“True, my child,” replied the abbess: “Father Gabriel only said ‘if it had been so.’”
“And if it had,” exclaimed Euphrosyne, who did not wish to hear the father speak again at the moment—“if it had been so, it would have been wicked in the negroes to do that act in revenge; but it could never, never excuse us from forgiving them—from pitying them because they had been made cruel and revengeful. I am sure I wish they had all lived—that they might live many, many years, till they could forget those cruel old times, and, being old men themselves, might feel what it is to touch an old man’s life. This is the kind of punishment I wish them; and I am sure it would be enough.”
“It is indeed said,” observed the abbess, “‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’”
“And oh! poor Génifrède!” pursued Euphrosyne. “She no more wished ill to my parent than I do to hers; and her lover—it was not he that did it: and yet—Oh, Father Gabriel, are you sure that that firing—that last volley—”
“It was certainly the death stroke of Moyse. I perceive how it is, my child. I perceive that your friendships among this new race have blinded your eyes, so that you cannot see that these executions are, indeed, God’s avenging of the murder by which you are made a second time an orphan.”
“Do you think L’Ouverture right, then? I should be glad to believe that he was not cruel—dreadfully cruel.”
“There is no doubt of L’Ouverture’s being wise and right—of his having finally assured the most unwilling of the inhabitants of their security, and his stern justice. There is no doubt that L’Ouverture is right.”
“I could not have believed,” said the abbess, “that my daughter would have required a justification of anything done by L’Ouverture.”
“Nor I,” said Euphrosyne, sighing.
“Under him,” said Father Gabriel, “there is less crime in the colony than, I verily believe, in any other part of the empire. Under him have homes become sacred, children are instructed, and brethren are taught to dwell together in unity.”