He bowed haughtily, and withdrew, laughing bitterly. In the ante-room without, he found the negro, Tristan, lying on an embroidered rug, close against the boudoir door.
"Dog!" exclaimed Augustus; "You have been listening?"
"Do not be angry, massa, with the poor nigger. What if the dog can help you?"
"Help me?"
"Yes, dogs are sometimes useful. Have you ever seen a bloodhound hunt down a runaway slave, eh, massa? Ah! you have seen that. Many a time, I dare say, many a time have set the dogs on yourself to capture your lost property. There are human bloodhounds, massa, who can hunt down an enemy as the dog hunts the poor slave. Your enemy is Tristan's enemy too. Say, massa, shall we work together?"
The planter looked at the negro with a glance of contempt.
"What can we have in common?" he said, scornfully.
"Love, massa, love and hate! We both love the same woman, we both hate the same man."
Augustus laughed aloud, "You—you love Camillia Moraquitos?" he exclaimed, with consummate disdain.
"And why not?" cried the negro, striking himself upon the breast; "the heart within is of the same form, though the skin is of another color. I love her, love her, not as you white men love—but with the passionate fury of the African, which is stronger than death or fate. A jealous fever, which is close akin to hate and murder. I love her, and I know that she would look with loathing on this black face. I know that she can never be mine—but she shall not be his. No, no! I could better bear to see her wedded to you, for she would not love you. She would pine and die, and I would kill myself upon her grave, and know that she never blest the man she loved. Say, massa, shall I help you?"