"_Eh bien_, old woman," said Mandarin, turning, without rising, and speaking sharply in the negro French, "have you any reason to give why you should not be hung to that limb over your head?"

She lifted her eyes slowly to his, and made a feeble gesture of deprecation.

"_Mo te pas fe cette bras_, Mawse Challie--I di'n't mek dat ahm; no 'ndeed I di'n', Mawse Challie. I ain' wuth hangin', gen'lemen; you'd oughteh jis gimme fawty an' lemme go. I--I--I--I di'n' 'ten' no hawm to Mawse-Agricole; I wa'n't gwan to hu't n.o.body in G.o.d's worl'; 'ndeed I wasn'. I done tote dat old case-knife fo' twenty year'--_mo po'te ca dipi vingt ans_. I'm a po' ole _marchande des calas; mo courri_ 'mongs'

de sojer boys to sell my cakes, you know, and da's de onyest reason why I cyah dat ah ole fool knife." She seemed to take some hope from the silence with which they heard her. Her eye brightened and her voice took a tone of excitement. "You'd oughteh tek me and put me in calaboose, an'

let de law tek 'is co'se. You's all nice gen'lemen--werry nice gen'lemen, an' you sorter owes it to yo'sev's fo' to not do no sich nasty wuck as hangin' a po' ole n.i.g.g.a wench; 'deed you does. 'Tain' no use to hang me; you gwan to kyetch Palmyre yit; _li courri dans marais;_ she is in de swamp yeh, sum'ers; but as concernin' me, you'd oughteh jis gimme fawty an lemme go. You mus'n't b'lieve all dis-yeh nonsense 'bout insurrectionin'; all fool-n.i.g.g.a talk. W'at we want to be insurrectionin'

faw? We de happies' people in de G.o.d's worl'!" She gave a start, and cast a furtive glance of alarm behind her. "Yes, we is; you jis' oughteh gimme fawty an' lemme go! Please, gen'lemen! G.o.d'll be good to you, you nice, sweet gen'lemen!"

Charlie Mandarin made a sign to one who stood at her back, who responded by dropping a rawhide noose over her head. She bounded up with a cry of terror; it may be that she had all along hoped that all was make-believe. She caught the noose wildly with both hands and tried to lift it over her head.

"Ah! no, mawsteh, you cyan' do dat! It's ag'in' de law! I's 'bleeged to have my trial, yit. Oh, no, no! Oh, good G.o.d, no! Even if I is a n.i.g.g.a!

You cyan' jis' murdeh me hyeh in de woods! _Mo dis la zize_! I tell de judge on you! You ain' got no mo' biznis to do me so 'an if I was a white 'oman! You da.s.sent tek a white 'oman out'n de Pa'sh Pris'n an' do 'er so! Oh, sweet mawsteh, fo' de love o' G.o.d! Oh, Mawse Challie, _pou'

l'amou' du bon Dieu n'fe pas ca_! Oh, Mawse 'Polyte, is you gwan to let 'em kill ole Clemence? Oh, fo' de mussy o' Jesus Christ, Mawse 'Polyte, leas' of all, _you_! You da.s.sent help to kill me, Mawse 'Polyte! You knows why! Oh G.o.d, Mawse 'Polyte, you knows why! Leas' of all you, Mawse 'Polyte! Oh, G.o.d 'a' mussy on my wicked ole soul! I aint fitt'n to die!

Oh, gen'lemen, I kyan' look G.o.d in de face! _Oh, Miches, ayez pitie de moin! Oh, G.o.d A'mighty ha' mussy on my soul_! Oh, gen'lemen, dough yo'

kinfolks kyvvah up yo' tricks now, dey'll dwap f'um undeh you some day!

_Sole leve la, li couche la_! Yo' tu'n will come! Oh, G.o.d A'mighty! de G.o.d o' de po' n.i.g.g.a wench! Look down, oh G.o.d, look down an' stop dis yeh foolishness! Oh, G.o.d, fo' de love o' Jesus! _Oh, Miches, y'en a ein zizement_! Oh, yes, deh's a judgmen' day! Den it wont be a bit o' use to you to be white! Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, fo', fo', fo', de, de, _love 0'

G.o.d! Oh_!"

They drew her up.

Raoul was not far off. He heard the woman's last cry, and came threshing through the bushes on foot. He saw Sylvestre, unconscious of any approach, spring forward, jerk away the hands that had drawn the thong over the branch, let the strangling woman down and loosen the noose. Her eyes, starting out with horror, turned to him; she fell on her knees and clasped her hands. The tears were rolling down Sylvestre's face.

"My friends, we must not do this! You _shall_ not do it!"

He hurled away, with twice his natural strength, one who put out a hand.

"No, sirs!" cried Raoul, "you shall not do it! I come from Honore! Touch her who dares!"

He drew a weapon.

"Monsieur Innerarity," said 'Polyte, "_who is_ Monsieur Honore Grandissime? There are two of the name, you know,--partners--brothers.

Which of--but it makes no difference; before either of them sees this a.s.sa.s.sin she is going to be a lump of nothing!"

The next word astonished every one. It was Charlie Mandarin who spoke.

"Let her go!"

"Let her go!" said Jean-Baptiste Grandissime; "give her a run for life.

Old woman, rise up. We propose to let you go. Can you run? Never mind, we shall see. Achille, put her upon her feet. Now, old woman, run!"

She walked rapidly, but with unsteady feet, toward the fields.

"Run! If you don't run I will shoot you this minute!"

She ran.

"Faster!"

She ran faster.

"Run!"

"Run!"

"Run, Clemence! Ha, ha, ha!" It was so funny to see her scuttling and tripping and stumbling. "_Courri! courri, Clemence! c'est pou to' vie!_ ha, ha, ha--"

A pistol-shot rang out close behind Raoul's ear; it was never told who fired it. The negress leaped into the air and fell at full length to the ground, stone dead.

CHAPTER LVIII

DYING WORDS

Drivers of vehicles in the rue Royale turned aside before two slight barriers spanning the way, one at the corner below, the other at that above, the house where the aged high-priest of a doomed civilization lay bleeding to death. The floor of the store below, the pavement of the corridor where stood the idle volante, were covered with straw, and servants came and went by the beckoning of the hand.

"This way," whispered a guide of the four ladies from the Grandissime mansion. As Honore's mother turned the angle half-way up the m.u.f.fled stair, she saw at the landing above, standing as if about to part, yet in grave council, a man and a woman, the fairest--she noted it even in this moment of extreme distress--she had ever looked upon. He had already set one foot down upon the stair, but at sight of the ascending group drew back and said:

"It is my mother;" then turned to his mother and took her hand; they had been for months estranged, but now they silently kissed.

"He is sleeping," said Honore. "Maman, Madame Nancanou."

The ladies bowed--the one looking very large and splendid, the other very sweet and small. There was a single instant of silence, and Aurora burst into tears.

For a moment Madame Grandissime a.s.sumed a frown that was almost a reminder of her brother's, and then the very pride of the Fusiliers broke down. She uttered an inaudible exclamation, drew the weeper firmly into her bosom, and with streaming eyes and choking voice, but yet with majesty, whispered, laying her hand on Aurora's head:

"Never mind, my child; never mind; never mind."

And Honore's sister, when she was presently introduced, kissed Aurora and murmured:

"The good G.o.d bless thee! It is He who has brought us together."

"Who is with him just now?" whispered the two other ladies, while Honore and his mother stood a moment aside in hurried consultation.

"My daughter," said Aurora, "and--"

"Agamemnon," suggested Madame Martinez.

"I believe so," said Aurora.

Valentine appeared from the direction of the sick-room and beckoned to Honore. Doctor Keene did the same and continued to advance.

"Awake?" asked Honore.

"Yes."