Captain Ruiz was early at the meeting-place, but he waited patiently, drinking rum and listening to the chatter of the street. His Spanish accent, his identity as the master of the schooner in the offing, and, above all, his threatening eyes, won him a tolerance which the warlike blacks did not accord to Haytians of his color; therefore he was not molested. He soon confirmed his sailor's story; revolution was indeed in the air; the country was seething with unrest. Many houses already had been burned—sure token of an uprising. The soldiers had had a taste of pillage and persecution. The streets were thronged with them now; merchants were on guard before their shops; from every side came the sounds of revelry and quarreling.
Laguerre arrived, finally, a huge, forbidding man of martial bearing, and he was heralded by cheers. He was much older and infinitely prouder than when Inocencio had seen him. His uniform had been blue at that time, but now it was parrot-green; his epaulettes were broader, the golden braid and dangling loops were heavier, and he was fat from easy living. With age and power he had coarsened, but his eyes were still bloodshot and domineering.
"Captain Ruiz?" he inquired, pausing before the yellow man.
"Your Excellency!" Inocencio rose and saluted. The seaman's eyes were smoldering, but his lips were cold, for he felt the dread of recognition.
Time, it seemed, had dulled the sharp outlines of Laguerre's memory as it had changed the younger man's features, for he continued, unsuspectingly:
"You are the agent of Monsieur Leblanc, I believe."
"The same."
"Good! Now these rifles—you have them near by?"
"Within gunshot, Excellency. They are in the harbor at this moment."
Laguerre's face lighted. "Ha! A man of business, this Leblanc. You will fix the price, as I understand it."