it
might have been a consolation to Deesha to dwell for a time beside their
graves. As it was, the deep bark of the murderous dogs filled her ear
perpetually, and their fangs seemed to tear her heart. Her misery in
the quiet mansion of the mornes was unendurable; and the very day after
the funeral she departed, with her husband, to a place where no woman's
eye could mark her maternal anguish--where no semblance of a home kept
alive the sense of desolation. She retired, with her husband and his
troop, to a fastness higher up in the Morne-du-Chaos, whence they kept
watch over the regular entrenchments below, cut off supplies of
provisions from the French, harassed all their marches, and waged a
special war against the bloodhounds--the negro's most dreaded foe.
More, however, were perpetually brought over from Cuba, and regularly
trained, by means too barbarous for detail, to make negroes their prey.
From the hour when Deesha first heard the cry of a bloodhound, more than
the barbarism of her native Congo took possession of her. Never more
was she seen sowing under the shade of the tamarind-tree. Never more
did she spread the table, for husband or guests, within a house. Never
more was her voice heard singing, gaily or plaintively, the songs that
she had gathered from the palm groves of Africa, or the vineyards of
France, or from the flowery fields of a mother's hopes. Henceforth she
carried the rifle, and ate her meal in stern silence, in the cave of the
rock. When she laughed, it was as her shot went straight to her
victim's heart. When she spoke, it was of the manoeuvres of her
mountain war; and the only time that she was ever seen to shed tears was
when a rumour of a truce reached the pinnacle on which she dwelt.
Though assured that any truce could be only, as every negro knew, a
truce till August, the mere semblance of accommodation with the foe
forced tears of vexation from eyes which were for ever after dry. If
she felt a gleam of satisfaction before leaving Le Zephyr, it was at the
singular accident by which Juste, always so bent upon being a soldier,
shared the honours of a military funeral. Juste and Tobie were buried
with the soldiers who had fallen in the defence of the house; and to the
father, who followed the coffins, and the mother, who hid herself in the
thicket, there was something like pleasure in the roll of the drum, and
the measure of the dead march, and the warlike tone of the shrill dirge