“Here is the friend that sticketh closer than a brother,” said he.
“Alas! poor Paul! he will be faithful, Pascal; but he can never again love me.”
“Pardon me, I entreat you. I meant no allusion.”
“You did not. But everything serves as an allusion there; for Paul is never out of my mind. Now for our letters;—that to Leclerc modified, as you perceive, by our knowledge of what has passed between him and Henri.”
“Modified, indeed!” exclaimed Pascal.
Their proceedings were destined to be further modified by the events of this night. Tidings as black as the darkest night that ever brooded over the island in the season of storms poured in to overshadow the prospects of the negroes, and the hopes of their chief.
It was after midnight when, in the midst of their quiet consultation, Toussaint and his secretary thought they heard voices at the gate. Toussaint was going to ascertain, when he was met in the hall by news that a messenger from the south-west had arrived. The messenger entered, halting and slow.
“It is—no,” said Pascal; “surely it cannot be—”
“Is it possible that you are Jacques?” exclaimed Toussaint, his eyes shaded by his hand.
“I am Dessalines,” said the wounded man, who had already sunk upon a seat.