“With your sacred books, perhaps, father; for it is a gospel to me and my race.”
“Do you think it of so much importance?” asked Laxabon, returning to the table with the newspaper containing the proclamation, officially given. “The General does not seem to think much of it, nor does Jean Français.”
“To a commander of our allies the affair may appear a trifle, father; and such white planters as cannot refuse to hear the tidings may scoff at them; but Jean Français, a negro and a slave—is it possible that he makes light of this?”
“He does; but he has read it, and you have not. Read it, my son, and without prejudice.”
Toussaint read it again and again.
“Well!” said the priest, as Toussaint put down the paper, no longer attempting to hide with it the streaming tears which covered his face.
“Father,” said he, commanding his voice completely, “is there not hope, that if men, weakened and blinded by degradation, mistake their duty when the time for duty comes, they will be forgiven?”
“In what case, my son? Explain yourself.”
“If I, hitherto a slave, and wanting, therefore, the wisdom of a free man, find myself engaged on the wrong side—fighting against the providence of God—is there not hope that I may be forgiven on turning to the right?”
“How the wrong side, my son? Are you not fighting for your king, and for the allies of France?”