"It is agreed," Biassou said, "and all have sworn to it, that no white who falls into our hands shall be spared. Such is the case, is it not?" he said to his followers; and they answered with a loud shout and began to press forward.
"These men have not fallen into our hands," Toussaint said, "they have come here on our invitation, and, as I have told you, with our safeguard."
"It is all very well for you to talk, Toussaint; I know you. You pretend to be with us, but your heart is with the whites, and you are here to conspire with them against us," and he raised his axe as if about to rush forward.
"This is madness, Biassou," Toussaint said sternly. "Have we not enough enemies now that we should quarrel among ourselves? You have done enough harm to our cause already by your horrible cruelties, for which every coloured man who falls into the hands of the whites has to suffer severely. Beware how you commence a conflict; you may be more numerous than we are, but we are better armed, and even if you overpowered us in the end, you would suffer heavily before you did so."
"I wish you no harm, Toussaint, but for the last time I demand that these white men shall be given up to me."
"And for the last time I refuse," Toussaint said; and his men without orders moved up close to him.
Biassou stood for a moment irresolute, and then, with a shout to his men to follow him, sprang forward. In an instant Nat threw himself before Toussaint, and when Biassou was within a couple of yards of him threw up his arm and levelled his pistol between the negro's eyes.
"Drop that axe," he shouted, "or you are a dead man!"
The negro stood like a black statue for an instant. The pistol was but a foot from his face, and he knew that before his uplifted axe could fall he would be a dead man.
