These words seemed to refer to the treacherous Pierrot, whom I loved, but who had betrayed me, and to the faithful Habibrah, who I had hated, and whose blood-stained garments attested his fidelity and his devotion.
“What do you say?” exclaimed I.
“Listen until the end,” continued the Obi. “I spoke of the future, listen to the past. The line of the moon on your forehead is slightly curved—that signifies that your wife has been carried off.”
I trembled, and endeavoured to spring from my seat, but my guards held me back.
“You have but little patience,” continued the sorcerer; “listen to the end. The little cross that cuts the extremity of that curve shows me all; your wife was carried off on the very night of your nuptials.”
“Wretch,” cried I, “you know where she is! Who are you?”
I strove again to free myself, and to tear away his veil, but I had to yield to numbers and to force, and I had the mortification of seeing the mysterious Obi move away repeating, “Do you believe me now? Prepare for immediate death.”
CHAPTER XXIX.
As if to draw my attention from the perplexity into which I had been thrown by the strange scene that had just passed, a new and more terrible drama succeeded to the farce that had been played between Biassou and the Obi. Biassou had again taken his place upon his mahogany throne, whilst Rigaud and the Obi were seated on his right and left; the latter, with his arms crossed on his breast, seemed to have given himself up to deep thought. Biassou and Rigaud were chewing tobacco, and an aide-de-camp had just asked if he should order a general march past of the forces, when a tumultuous crowd of negroes, with hideous shouts, arrived at the entrance of the grotto. They had brought with them three white prisoners to be judged by Biassou, but what they desired was easily shown by the cries of “Muerte! Muerte!” “Death, death!” the latter, no doubt, emanating from the English negroes of Bouckmann’s band, many of whom had by this time arrived to join the French and Spanish negroes of Biassou.
The general with a gesture of his hand commanded silence, and ordered the three captives to be brought to the entrance of the grotto. I recognized two of them with considerable surprise; one was the Citizen General C——, that philanthropist who was in correspondence with all the lovers of the negro race in different parts of the globe, and who had proposed so cruel a mode of suppressing the insurrection to the governor. The other was the planter of doubtful origin, who manifested so great a dislike to the mulattoes, amongst whom the whites insisted on classing him. The third appeared to belong to a section called “poor whites”—that is to say, white men who had to work for their living: he wore a leathern apron, and his sleeves were turned up to his elbows. All the prisoners had been taken at different times, endeavouring to hide themselves in the mountains.