lot ofHis 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. Youentered this service with an upright mind and pure intent; and here,therefore, can you most safely remain, instead of casting yourself downfrom the pinnacle of the temple, which, you know, the Son of God refusedto do. Remember His words, `Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.' Benot tempted yourself, by pride of heart, to compare your lot with thatof Christ, which was unique."

  "He devoted Himself for the whole race of man: He, and He alone. But itseems to me that there may be periods of time when changes are appointedto take place among men--among nations, and even among races; and that acommon man may then be called to devote himself for that nation, or forthat race. Father, I feel that the hour may be come for the negro raceto be redeemed; and that I, a common man, may so far devote myself asnot to stand in the way of their redemption. I feel that I must stepout from among those who have never admitted the negroes' claims tomanhood. If God should open to me a way to serve the blacks better, Ishall be found ready. Meantime, not for another day will I stand in thelight of their liberties. Father," he continued, with an eagernesswhich grew as he spoke, "you know something of the souls of slaves. Youknow how they are smothered in the lusts of the body, how they aredebased 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, andwithered its sinews. If now, at length, a Saviour has once more forthem stretched out His healing hand, and bidden them see, and arise andbe strong, shall I resist the work? And you, father, will you not aidit? 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 henceforthbe a noble work for you to guide their souls as men? If you would comeamong us as a soldier of Christ, who is bound to no side in earthlyquarrels--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 hourand your last! What may your last hour be, if, day by day, you havetrained our souls in the glorious liberty of the children of God! Thebeginning must be lowly; but the kind heart of the Christian priest islowly: and you would humble yourself first to teach men thus,--`you werewrong to steal'--`you were wrong to drink'--`you were wrong to take morewives than one, and to strike your children in passion.' Thus humblymust you begin; but among free men, how high may you not rise? Beforeyou die, you may have led them to rule their own spirits, and, from thethrone 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 ofGod'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 isreally about to free your race, He will appoint a worthy servant for theoffice. My duty, however, lies here. I have here souls in charge,without being troubled with doubts as to the intentions of God and ofmen. As I told you, the General does not think so much as you do ofthis event; nor even does Jean Francais. If you act rashly, you willrepent for ever having quitted the path of loyalty and duty. I warn youto pause, and see what course events will take. I admonish you nothastily to desert the path of loyally and duty."

  "If it had pleased God," said Toussaint, humbly, "to release me from theignorance of slavery when He gave me freedom, I might now be able to layopen my heart as I desire to do; I might declare the reasons whichpersuade me so strongly as I feel persuaded. But I am ignorant, andunskilful 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 proceedto confession; for the morning draws on towards the hour for mass."

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

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

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

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

  "Delay is treachery," said Toussaint. "This day the decree andproclamation 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 presentopportunity; and you must now leave me to my duties. When you canreturn 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-brokenman.

  "No help! no guidance!" thought he. "I am desolate and alone. I neverthought to have been left without a guide from God. He leaves me withmy sins upon my soul, unconfessed, unabsolved; and, thus burdened andrebuked, I must enter upon the course which I dare not refuse. But thisvoice within me which bids me go--whence and what is it? Whence is itbut from God? And how can I therefore say that I am alone? There is noman that I can rely on--not even one of Christ's anointed priests; butis there not He who redeemed men? and will He reject me if, in myobedience, I come to Him? I will try--I will dare. I am alone; and Hewill hear and help me."

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