ircumstances have imposed. We
are compelled to the self-denial, toil, and danger of warfare, in order
to obtain the liberty which is to carry us forward. I once hoped
otherwise, Euphrosyne; but I now see the bracing process of defensive
warfare to be inevitable, and, on the whole, good for my people. Their
liberties, thus hardly won, will be prized, so as to shut out the future
danger of war. If, however, one stroke is inflicted for other purposes
than defence--if one life is taken for vengeance, we shall be set back,
long and far, in our career. It shall not be, under my rule. Alas! for
those who succeed me, if they permit it! It will not only make the
first black empire a by-word throughout the world, but it will render
the Christian civilisation of my people difficult and slow."

Toussaint spoke like a rider; and he was virtually still a sovereign, as
he had been for years past. Nor were the tokens of sovereignty
altogether wanting. At this moment, as was continually happening,
despatches arrived, on affairs of great importance, on which he must
think and act.

"See what these French commanders are doing," said he, handing his
letters to Monsieur Pascal, "at the very moment that they disclaim all
intention of enslaving the negroes! What are they doing yonder but
recommencing slavery? It must not be. Are you disposed for business?"

"This moment," said Monsieur Pascal, springing up before he had finished
the letters. "Will you provide a messenger? Slavery is restored; and
there is not a moment to be lost."

As in old days, lights were ordered into the library; and the
royal-souled negro dictated his commands to his friendly secretary, who
smiled, at such an hour, at the thought of the exultation of the French
court over the "surrender" and "submission" of the blacks.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

DEPARTURE WITHOUT RETINUE.

"Stand where you are, Therese; there, at the foot of the bed! Stir not
an inch without my leave? I have let you have your own way too much of
late. I call for hours, and you never come. I will not let you out of
my sight again?"

So said Monsieur Papalier in the delirium of his fever, as Madame
Dessalines was nursing him in his chamber at Saint Marc. It was a sad
and dreary office; but she had motive to go through with it. The more
he wandered back in his talk to the old days, the more strongly she felt
herself called upon to use the present generously. The more imperious