Barthelemy stood motionless, with fixed eyes. No sigh escaped his lips, but he suddenly fell as if lifeless, with his face pressed against the grass. Perhaps he might have passed into the eternal slumber, had not sad dreams come and forced him to witness the horrible bloody scenes enacted when the Satanic band burst into the quiet, lonely cottage, where the three girls and their grandmother knelt in prayer; he saw the rabble rush in through door and windows, seizing their victims by the hair, the thin, gray locks of the poor old grandmother, the luxuriant raven ones, which he had so often kissed, of his worshipped Julietta. If he had been lying in his grave, such a dream must have roused him.
"Ah!" shrieked the pirate struggling back to consciousness, like a person throwing off a deadly burden from his heart, and gazing around him, gasping for breath as he wiped the perspiration from his eyes and brow. "It is well that it was only a dream," he faltered. Then a glance into the valley proved that it was no delusion, but reality. Springing to his feet he rushed wildly down into the valley to the ruins of the hut, called the names of his dear ones, stirred the ashes as if he might find them there, examined the footprints in the mire to see if he could discover among them any traces of those of the objects of his love. But he found nothing except the marks of clumsy negro feet, nowhere the imprint of the dear, fairy-like ones. They were lost. Not a vestige of the cottage remained except the charred threshold. Barthelemy embraced and kissed it, his eyes growing dim with tears.
"Ah!" he shouted, dashing them from his eyes, "Not water, but oil on the flames! This is not the time to weep, but to avenge. A pirate's tears are drops of blood! I will avenge you, my murdered family, on mankind, on the whole world. Earth, grant me no more rest. Change the wine-cup to wormwood ere it reaches my lips, and every throb of my heart to hate. I had a single joy, my soul a single steadfast idea, which came to my remembrance whenever any one sued to me for mercy, and I granted it. That was joy. But it is forever torn from my heart, henceforward I will give quarter to no one. Hear my vow, ye powers of Hell, and tremble—I will send you as many black fiends as there are grains of dust in this handful of ashes which I scatter on my head."
With a terrible imprecation, Barthelemy flung into the air a handful of ashes which he had clutched and, as they floated slowly down upon his head, he sank on his knees and, sobbing convulsively, kissed the threshold.
"My God, my God, if it was Thy will to punish me, why didst Thou not dash me against a cliff during the raging of a tempest, why didst Thou not let me perish by arms, by hunger? Why didst Thou not make me mount the scaffold? Why didst Thou permit Thy angels to atone for my crimes?"
He sobbed bitterly, while the ashes he had scattered to bear witness to his vow, drifted slowly down upon his head.
A traveller, driving his mule before him, came through the path leading from the forest. Barthelemy barred his way. The man started at sight of the fierce-looking stranger and began to appeal to his patron saint.
"Whence do you come?" asked the pirate.
"From La Vega. I bring good news. The insurgents are conquered and already hang along the coast."