with the other. It is
also true that I cannot, if I would, be inoperative. Every glance of my
eye, every word of my lips, in my own piazza at Pongaudin, would be made
to bear its interpretation, and go to disturb the single and distinct
image which I now stand before every eye and in every mind."

"I do not agree with you," said Henri. "While the image of August is
distinct in the minds of the Saint Domingo people, it will keep your
influence single and intelligible to them. As for what the French
think, that is their own affair. They have the means of knowledge. Let
them use them. There is one fact which no one can misunderstand, the
while--that after the defections under which you have suffered, and
under your known want of military stores, an incursive war from the
mountains appears ferocious--both revengeful and cruel--when every one
knows that time will render it unnecessary."

"These defections do not discourage me as they do you, Henri. Full one
third of my forces are faithful--are proved so by trial. These, with
the goodness of our cause, are enough for my hopes--almost for my
desires. There is no ferocity, but rather mercy, in hastening on the
day of our independence and peace, by using a force so respectable--so
honoured, as this tried remnant of my army."

"You reckon fallaciously, Toussaint. You include my troops in the force
you speak of."

"Henri!" exclaimed L'Ouverture, stopping in his walk up the apartment;
"it cannot be that you will desert me. No, no! forgive me that the
words passed my lips!"

"Never will I desert you or our cause, Toussaint. Never will I intermit
my enmity to our invaders; never will I live for any other object than
the liberties of our people. But the time may be come for us to pursue
our common object by different paths. I cannot go and play the bandit
in the mountains."

"Why did you not call me a bandit when I was at the Plateaux?"

"Because you were then waging an honourable war. War, not peace, was
then beckoning you on to freedom. A state of voluntary outlawry, a
practice of needless ravage, will make a different man of you. Say no
more of it, Toussaint: I cannot be lieutenant to--Do not make me utter
the word."

"You have always hitherto obeyed me, Henri."

"I have; and when _we_ are in a state of war, I will obey you again. Do
not class me with La Plume and Clerveaux--or, rather, do, if you will,
and when August is past I will prove to you the