Even while speaking, he wrenched his hand from the Creole's clasp, and drawing his sword, cried:
"Forward to the coast of Hispaniola."
Carried away by their leader's passion, the buccaneers joined in a terrible cheer, and throwing down their glasses, pressed after him with drunken enthusiasm from the joys of the banquet to wrestle with the fury of the tempests.
The ship reached the shore of Hispaniola. Barthelemy promised his men the treasures of a whole people, reserving for himself only their blood.
He did not find a single ship in the harbor; there were only a few fisher-boats tossing on the waves, from whose owners he learned that the insurgent slaves, after ravaging the coast, had retired in large numbers to the interior of the island.
Barthelemy went on shore and rushed like a madman toward the cottage.
He soon neared the hill which concealed the little valley, and continued his way slowly, with a throbbing heart, as if fearing to behold with his eyes what he already witnessed in his soul. The hill afforded a view of the cottage. Here he had parted for the last time with his betrothed bride; here she had sobbed, "Take me with you"; here she had predicted, "Some day you will return and ask, 'Where is Julietta? Why doesn't she come to meet me?'"
His very heart shrank. One step more, and he would reach the hill-top—a weeping-willow obstructed the view and, bending the boughs apart, he gazed down into the valley.
It was empty. Bare yellow fields lay dry and withered in the place of the green plantation, and the site of the cottage was marked by a black spot.