Chapter Twenty Eight.
In which Terrible but True Martyrdoms are Described.
Matters had now reached a crisis. Although suffering from illness—partly brought on, or aggravated, by her unrestrained passions—the Queen gave orders next day for the host to turn homeward. Travelling more rapidly than she had yet done, she soon reached the capital.
There the arrival of the captives and the news of what had occurred prepared them for the worst. And the worst was not long of coming. The very day following the Queen’s return, a great assembly, or Kabàry, of the whole people was called. None were exempted from the meeting. High and low, rich and poor, sick and healthy, were driven to the great place of assembly near the palace—literally driven, for officers were sent as usual to break into the houses of the people, when necessary, and force them to attend. And there was no way of escape, for at the time of the summons being sent out every outlet from the city was guarded by soldiers, and the cannon along the heights thundered a salute by way of striking terror into the hearts of the rebellious. Well did the poor people know what all this foreshadowed. One who was an eye-witness of the scene said, “there was a general howling and wailing, a rushing and running through the streets, as if the town had been attacked by a hostile army.” At last the great square of the city was crowded, as full as it could hold, with hundreds of thousands of people, who were overawed by the presence of a body of troops fifteen thousand strong as they awaited the announcement of the Queen’s pleasure.
Mark Breezy was there, along with his comrades, on an elevated spot near to the place where the Queen’s messenger was to make the proclamation.
“We are utterly helpless here,” said Mark in a low voice, as he gazed in pity on the groaning and swaying multitude. “The Queen’s countenance is changed to me. I feel sure that either we have been betrayed in the matter of Rafaravavy, or we are suspected. Indeed, if it were not that she is ill, and needs my aid, she would certainly banish us all from her dominions.”
“I wish I was well out of ’em,” growled Hockins. “The country is well enough, no doubt, but a woman like that makes it a hell-upon-earth!”
“Has you hear, massa, whar dey hab put Ravonino an’ our oder friends?” asked Ebony.
“No, I did not dare to ask. And even if we knew we could do nothing!”
The youth spoke bitterly, for he had become so much attached to their former guide, and the natives with whom they had sojourned and travelled, that he would have fought for them to the death if that could have availed them. Strong and active young men are apt to become bitter when they find that superabundant energy and physical force are in some circumstances utterly useless. To be compelled to stand by inactive and see injustice done—cruelty and death dealt out, while the blood boils, the nerves quiver, and the violated feelings revolt, is a sore trial to manhood! And such was the position of our three adventurers at that time.