wever, through the offices of the English, but by the desire of those
whom I govern."

"Say King of Hayti," exclaimed Christophe. "This island was Hayti, when
it lay blooming in the midst of the ocean, fresh from the will of God,
thronged with gentle beings who had never lifted up a hand against each
other. It was Hayti when it received, as into a paradise, the first
whites who came into our hemisphere, and who saw in our valleys and
plains the Eden of the Scripture. It became Saint Domingo when vice
crept into it, and oppression turned its music into sighs, and violence
laid it waste with famine and the sword. While the blacks and whites
yet hate each other, let it be still Saint Domingo: but when you
withdraw us from jealousy and bloodshed, let it again be Hayti. While
it holds its conquered name there will be heart-burnings. If it became
our own Hayti, we might not only forgive, but forget. It would be a
noble lot to be King of Hayti!"

"If so ordained, Henri. We must wait till it be so. My present clear
duty is to cultivate peace, and the friendship of the whites. They must
have their due from us, from Bonaparte himself, to the youngest infant
in Cap. You may trust me, however, that from the hour that there is a
whisper about slavery in the lightest of Bonaparte's dreams, I will
consent to be called by whatever name can best defend our race."

"It will be too late then," said Dessalines. "Why wait till Bonaparte
tells you his dreams? We know, without being told, that all the dreams
of all whites are of our slavery."

"You are wrong, Jacques. That is no more true of all whites, than it is
true of all blacks that they hate the whites as you do."

"You will find too late that I am not wrong," said Jacques. "Remember,
in the day of our ruin, that my timely advice to you was to send for
your sons from Paris, and then avow yourself King of Saint Domingo--or
of Hayti, if you like that name better. To me that name tells of
another coloured race, whom the whites wantonly oppressed and destroyed.
One cannot traverse the island without hearing the ghosts of those poor
Indians, from every wood and every hill, calling to us for vengeance on
their conquerors."

"Take care how you heed those voices, Dessalines," said Christophe.
"They are not the voices of the gentle Indians that you hear; for the
whites who injured them are long ago gone to judgment."

"And if they were still in the midst of us," said Touss