"This morning," said the negro, "whilst they tore the flesh of one of his black slaves with whips, a withered old merchant of Batavia left his country-house to come to the town. Lolling in his palanquin, he received, with languid indolence, the sad caresses of two of those girls, whom he had bought, to people his harem, from parents too poor to give them food. The palanquin, which held this little old man, and the girls, was carried by twelve young and robust men. There are here, you see, mothers who in their misery sell their own daughters—slaves that are scourged—men that carry other men, like beasts of burden.—Brothers, the good work will prosper in this country!"
"Yes, in this country—and in every land of oppression, distress, corruption, and slavery."
"Could we but induce Djalma to join us, as Mahal the Smuggler advised," said the Indian, "our voyage to Java would doubly profit us; for we should then number among our band this brave and enterprising youth, who has so many motives to hate mankind."
"He will soon be here; let us envenom his resentments."
"Remind him of his father's death!"
"Of the massacre of his people!"
"His own captivity!"
"Only let hatred inflame his heart, and he will be ours."
The negro, who had remained for some time lost in thought, said suddenly:
"Brothers, suppose Mahal the Smuggler were to betray us?"
"He" cried the Hindoo, almost with indignation; "he gave us an asylum on board his bark; he secured our flight from the Continent; he is again to take us with him to Bombay, where we shall find vessels for America, Europe, Africa."