“What,” said the general, “do you hesitate? It is your only chance of proving your assertion to the army that you are not a white, and are one of ourselves. Come, decide at once, for we have no time to lose.”
The prisoner’s eyes glared wildly; he stretched out his hand towards the dagger, then let his arm fall again, turning away his head, whilst every limb quivered with emotion.
“Come, come,” cried Biassou, in tones of impatience and anger, “I am in a hurry. Choose—either kill them, or die with them!”
The planter remained motionless, as if he had been turned to stone.
“Good!” said Biassou, turning towards the negroes, “he does not wish to be the executioner, let him be the victim. I can see that he is nothing but a white man—away with him!”
The negroes advanced to seize him. This movement impelled him to immediate choice between giving or receiving death.
Extreme cowardice produces a bastard species of courage.
Stepping forward, he snatched the dagger that Biassou still held out to him, and without giving himself time to reflect upon what he was about to do, he precipitated himself like a tiger upon citizen C——, who was lying on the ground near me. Then a terrible struggle commenced. The lover of the negro race, who had, at the conclusion of his interview with Biassou, remained plunged in a state of despair and stupor, had hardly noticed the scene between the general and the planter, so absorbed was he in the thought of his approaching death; but when he saw the man rush upon him, and the steel gleam above his head, the imminence of his danger aroused him at once. He started to his feet, grasped the arm of his would-be murderer, and exclaimed in a voice of terror—
“Pardon, pardon! What are you doing? What have I done?”
“You must die, sir,” said the half-caste, fixing his frenzied eyes upon his victim, and endeavouring to disengage his arm. “Let me do it; I will not hurt you.”