married about two years when
the revolt occurred (fortunately there were no children),--the black
revolt of eighteen hundred and forty-eight. Several planters were
murdered; and M. Floran was one of the first to be killed. And the old
negro whom we saw to-day--the old sorcerer, as you call him--left the
plantation, and joined the rising: do you understand?"

"Yes," I said; "but he might have done that through fear of the mob."

"Certainly: the other hands did the same. But it was he that killed M.
Floran,--for no reason whatever,--cut him up with a cutlass. M. Floran
was riding home when the attack was made,--about a mile below the
plantation.... Sober, that negro would not have dared to face M.
Floran: the scoundrel was drunk, of course,--raving drunk. Most of
the blacks had been drinking tafia, with dead wasps in it, to give
themselves courage."

"But," I interrupted, "how does it happen that the fellow is still on
the Floran plantation?"

"Wait a moment!... When the military got control of the mob, search
was made everywhere for the murderer of M. Floran; but he could not
be found. He was lying out in the cane,--in M. Floran's cane!--like
a field-rat, like a snake. One morning, while the gendarmes
were still looking for him, he rushed into the house, and
threw himself down in front of Madame, weeping and screaming,
'_A[:i]e-ya[:i]e-ya[:i]e-ya[:i]e!--moin t['e] tchou['e] y! moin
t['e] tchou['e] y!--a[:i]e-ya[:i]e-ya[:i]e!_' Those were his very
words:--'I killed him! I killed him!' And he begged for mercy. When he
was asked why he killed M. Floran, he cried out that it was the
devil--_diabe-[`a]_--that had made him do it!... Well, Madame forgave
him!"

"But how could she?" I queried.

"Oh, she had always been very religious," my friend
responded,--"sincerely religious. She only said, 'May God pardon me
as I now pardon you!' She made her servants hide the creature and feed
him; and they kept him hidden until the excitement was over. Then she
sent him back to work; and he has been working for her ever since. Of
course he is now too old to be of any use in the field;--he only takes
care of the chickens."

"But how," I persisted, "could the relatives allow Madame to forgive
him?"

"Well, Madame insisted that he was not mentally responsible,--that he
was only a poor fool who had killed without knowing what he was doing;
and she argued that if _she_ could forgive him, others could more
easily do the same. There w