CHAPTER XXXVII.

Gentlemen, I hardly know why I lay before you my ideas upon such a subject; they are not those which you understand, or can be made to understand. To thoroughly comprehend them, you must have gone through what I have. But such was the state of my mind when the guards of Biassou handed me over to the negroes of Morne-Rouge. I was still in a dream: it appeared as if one body of phantoms passed me over to another, and without opposing any resistance I permitted them to bind me by the middle to a tree. They then gave me some boiled potatoes, which I ate with the mechanical instinct that God grants to man even in the midst of overwhelming thought.

The darkness had now come on, and my guards took refuge in their huts, with the exception of half a dozen who remained with me, lying before a large fire that they had lighted to preserve themselves from the cold night-air. In a few moments they were all buried in profound sleep.

The state of physical weakness into which I had fallen caused my thoughts to wander in a strange manner. I thought of those calm and peaceful days which, but a few weeks ago, I had passed with Marie, without being able to foresee any future but one of continued happiness. I compared them with the day that had just expired, a day in which so many strange events had occurred as almost to make me wonder whether I was not labouring under some delusion. I had been three times condemned to death, and still remained under sentence. I thought of my future, bounded only by the morrow, and which offered nothing but misfortune, and a death happily near at hand. I seemed to be the victim of some terrible nightmare. Again and again I asked myself if all that had happened was real: was I really in the power of the sanguinary Biassou, and was my Marie lost to me for ever? Could this prisoner, guarded by six savages, bound to a tree, and condemned to certain death, really be me? In spite of all my efforts to repel them, the thoughts of Marie would force themselves upon me. In anguish I thought of her fate, I strained my bonds in my efforts to break them, and to fly to her succour, ever hoping that the terrible dream would pass away; and that Heaven would not permit all the horrors that I dreaded to fall upon the head of her, who had been united to me in a sacred bond. In my sad preoccupation the thought of Pierrot returned to me, and rage nearly took away my senses; the pulses of my temples throbbed nearly to bursting. I hated him, I cursed him; I despised myself for having ever had friendship for Pierrot at the same time I had felt love for Marie; and without caring to seek for the motive which had urged him to cast himself into the waters of Grande-Riviere, I wept because he had escaped me. He was dead, and I was about to die, and all that I regretted was that I had been unable to wreak my vengeance upon him.

During the state of semi-somnolency into which my weakness had plunged me, these thoughts passed through my brain. I do not know how long it lasted, but I was aroused by a man’s voice singing distinctly, but at some distance, the old Spanish song, “Yo que soy contrabandista.” Quivering with emotion I opened my eyes; all was dark around me, the negroes slept, the fire was dying down. I could hear nothing more. I fancied that the voice must have been a dream, and my sleep-laden eyelids closed again. In a second I opened them; again I heard the voice singing sadly but much nearer, the same song—

’Twas on the field of Ocanen

  That I fell in their power,

To Cotadilla taken,

  Unhappy from that hour.

This time it was not a charm—it was Pierrot’s voice. A few moments elapsed, then it rose again through the silence and the gloom, and once more I heard the well-known air of “Yo soy que contrabandista.” A dog ran eagerly to greet me, and rolled at my feet in token of welcome; it was Rask! A tall negro stood facing me, and the glimmer of the fire threw his shadow, swelled to colossal proportions, upon the sward; it was Pierrot!

The thirst for vengeance fired my brain; surprise rendered me motionless and dumb. I was not asleep. Could the dead return? If not a dream, it must be an apparition. I turned from him with horror.

When he saw me do this, his head sank upon his breast.

“Brother,” murmured he, “you promised that you would never doubt me when you heard me sing that song. My brother, have you forgotten your promise?”

Rage restored the power of speech to me.

“Monster,” exclaimed I, “do I see you at last! Butcher, murderer of my uncle, ravisher of Marie, dare you call me your brother? Do not venture to approach me.”

I forgot that I was too securely tied to make the slightest movement, and glanced to my left side as though to seek my sword.

My intention did not escape him, and he continued in a sorrowful tone of voice—

“No, I will not come near you—you are unhappy and I pity you; whilst you have no pity for me, though I am much more wretched than you are.”

I shrugged my shoulders; he understood my feelings, and in a half dreamy manner continued—

“Yes, you have lost much; but, believe me, I have lost more than you have.”

But the sound of our conversation had aroused the negro guard. Perceiving a stranger they leapt to their feet, and seized their weapons; but as soon as they recognized the intruder they uttered a cry of surprise and joy, and cast themselves at his feet, striking the ground with their foreheads.

But the homage that the negroes rendered to Pierrot, and the fondlings of Rask, made no impression upon me at the moment. I was boiling over with passion, and maddened at the bonds that restrained me, and at length my fury found words. “Oh, how unhappy I am!” I exclaimed, shedding tears of rage. “I was grieving because I thought that this wretch had committed suicide, and robbed me of my just revenge; and now he is here to mock me, living and breathing under my very eyes, and I am powerless to stab him to the heart. Is there no one to free me from these accursed cords?”

Pierrot turned to the negroes, who where still prostrate before him.

“Comrades,” said he, “release the prisoner.”