night will make men of my sons. I
will call them my boys no more; and never more shall this envoy call
them his pupils, or his charge. These French will find that there is
that in this Saint Domingo of ours which quickly ripens young wits, and
makes the harvest ready in a day. Let them beware the reaping; for it
is another sort of harvest than they look for.--But come," said he: "it
is late; and we have to answer the letter of this foreigner--this
stranger to my race and nature."

He took some papers from his pocket, sat down beside the friend, and
said, with the countenance of one who has heard good news, "See here how
little they comprehend how negroes may be friends! See here the proofs
that they understand my Henri no better than myself."

And he put into the hands of his secretary those fine letters of
Christophe, which do everlasting honour to his head and heart, and show
that he bore a kingly soul before he adorned the kingly office. As
Monsieur Pascal road the narrative of Leclerc's attempts to alarm, to
cajole, and to bribe Christophe to betray his friend's cause, and
deliver up his person, the pale countenance of the secretary became now
paler with anger and disgust, now flushed with pleasure and admiration.

"Here is the friend that sticketh closer than a brother," said he.

"Alas! poor Paul! he will be faithful, Pascal; but he can never again
love me."

"Pardon me, I entreat you. I meant no allusion."

"You did not. But everything serves as an allusion there; for Paul is
never out of my mind. Now for our letters;--that to Leclerc modified,
as you perceive, by our knowledge of what has passed between him and
Henri."

"Modified, indeed!" exclaimed Pascal.

Their proceedings were destined to be further modified by the events of
this night. Tidings as black as the darkest night that ever brooded
over the island in the season of storms poured in to overshadow the
prospects of the negroes, and the hopes of their chief.

It was after midnight when, in the midst of their quiet consultation,
Toussaint and his secretary thought they heard voices at the gate.
Toussaint was going to ascertain, when he was met in the hall by news
that a messenger from the south-west had arrived. The messenger
entered, halting and slow.

"It is--no," said Pascal; "surely it cannot be--"

"Is it possible that you are Jacques?" exclaimed Toussaint, his eyes
shaded by his hand.

"I am Dessalines," said the wounded m