“I, Toussaint Breda; entreating your pardon, father.”
“Why are you here, my son? There is some misfortune, by your face. You look wearied and anxious. What is it?”
“No misfortune, father, and no crime. But my mind is anxious, and I have ventured to break your rest. You will pardon me?”
“You do right, my son. We are ready for service, in season and out of season.”
While saying this, the priest had risen, and thrown on his morning-gown. He now seated himself at the table, saying—
“Let us hear. What is this affair of haste?”
“The cause of my haste is this—that I may probably not again have conversation with you, father; and I desire to confess, and be absolved by you once more.”
“Good. Some dangerous expedition—is it not so?”
“No. The affair is personal altogether. Have you heard of any decree of the French Convention by which the negroes—the slaves—of the colony of Saint Domingo are freely accepted as fellow-citizens, and the colony declared an integrant part of France?”
“Surely I have. The General was speaking of it last night; and I brought away a copy of the proclamation consequent upon it. Let me see,” said he, rising, and taking up the lamp, “where did I put that proclamation?”