"Yes, I am mad. What can that slave be but mad who dares to love his mistress? I would grovel upon the earth, and suffer her foot to trample upon my neck. I would die a thousand deaths, but I am mad, and I love her. I have loved her from those happy hours when she was a little child by yonder sunny river, and I was her plaything, her dog, her slave, but still her companion; and now she loathes and despises the wretched slave, and loves another, and mad Tristan has come into this forest to die."
The glaring eyes of the negro had so much of the fire of insanity in their savage light that the two young men thought he was indeed mad.
"Tristan, Tristan!" said Paul, imploringly.
"Beware," cried the slave, snatching a knife from his breast. "Beware how you cross my path! You are unarmed, and, strong as you are, feeble against the strength of madness. Avoid me, if you value your own safety; you, Paul Crivelli, above all others, should shun me, for I hate you. Avoid me, then, if you would not tempt me to destroy you."
He uttered a wild cry, and sprang toward Paul, with the knife uplifted in his powerful right hand, but the two young men were prepared for the blow, and while Armand Tremlay seized the hand holding the dagger, Paul twisted a silk handkerchief into a bandage, with which they bound the arms of the negro.
Secured thus, they conveyed him back to New Orleans.
The violent paroxysm of madness had passed, and the wretched man was as quiet as a child.
They took him to the Villa Moraquitos, where they placed him under the care of his mother, assisted by a powerful negro, belonging to the household.
"Restore him to reason, Zarah," said Paul, "and as soon as he has recovered, I will give you both your liberty."
"Good, generous massa, and we shall go back to Africa?"