The terror that had seized upon Marie at the thought of the coming misfortune which her love for me had almost caused her to divine, made me determined to spare her the dreadful truth for the moment. I placed my mouth to Bug-Jargal’s ear, and whispered in hurried accents: “I am a prisoner. I swore to Biassou that two hours before sunset I would once more place myself in his hands; in fact, I have sworn to return to my death!”
Filled with rage, in a loud voice he exclaimed:
“The monster! This then was his motive for a secret interview with you—it was to bind you with this fatal promise. I ought to have distrusted the wretch. Why did I not foresee that there must be some treachery lurking in the request, for he is a mulatto, not a black.”
“What is this—what treachery? what promise?” said Marie, in an agony of terror. “And who is Biassou?”
“Silence, silence,” repeated I, in a low voice to Bug-Jargal; “do not let us alarm Marie.”
“Good,” answered he; “but why did you give such a pledge, how could you consent?”
“I thought that you had deceived me, and that Marie was lost to me for ever. What was life to me then?”
“But a simple promise cannot bind you to a brigand like that.”
“I gave my word of honour.”
He did not seem to understand me.