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“Softly, Congo,” directed the colonel, after a time. “Let him rest for a moment.” Turning to the son he inquired, “Will you see him die rather than speak?”

Floreal nodded silently; his face was distorted and wet with sweat.

Laguerre rose with a curse. “Little pig! I will make your tongue wag if I have to place you between planks and saw you in twain. But you shall have time to think. Maximilien will guard you, and in the morning you will guide me to the hiding-place. Meanwhile we will let the old man hang. I have an appetite for pleasanter things than this.” He turned toward the house in which Pierrine was hidden, whereat Floreal strained at his bonds, calling after him:

“Laguerre! She is my wife–by the Church! My wife.”

Petithomme opened the door silently and disappeared.

“Humph! The colonel amuses himself while I tickle the sides of this yellow man,” said Congo in some envy.

“I don’t believe there is any money,” Maximilien observed. “What? Am I right?” He turned inquiringly to Floreal, but the latter had regained his former position, and the candle-flame was licking at his wrists. “To be sure! This is a waste of time. Make an end of the old man, Congo, and I will take the boy back to his prison. It is late and I am sleepy.”

The speaker approached his captive, his musket resting in the hollow of his arm, his machete hanging at his side. “So, now! Don’t strain so bitterly,” he laughed. “I tied those knots and they will not slip, for I have tied too many yellow men. To-morrow you will be shot, monsieur, and Pierrine will be a widow, so why curse the colonel if he cheats you by a few hours?”

Congo was examining his victim, and uttered an exclamation, at which Maximilien paused, with a hand upon Floreal’s shoulder.

“Is he dead?”

“The club was heavier than I thought,” answered Congo.

“He brought it upon himself. Well, the prison at Jacmel is full of colored people; this will leave room for one more–“

Maximilien’s words suddenly failed him, his thoughts were abruptly halted, for he found that in some unaccountable manner young Rameau’s hands had become free and that the machete at his own side was slipping from its sheath. The phenomenon was unbelievable, it paralyzed Maximilien’s intellect during that momentary pause which is required to reconcile the inconceivable with the imminent. It is doubtful if the trooper fully realized what had befallen or that any danger threatened, for his mind was sluggish, and under Rameau’s swift hands his soul had begun to tug at his body before his astonishment had disappeared. The blade rasped out of its scabbard, whistled through its course, and Maximilien lurched forward to his knees.

The sound of the blow, like that of an ax sunk into a rotten tree-trunk, surprised Congo. A shout burst from him; he raised the stout cudgel above his head, for Floreal was upon him like the blurred image out of a nightmare. The trooper shrieked affrightedly as the blade sheared through his shield and bit at his arm. He turned to flee, but his head was round and bare, and it danced before the oncoming Floreal. Rameau cleft it, as he had learned to open a green cocoanut, with one stroke. On the hard earth, Maximilien was scratching and kicking as if to drag himself out of the welter in which he lay.

Floreal cut down his father and received the limp figure in his arms. As he straightened it he heard a furious commotion from the camp-fire where the other tirailleurs were squatted. From the tail of his eye he saw that they were reaching for their weapons. He heard Laguerre shouting in the hut, then the crash of something overturned. As he rose from his father’s body he heard a shot and saw the soldiers of the Republic charging him. They were between him and Pierrine. He hesitated, then slipped back into the shadow of the tamarind-tree, and out at the other side; his cotton garments flickered briefly through the moonlight, then the thicket swallowed him. His pursuers paused and emptied their guns blindly into the ink-black shadows where he had disappeared.