sland? Does he not
trust the whites? Does he not order all things for their good, from
reverence and affection for them?"

"Yes, he does," replied Moyse, in a tone which made Genifrede anxiously
explore his countenance.

"You think him deceived?" she said.

"No, I do not. It is not easy to deceive L'Ouverture."

"You do not think--no, you cannot think, that he deceives the whites, or
any one."

"No. L'Ouverture deceives no one. As you say, he reveres the whites.
He reveres them for their knowledge. He says they are masters of an
intellectual kingdom from which we have been shut out, and they alone
can let us in. And then again.--Genifrede, it seems to me that he loves
best those who have most injured him."

"Not best," she replied. "He delights to forgive: but what white has he
ever loved as he loves Henri? Did he ever look upon any white as he
looked upon me, when--when he consented? Moyse, you remember?"

"I do. But still he loves the whites as if they were born, and had
lived and died, our friends, as he desires they should be. Yet more--he
expects and requires that all his race should love them too."

"And you do not?" said Genifrede, timidly.

"I abhor them."

"Oh! hush! hush! Speak lower. Does my father know this?"

"Why should he? If he once knew it--"

"Nay, if he knew it, he would give up his purposes of distinction for
you; and we might live here, or on the shore."

"My Genifrede, though I hate the whites, I love the blacks. I love your
father. The whites will rise upon us at home, as they are always
scheming against us in France, if we are not strong and as watchful as
we are strong. If I and others leave L'Ouverture alone to govern, and
betake ourselves to the woods and the mountains, the whites will again
be masters, and you and I, my Genifrede, shall be slaves. But you shall
not be a slave, Genifrede," he continued, soothing her tremblings at the
idea. "The bones of the whites shall be scattered over the island, like
the shells on the sea-shore, before my Genifrede shall be a slave. I
will cut the throat of every infant at every white mother's breast,
before any one of that race shall lay his grasp upon you. The whites
never will, never shall again, be masters: but then, it must be by
L'Ouverture having an army always at his command; and of that army I
must be one of the officers. We cannot live here, or on the sea-shore,
love, while there are whites who may be our ma