A young mulatto stepped to the front and addressed the planter in an excited manner.
“That the whites despised you is a fact; but, on the other hand, you affected to look down upon the mulattoes amongst whom they classed you. It has even been reported that you once challenged a white man who called you a half caste.”
A howl of execration arose from the crowd, and the cry of “death” was repeated more loudly than ever, whilst the planter, casting an appealing glance at me, continued, with tears in his eyes—
“It is a calumny, my greatest glory and happiness is in belonging to the blacks, I am a mulatto.”
“If you really were a mulatto,” observed Rigaud, quietly, “you would not make use of such an expression.”
“How do I know what I am saying?” asked the panic-stricken wretch. “General, the proof that I am of mixed blood is in the black circle that you see round the bottom of my nails.”
Biassou thrust aside the suppliant hand.
“I do not possess the knowledge of our chaplain, who can tell what a man is by looking at his hand. But listen to me: my soldiers accuse you—some, of being a white man; others, of being a false brother. If this is the case you ought to die. You, on the other hand, assert that you belong to our race, and that you have never denied it. There is one method by which you can prove your assertions. Take this dagger and stab these two white prisoners!”
As he spoke, with a wave of his hand, he designated the citizen C—— and myself.
The planter drew back from the dagger which, with a devilish smile on his face, Biassou presented to him.