“Honor binds me,” answered I, sadly. “Farewell, Bug-Jargal! farewell, brother! I leave her to you.”

  He grasped my hand, overwhelmed with grief, and appeared hardly to understand me. “Brother,” said he, “in the camp of the whites there are some of your relatives; I will give her over to them. For my part, I cannot accept your legacy.”

  He pointed to a rocky crag which towered high above the adjacent country. “Do you see that rock?” asked he; “when the signal of your death shall float from it, it will promptly be answered by the volley that announces mine.”

  Hardly understanding his last words, I embraced him, pressed a kiss upon the pale lips of Marie, who was slowly recovering under the attentions of her nurse, and fled precipitately, fearing that another look or word would shake my resolution.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  I RUSHED headlong, and plunged into the depths of the forest, following the tracks that we had left but a short time before, not daring to cast a last glance behind me. To stifle the grief which oppressed my heart, I dashed, without a moment's pause, through the thickets, past hill and plain, until I reached the crest of a rock from which I could see the camp of Biassou, with its lines of wagons and huts swarming with life, and looking in the distance like a vast ant-hill. Then I halted, for I felt that I had reached the end of my journey and my life at the same time. Fatigue and emotion had weakened my physical powers, and I leaned against a tree to save myself from falling, and allowed my eyes to wander over the plain, which was to be my place of execution.

  Up to this moment I had imagined that I had drained the cup of bitterness and gall to the dregs; but I had not until then tasted the most cruel of all misfortunes — that of being constrained by powerful moral force to voluntarily renounce life when it appeared most sweet. Some hours before, 1 cared not for the world; extreme despair is a simulation of death which makes the reality more earnestly desired. Marie had been restored to me, my dead happiness had been resuscitated, my past had become my future, and all my overshadowed hopes had beamed forth more gloriously than ever; and again had a new life—a life of youth and love and enchantment—shone gloriously upon the horizon. I was ready to enter upon this life; everything invited me to it; no material obstacle, no hinderance, was apparent. I was free, I was happy, and yet—I was about to die. I had made but one step into paradise, and a hidden duty compelled me to retrace it, and to enter upon a path the goal of which was death!

  Death has but few terrors for the crushed and broken spirit; but how heavy and icy is his hand when it grasps the heart which has just begun to live and revel in the joys of life! I felt that I had emerged from the tomb, and had for a moment enjoyed the greatest delights of life, love, friendship, and liberty; and now the door of the sepulcher was again opened, and an unseen force compelled me once more to enter it forever.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  WHEN the first bitter pang of grief had passed, a kind of fury took possession of me; and I entered the valley with a rapid step, for I felt the necessity of shortening the period of suspense. When I presented myself at the negro outpost, the sergeant in command at first refused to permit me to pass. It seemed strange that I should be obliged to have recourse to entreaties to enable me to effect my object. At last two of them seized me by the arms and led me into Biassou's presence.

  As I entered the grotto he was engaged in examining the springs of various instruments of torture with which he was surrounded. At the noise my guard made in introducing me he turned his head, but my presence did not seem to surprise him.

  “Do you see these?” asked he, displaying the horrible engines which lay before him.

  I remained calm and impassive, for I knew the cruel nature of the “hero of humanity,” and I was determined to endure to the end without blenching.

  “Leogri was lucky in being only hanged, was he not?” asked he, with his sardonic sneer.

  I gazed upon him with cold disdain, but I made no reply.

  “Tell his reverence the chaplain that the prisoner has returned,” said he to an aid-decamp.

  During the absence of the negro, we both remained silent, but I could see that he watched me narrowly. Just then Rigaud entered; he seemed agitated, and whispered a few words to the general.

  “Summon the chiefs of the different bands,” said Biassou, calmly.

  A quarter of an hour afterward, the different chiefs in their strange equipments were assembled in the grotto. Biassou rose.

  “Listen to me, friends and comrades! The whites will attack us here at daybreak; our position is a bad one, and we must quit it. At sunset we will march to the Spanish frontier. Macaya, you and your negroes will form the advanced guards. Padrejan, see that the guns taken at Pralato are spiked; we cannot take them into the mountains. The brave men of Croix-des-Bouquets will follow Macaya; Toussaint will come next with the blacks from Leogane and Trose. If the griots or the griotes make any disturbance, I will hand them over to the executioner of the army. Lieutenant-Colonel Cloud will distribute the English muskets that were disembarked at Cape Cabron, and will lead the half-breeds through the by-ways of the Vista. Slaughter any prisoners that may remain, notch the bullets, and poison the arrows. Let three tons of arsenic be thrown into the wells; the colonists will take it for sugar, and drink without distrust. Block “up the roads to the plain with rocks, line the hedges with marksmen, and set fire to the forest. Rigaud, you will remain with me; Candi, summon my body-guard. The negroes of Morne-Rouge will form the rearguard, and will not evacuate the camp until sunrise.”

  He leaned over to Rigaud, and whispered hoarsely: “They are Bug-Jargal's men; if they are killed, all the better. 'Muerta la tropa, murte el gefe!' ('If the men die, the chief will die.')

  “Go, my brethren,” he added, rising, “you will receive instructions from Candi.”

  The chiefs left the grotto.

  “General,” remarked Rigaud, “we ought to send that dispatch of Jean Francois; affairs are going badly, and it would stop the advance of the whites.”

  Biassou drew it hastily from his pocket. “I agree with you; but there are so many faults, both in grammar and spelling, that they will laugh at it.”

  He presented the paper to me. “For the last time, will you save your life? My kindness gives you a last chance. Help me to correct this letter, and to re-write it in proper official style.”

  I shook my head.

  “Do you mean no?” asked he.

  “I do,” I replied.

  “Reflect,” he answered, with a sinister glance at the instruments of torture.

  “It is because I have reflected that I refuse,” replied I. “You are alarmed for the safety of yourself and your men, and you count upon this letter to delay the just vengeance of the whites. I do not desire to retain a life which may perhaps have saved yours. Let my execution commence.”

  “Ha, boy!” exclaimed Biassou, touching the instruments of torture with his foot, “you are growing familiar with these, are you? I am sorry, but I have not the time to try them on you; our position is a dangerous one, and we must get out of it as soon as we can. And so you refuse to act as my secretary? Well, you are right; for it would not after all have saved your miserable life, which, by the way, I have promised to his reverence my chaplain. Do you think that I would permit any one to live who holds the secrets of Biassou?”

  He turned to the Obi, who just then entered. “Good father, is your guard ready?”

  The latter made a sign in the affirmative.

  “Have you taken it from among the negroes of Morne-Rouge, for they are the only ones who are not occupied in preparations for departure?”

  Again the Obi bowed his head.

  Then Biassou pointed out to me the black flag which I had before remarked in a corner of the grotto. “That will show your friends when the time comes to give your place to your lieutenant. But I have no more time to lose; I must be off. By the way, you have been for a little excursion; how did you like the neighborhood?”

  “I noticed that there were enough trees upon which to hang you and all your band.”

  “Ah,” retorted he, with his hideous laugh, “there is one place that you have not seen, but with which the good father will make you acquainted. Adieu, my young captain, and give my compliments to Leogri.”

  He bade me farewell with a chuckle that reminded me of the hiss of the rattlesnake, and turned his back as the negroes dragged me away. The veiled Obi followed us, his rosary in his hand.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  I WALKED between my guards without offering any resistance, which would indeed have been hopeless. We ascended the shoulder of a hill on the western side of the plain, and then my escort sat down for a brief period of repose. As we did so, I cast a last lingering look at the setting sun, which would never rise again for me on this earth.

  When my guards rose to their feet, I followed their example, and we descended into a little dell, the beauty of which under any other circumstances would have filled me with admiration. A mountain stream ran through the bottom of the dell, which by its refreshing coolness produced a thick and luxuriant growth of vegetation, and fell into one of those dark-blue lakes with which the hills of St. Domingo abound. How often in happier days have I sat and dreamed on the borders of these beautiful lakes, in the twilight hour, when beneath the influence of the moon their deep azure changed into a sheet of silver, or when the reflections of the stars sowed the surface with a thousand golden spangles! How lovely this valley appeared to me! There were magnificent plane-trees of gigantic growth, closely grown thickets of mauritias, a kind of palm, which allows no other vegetation to flourish beneath its shade; date-trees and magnolias with the goblet-shaped flowers. The tall catalpa, with its polished and exquisitely chiseled blossoms, stood out in relief against the golden buds of the ebony-trees; the Canadian maple mingled its yellow flowers with the blue aureolas of that species of the wild honeysuckle which the negroes call “coali”; thick curtains of luxurious creepers concealed the bare sides of the rocks, while from the virgin soil rose a soft perfume, such as the first man may have inhaled amid Eden's groves.

  We continued our way along a footpath traced on the brink of the torrent. I was surprised to notice that this path closed abruptly at the foot of a tall peak, in which was a natural archway, from which flowed a rapid torrent. A dull roar of falling waters and an impetuous wind issued from this natural tunnel. The negroes who escorted me took a path to the left which led into a cavern, and seemed to be the bed of a torrent that had long been dried up. Overhead I could see the rugged roof, half hidden, by masses of vegetation, and the same sound of falling waters filled the whole of the vault.

  As I took the first step into the cavern, the Obi came to my side, and whispered in a hoarse voice, “Listen to what I have to predict: only one of us two shall leave by this path and issue again from the entrance of the cave.”

  I disdained to make any reply, and we advanced further into the gloom. The noise became louder, and drowned the sound of our footfalls. I fancied that there must be a waterfall near, and I was not deceived. After moving through the darkness for nearly ten minutes, we found ourselves on a kind of internal platform caused by the central formation of the mountain. The larger portion of this platform, which was of a semicircular shape, was inundated by a torrent which burst from the interior of the mountain with a terrible din. Above this subterranean hall the roof rose into the shape of a dome, covered with moss of a yellowish hue. A large opening was formed in the dome, through which the daylight penetrated; and the sides of the crevice were fringed with green trees, gilded just now by the last rays of the setting sun. At the northern extremity of the platform the torrent fell with a frightful noise into a deep abyss, over which appeared to float, without being able to illuminate its depths, a feeble portion of the light which came through the aperture in the roof.

  Over this terrible precipice hung the trunk of an old tree, whose topmost branches were filled with the foam of the waterfall, and whose knotty roots pierced through the rock two or three feet below the brink. This tree, whose top and roots were both swept by the torrent, hung over the abyss like a skeleton arm, and was so destitute of foliage that I could not distinguish its species. It had a strange and weird appearance; the humidity which saturated its roots prevented it from dying, while the force of the cataract tore off its new shoots, and only left it with the branches that had strength to resist the force of the water.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  IN this terrible spot the negroes came to a halt, and I knew that my hour had come. It was in this abyss, then, that was to be sunk all my hopes in this world. The image of the happiness which but a few hours before I had voluntarily renounced brought to my heart a feeling of regret, almost one of remorse. To pray for mercy was unworthy of me, but I could not refrain from giving utterance to my regrets.

  “Friends,” said I to the negroes who surrounded me, “it is a sad thing to die at twenty years of age, full of life and strength, when one is loved by one whom in your turn you adore, and when you leave behind you eyes that will ever weep for your untimely end.”

  A mocking burst of laughter hailed my expression of regret. It came from the little Obi. This species of evil spirit, this living mystery, approached me roughly.

  “Ha, ha, ha! you regret life then, Labadosea Dios! My only fear was that death would have no terrors for you.”

  It was the same voice, the same laugh that had so often before baffled my conjectures. “Wretch!” exclaimed I, “who are you?”

  “You are going to learn,” replied he, in a voice of concentrated passion; and thrusting aside the silver sun that half concealed his brown chest, he exclaimed, “Look!”

  I bent forward. Two names were written in white letters on the hairy chest of the Obi, showing but too clearly the hideous and ineffaceable brand of the heated iron. One of these names was Effingham; the other was that of my uncle and myself, D'Auverney! I was struck dumb with surprise.

  “Well, Leopold d'Auverney,” asked the Obi, “does not your name tell you mine?”

  “No,” answered I, astonished to hear the man name me, and seeking to re-collect my thoughts. “These two names were only to be found thus united upon the chest of my uncle's fool. But the poor dwarf is dead; and besides that, he was devotedly attached to us. You cannot be Habibrah.”

  “No other!” shrieked he; and casting aside the blood-stained cap, he raised his veil and showed me the hideous features of the household fool. But a threatening and sinister expression had usurped the half-imbecile smile which was formerly eternally imprinted on his features.

  “Great God!” exclaimed I, overwhelmed with surprise, “do all the dead, then, come back to life? It is Habibrah, my uncle's fool!”

  “His fool, and also his murderer.”

  I recoiled from him in horror. “His murderer, wretch! Was it thus that you repaid his kindness—”

  He interrupted me. “His kindness! rather say his insults.”

  “What!” I again cried, “was it you, villain, who struck the fatal blow?”

  “It was,” he replied, with a terrible expression upon his face. “I plunged my knife so deeply into his heart that he had hardly time to cast aside sleep before death claimed him. He cried out feebly, 'Habibrah, come to me!' but I was with him already!”

  The cold-blooded manner in which he narrated the murder disgusted me. “Wretch! cowardly assassin! You forgot, then, all his kindness; that you ate at his table, and slept at the foot of his bed—”

  “Like a dog!” interrupted Habibrah, roughly, “como un perro. I thought too much of what you call his kindness, but which I looked upon as insults. I took vengeance upon him, and I will do the same upon you. Listen: do you think that because I am a mulatto and a deformed dwarf that I am not a man? Ah, I have a soul stronger, deeper, and bolder than the one that I am about to set free from your girlish frame. I was given to your uncle as if I had been a pet monkey. I was his butt; I amused him, while he despised me. He loved me, do you say? Yes, forsooth; I had a place in his heart between his dog and his parrot; but I found a better place there with my dagger.”

  I shuddered.

  “Yes,” continued the dwarf, “it was I, I that did it all. Look me well in the face, Leopold d'Auverney: you have often laughed at me, now you shall tremble before me. And you dare to speak of your uncle's liking for me—a liking that carried degradation with it. If I entered the room, a shout of contemptuous laughter was my greeting; my appearance, my deformities, my features, my costume—all furnished food for laughter to your accursed uncle and his accursed friends, while I was not allowed even to remain silent; it was necessary for me to join in the very laughter that was' leveled at me! I foam with rage while I think of it. Answer me: do you think that after such humiliations I could feel anything but the deadliest hatred for the creature that inflicted them upon me? Do you not think that they were a thousand times harder to endure than the toil in the burning sun, the fetters, and the whip of the driver, which were the lot of the other slaves? Do you not think that they would cause ardent, implacable, and eternal hatred to spring up in the heart of man as lasting as the accursed brand which degrades my chest? Has not the vengeance that I have taken for my sufferings been short and insufficient? “Why could I not make my tyrant suffer something of what I endured for so many years? Why could he not before his death know the bitterness of wounded pride, and feel what burning traces the tears of shame leave upon a face condemned to wear a perpetual smile? Alas! it is too hard to have waited so long for the hour of vengeance, and then only to find it in a dagger thrust! Had he but known the hand that struck him, it would have been something; but I was too eager to hear his dying groan, and I drove the knife too quickly home: he died without having recognized me, and my eagerness balked my vengeance. This time, however, it shall be more complete. You see me, do you not? Though in point of fact you may be unable to recognize me in my new character. You have always been in the habit of seeing me laughing and joyous; but now nothing prevents me from letting my true nature appear on my face, and I do not greatly resemble my former self. You only knew my mask; look now upon my real face!”