“All quiet, sir, at present. Monsieur Papalier—on board ship I will not go.”
“As your master pleases. It is no concern of mine, Toussaint,” said Papalier.
“So I think,” replied Toussaint.
“You see your faithful hands, your very obedient friends, have got a will of their own already,” whispered Papalier to Bayou, as they set their horses forward again: Henri turning homewards on the tired horse which had carried double, and Bayou mounting that which Toussaint had brought.
“Will you go round, or pass the house?” Toussaint asked of his master. “Madame Ogé is standing in the doorway.”
Bayou was about to turn his horse’s head, but the person in the doorway came out into the darkness, and called him by his name. He was obliged to go forward.
“Madame,” said he, “I hope you have no trouble with your people. I hope your people are all steady.”
“Never mind me and my people,” replied a tremulous voice. “What I want to know is, what has happened at Cap. Who have risen? Whose are these fires?”
“The negroes have risen on a few plantations: that is all. We shall soon—”
“The negroes!” echoed the voice. “You are sure it is only the negroes?”