education of the noble soul, long repressed by slavery, to a point of
insight which multitudes do not reach in a lifetime. No doubt, the
preparation had been making through years of forbearance and meditation,
and through the latter mouths of enterprise and activity; but yet, the
change of views and purposes was so great as to make him feel, between
night and morning, as if he were another man.

The lamp burned out, and there was no light but from the brilliant
flies, a few of which had found their way into the tent. Toussaint made
his repeater strike: it was three o'clock. As his mind grew calm under
the settlement of his purposes, he became aware of the thirst which his
agitation had excited. By the light of the flitting tapers, he poured
out water, refreshed himself with a deep draught, and then addressed
himself to his duty. He could rarely endure delay in acting on his
convictions. The present was a case in which delay was treachery; and
he would not lose an hour. He would call up Father Laxabon, and open
his mind to him, that he might be ready for action when the camp should
awake.

As he drew aside the curtain of the tent, the air felt fresh to his
heated brow, and, with the calm starlight, seemed to breathe strength
and quietness into his soul. He stood for a moment listening to the
dash and gurgle of the river, as it ran past the camp--the voice of
waters, so loud to the listening ear, but so little heeded amidst the
hum of the busy hours of day. It now rose above the chirpings and
buzzings of reptiles and insects, and carried music to the ear and
spirit of him who had so often listened at Breda to the fall of water in
the night hours, with a mind unburdened and unperplexed with duties and
with cares. The sentinel stopped before the tent with a start which
made his arms ring at seeing the entrance open, and some one standing
there.

"Watch that no one enters?" said Toussaint to him. "Send for me to
Father Laxabon's, if I am wanted."

As he entered the tent of the priest--a tent so small as to contain only
one apartment--all seemed dark. Laxabon slept so soundly as not to
awake till Toussaint had found the tinder-box, and was striking a light.

"In the name of Christ, who is there?" cried Laxabon.

"I, Toussaint Breda; entreating your pardon, father."

"Why are you here, my son? There is some misfortune, by your face. You
look wearied and anxious. What is it?"

"No misfortune, father, and