“I know not—Yes, I loved him the other day. I know not, Moyse. I know nothing but that—I will hate the whites as you do. I never loved them: now I hate them.”
“You shall. I will tell you things of them that will make you curse them. I know every white man’s heart.”
“Then tell my father.”
“Does he not know enough already? Is not his cheek furrowed with the marks of the years during which the whites were masters; and is there any cruelty, any subtlety, in them that he does not understand? Knowing all this, he curses, not them, but the flower which, he says, corrupted them. He keeps from them this power, and believes that all will be well. I shall tell him nothing.”
“Yes, tell him all—all except—”
“Yes, and tell me first,” cried a voice near at hand. There was a great rustling among the bushes, and Denis appeared, begging particularly to know what they were talking about. They, in return, begged to be told what brought him this way, to interrupt their conversation.
“Deesha says Juste is out after wild-fowl, and, most likely, among some of the ponds hereabouts.”
“One would think you had lived in Cap all your days,” said Moyse. “Do you look for wild-fowl in a garden?”
“We will see presently,” said the boy, thrusting himself into the thicket in the direction of the ponds, and guiding himself by the scent of the blossoming reeds—so peculiar as to be known among the many with which the air was filled. He presently beckoned to his sister; and she followed with Moyse, till they found themselves in the field where there had once been several fish-ponds, preserved in order with great care. All were now dried up but two; and the whole of the water being diverted to the service of these two, they were considerable in extent and in depth. What the extent really was, it was difficult to ascertain at the first glance, so hidden was the margin with reeds, populous with wild-fowl.
Denis was earnestly watching these fowl, as he lay among the high grass at some little distance from the water, and prevented his companions from approaching any nearer. The sun was hot, and Génifrède was not long in desiring to return to the garden.