es, from a
thousand homes, come to him in blessing and in joy! No more music, no
more sunshine, no more fragrance; no more certainty, either, that others
were now enjoying what he had parted with for ever! Not only might he
never hear what had ensued upon the "truce till August," but he must
carefully conceal his anxiety to hear--his belief that there were such
tidings to be told. In the presence of Mars Plaisir, he could scarcely
even think of that which lay heaviest at his heart--of what Henri had
done, in consequence of his abduction--of his poor oppressed blacks--
whether they had sunk under the blow for the time, and so delayed the
arrival of that freedom which they must at length achieve; or whether
they had risen, like a multitudinous family of bereaved children, to
work out the designs of the father who had been snatched from them. Of
all this there could be no speech (scarcely a speculation in his secret
soul) in the presence of one who must, if he heard, almost necessarily
become a traitor. And then his family! From them he had vanished; and
he must live as if they had vanished from his very memory. They were,
doubtless, all eye, all ear: for ever watching to know what had become
of him. For their personal safety, now that he was helpless, he trusted
there was little cause for fear; but what peace of mind could they
enjoy, while in ignorance of his fate? He fancied them imploring of
their guardians tidings of him, in vain; questioning the four winds for
whispers of his retreat; pacing every cemetery for a grave that might be
his; gazing up at the loopholes of every prison, with a fear that he
might be there; keeping awake at midnight, for the chance of a visit
from his injured spirit; or seeking sleep, in the dim hope that he might
be revealed to them in a dream. And all this must be but a dim dream to
him, except in such an hour as this--a chance hour when no eye was upon
him! The reconciling process was slow--but it was no less sure than
usual.

"Be it so!" was, as usual, his conclusion--"Be it so! for as long as
Heaven pleases--though that cannot be long. The one consolation of
being buried alive, soul or body--or both, as in this case--is, that
release is sure and near. This poor fellow's spirit will die within
him, and his body will then be let out--the consummation most necessary
for him. And my body, already failing, will soon die, and my work be
done. To die, and to die thus, is part of