comes, you will fly to shelter, and shut
out your lover into the storm."

Genifrede was too wretched to remind her lover what was the character of
his love. It did not, indeed, occur to her. She spoke, however:--

"If you had remembered, Moyse, what a coward I am, you would have done
differently, and not have made me so wretched as I now am. Why did you
not bid me bring the red water, without saying what it was, and what
for? If you had put it to my lips--if you had not given me a moment to
fancy what is to come afterwards, I would have drunk it--oh, so
thankfully! But now--I dare not."

"You are not afraid to live without me."

"Yes, I am. I am afraid of living, of dying--of everything."

"You once asked me about--"

"I remember--about your spirit coming."

"Suppose it should come, angry at your failing me in my last desire?"

"Why did you not kill me? You know I should have been thankful. I wish
the roof would fall and bury us now."

She started and shrieked when she heard some one at the door. It was
her father's servant, who told her that Madame Dessalines had arrived,
and that L'Ouverture wished her to come and receive her friend. The
servant held the door open, so that there was opportunity only for
another word.

"Remember," said Moyse, "they are not to seduce or force you back to
Pongaudin to-day. Remember, you are not fit to travel. Remember," he
again said, holding up the ivory ring, and then thrusting it into her
bosom, "you come to me as soon as the trial is over. I depend upon
you."

He led her, passive and silent, to the door, where he kissed her hand,
saying, for the ear of any one who might be without, "For once, I cannot
accompany you further. Tell Madame Dessalines that I hope to pay my
respects to her soon." He added, to the servant--

"See that Julien is at Mademoiselle L'Ouverture's orders, till I need
his services myself."

The man bowed, pleased, as most persons are, to have a commission to
discharge for a prisoner. Before he had closed the door, Genifrede was
in the arms of Therese.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

PANGS OF OFFICE.

That night. Madame Dessalines was alone in a dimly-lighted apartment of
Government-house--dimly-lighted except by the moon, shining in full at
the range of windows which overlooked the gardens, so as to make the one
lamp upon the table appear like a yellow taper. For most of the long
hours that she had sat there, Therese had been alon