A gleam of satisfaction lighted up Madame Dessalines’ face, through its agony.
“It was too touching, too mournful to be endured,” resumed Monsieur Pascal. “The countenances of those poor creatures will haunt me to my dying hour. Never was man idolised like L’Ouverture. For him, men go willingly to their deaths—not in the excitement of a common danger; not for glory or for a bright future—but solitary, in ignominy, in the light of a calm sunrise, with the eyes of a condemning multitude upon them. Without protest, without supplication—as it appears, without objection—they stoop to death at his word.”
“I do not know—I do not understand what has been done,” said Thérèse. “But does not every black know that L’Ouverture has no private interests—nothing at heart but the good of us all?”
“That is the spell,” replied Pascal. “This sacrifice of his nephew will confirm it with my countrymen, as well as with yours, for ever. These thirteen others—for he has sacrificed thirteen of the soldiers, for dereliction of duty in the late rising—these thirteen are from the garrison of Cap, chiefly, though it is said two or three are from Limbé. All the soldiery from these two places, and from Port Dauphin, are upon the Place. L’Ouverture stood in the midst and addressed them. He told them that it was needless to explain to them what they had been learning from his whole course of conduct, since he was chosen by the blacks to lead and govern them. It was needless to insist on the protection due to every inhabitant of the colony, and especially the whites; and on the primary duty of a liberated race—that of keeping the peace. They knew their duty as well as he did; and those who had violated it should suffer the long-declared and inevitable punishment of death. All knew that everything was prepared on the rampart, near at hand. L’Ouverture walked slowly along each line of the soldiery; and I declare to you, Madame, that though all knew that he was selecting victims for instant death, there was passionate love in every face.”
“I believe it,” said Thérèse. “And he?”
“He was calm; but a face of deeper sorrow never did I see. He is ten years older since last night. He spoke aloud the names of the most guilty, according to their own previous account of themselves to him, and the committee, of investigation.”
“And no one of the thirteen resisted?”
“Not one. One by one they joined their hands, bowed their heads humbly before him, and repaired where he pointed—to be shot. There was a spell upon me. I could not come away, though feeling at every moment as if I could endure no more. I did not, however, stay to see General Moyse brought out—”
As he was speaking, there was heard the heavy roll of drums at a distance, followed by a volley of musketry.
“That is it,” cried Monsieur Pascal; and he was gone. Thérèse sank back upon a sofa, and again drew her shawl over her head. She desired, in the sickness of her heart, never to see the daylight more.