“Farewell, Vincent!” Aimée strove to say.
In vain Vincent endeavoured to plead. Aimée shook her head, signed to him to go, and hid her face on her father’s shoulder. It was too much. Humbled to the point of exasperation, Vincent throw himself over the ship’s side into the boat, and never more saw the face of an Ouverture.
“I have nothing left but you,” sobbed Aimée—“but you and my mother. If they kill you my mother will die, and I shall be desolate.”
“Your brothers, my child.”
“No, no. I have tried all. I left you to try. I loved you always; but I thought I loved others more. But—”
“But,” said her father, when she could not proceed, “you found the lot of woman. To woman the affections are all: to men, even to brothers, they are not. Courage, Aimée! Courage! for you are an Ouverture. Courage to meet your woman’s martyrdom!”
“Let me rest upon your heart, father; and I can bear anything.”
“Would I could, my child! But they will not allow it—these jailors. They will part us.”
“I wish these chains could bind me too—these very links—that I might never leave you,” cried Aimée, kissing the fetters which bound her father’s arms.
“Your mother’s heart, Aimée; that remains.”