Читать книгу The Hour and the Man, An Historical Romance - Harriet Martineau - Страница 16

The lads found some of the details of military training less heroic and less agreeable than they had imagined—scarcely to be compared, indeed, under either aspect, to the chase of the wild goats, and search for young turtle, to which they had been of late accustomed. They had their pleasures, however, amidst the heats, toils, and laborious offices of the camp. They felt themselves men, living among men: they were young enough to throw off, and almost to forget, the habits of thought which belong to slavery; and they became conscious of a spirit growing up within them, by which they could look before and after, perceive that the future of their lives was in their own hands, and therefore understand the importance of the present time. Their father looked upon them with mixed feelings of tender pride in them, and regret for his own lost youth. The strong and busy years on which they were entering had been all spent by him in acquiring one habit of mind, to which his temperament and his training alike conduced—a habit of endurance. It was at this time that he had acquired the power of reading enough to seek for books; and the books that he had got hold of were Epictetus, and some fragments of Fénélon. With all the force of youth, he had been by turns the stoic and the quietist; and, while busied in submitting himself to the pressure of the present, he had turned from the past, and scarcely dreamed of the future. If his imagination glanced back to the court of his royal grandfather, held under the palm shades, or pursuing the lion-hunt amidst the jungles of Africa, he had hastily withdrawn his mind’s eye from scenes which might create impatience of his lot; and if he ever wondered whether a long succession of ignorant and sensual blacks were to be driven into the field by the whip every day in Saint Domingo, for evermore, he had cut short the speculation as inconsistent with his stoical habit of endurance, and his Christian principle of trust. It was not till his youth was past that he had learned anything of the revolutions of the world—too late to bring them into his speculations and his hopes. He had read, from year to year, of the conquests 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 he knew them by heart; but it had not occurred to him, that while empires were overthrown in Asia, and Europe was traversed by powers which gave and took its territories, as he saw the negroes barter their cocoa-nuts and plantains on Saturday nights—while such things had happened in another hemisphere, it had not occurred to him that change would ever happen in Saint Domingo. He had heard of earthquakes taking place at intervals of hundreds of years, and he knew that the times of the hurricane were not calculable; but, patient and still as was his own existence, he had never thought whether there might not be a convulsion of human affections, a whirlwind of human passion, preparing under the grim order of society in the colony. If a master died, his heir succeeded him; if the “force” of any plantation was by any conjuncture of circumstances dispersed or removed, another negro company was on the shore, ready to re-people the slave-quarter. The mutabilities of human life had seemed to him to be appointed to whites—to be their privilege and their discipline; while he doubted not that the eternal command to blacks was to bear and forbear. When he now looked upon his boys, and remembered that for them this order was broken up, and in time for them to grasp a future, and prepare for it—that theirs was the lot of whites, in being involved in social changes, he regarded them with a far deeper solicitude and tenderness than in the darkest midnight hours of their childish illnesses, or during the sweetest prattle of their Sabbath afternoons, and with a far stronger hopefulness than can ever enter 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 daily manifested qualities and powers—enterprise, forecast, and aspiration of various kinds, adorning their youth with a promise which made their father sigh at the retrospect of his own. He was amused, at the same time, to see in them symptoms of a boyish vanity, to which he had either not been prone, or which he had early extinguished. He detected in each the secret eagerness with which they looked forward to displaying their military accomplishments to those with whom they were always exchanging thoughts over the ridge. He foresaw that when they should have improved a little in certain exercises, he should be receiving hints about a visit to the shore, and that there would then be such a display upon the sands as should excite prodigious admiration, and make Denis break his heart that he must not go to the camp.

Meantime, he amused them in the evenings, with as many of his officers as chose to look on, by giving them the history of the wars of Asia and Europe, as he had learned it from books, and thoroughly mastered it by reflection. Night after night was the map of Greece traced with his sword’s point on the sand behind his tent, while he related the succession of the conflicts with Persia, with a spirit derived from old Herodotus himself. Night after night did the interest of his hearers arouse more and more spirit in himself, till he became aware that his sympathies with the Greeks in their struggles for liberty had hitherto been like those of the poet born blind, who delights in describing natural scenery—thus unconsciously enjoying the stir within him of powers whose appropriate exercise is forbidden. Amidst this survey of the regions of history, he felt, with humble wonder, that while his boys were like bright-eyed children sporting fearlessly in the fields, he was like one lately couched, by whom the order of things was gradually becoming recognised, but who was oppressed by the unwonted light, and inwardly ashamed of the hesitation and uncertainty of his tread. While sons, nephew, and a throng of his officers, were listening to him as to an oracle, and following the tracings of his sword, as he showed how this advance and that retreat had been made above two thousand years ago, he was full of consciousness that the spirit of the history of freedom was received more truly by the youngest of his audience than by himself—that he was learning from their natural ardour something of higher value than all that he had to impart.

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

“Why cannot you speak!—Or do you take me for some one else? Speak your business.”

“I cannot,” said the man, in a voice which, though too low to be heard by 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 follow this black, who appeared in the dusk to be meanly clothed. They entered the tent, and let down the curtain at the entrance. Some saw that a woman stood within the folds of the tent.

“Close the tent,” said Papalier, in the same tone in which he had been wont to order his plate to be changed at home. “And now, give me some water to wash off this horrid daubing. Some water—quick! Pah! I have felt as if I were really a negro all this day.”

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

Papalier at length re-appeared, looking like himself, even as to his clothes, which Thérèse must have brought in the bundle which she carried. She now stood leaning against one of the tent-poles, looking grievously altered—worn and wearied.

“Will you not sit down, Thérèse?” said Toussaint, pointing to a chair near his own, Papalier having seated himself on the other side of the table.

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

“I must owe my safety to you again, Toussaint,” said Papalier. “I understand 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 the reception he gave you to learn the best time and manner of going to Europe. I hoped you had been at Paris long ago.”

“I ought to have been there. If I had properly valued my life, I should have been there. But it seemed so inconceivable that things should have reached a worse pass than when I crossed the frontier! It seemed so incredible that I should not be able to preserve any wreck of my property for my children, that I have lingered on, staying month after month, till now I cannot get away. I have had a dreadful life of it. I had better have been anywhere else. Why, even Thérèse,” he continued, pointing over his shoulder towards the couch, “Thérèse, who would not be left behind at Fort Égalité, the night we came from Breda—even Thérèse has 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-night about Thérèse,” said Toussaint. “You are in danger, from the determination of the Spaniards to deliver up the enemies of the late king to—”

“Rather say to deliver up the masters to their revolted slaves. They make politics the pretence; but they would not be sorry to see us all cut to pieces, like poor Odeluc and Clement, and fifty more.”

“However that may be, your immediate danger is from the Spaniards—is it?”

“Yes, I discovered that I was to be sent over the line to-morrow; so I was obliged to get here to-day in any way I could; and there was no other 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 to a port, that I may proceed to Europe. I do not care whether I go from Saint Domingo, or by Saint Iago, so as to sail from Port Plate. I could 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. “Thérèse 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 Thérèse 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 Thérèse, I know; and she will like Paris, as everybody does. All my other people are irrecoverable, I fear; but Thérèse goes with me.”

“No,” said Thérèse, 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 Thérèse.

“What do you mean, Thérèse?” 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 Thérèse, “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 Thérèse 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 Thérèse, 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 Français.”

“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 Français, 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 Français. 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.