lyard and run
it through yonder block." He slid back the hatch and descended leisurely
into the cabin.

Laguerre was sitting in a chair with his arms and legs securely bound,
but he had succeeded in working considerable havoc with the furnishings
of the place as well as with his splendid uniform. His lips foamed, his
eyes protruded at sight of his captor; a trickle of blood from his scalp
lent him a ferocious appearance.

Inocencio seated himself, and the two men stared at each other across
the bare table.

Laguerre spoke first, his tongue thick, his voice hoarse from yelling.
Inocencio listened with fixed, unwavering gaze.

"You tricked me neatly," the former raved. "You are a government spy, I
presume. The government feared me. Well, then, it was bold work, but you
will listen to what I say now. We will settle this matter quickly, you
and I. I have money. You can name your price."

The hearer curled his thin lips. "So! You have money. You offer to buy
your life. Old Julien had no money; he was poor."

Petithomme did not understand. "I am too powerful to remain in prison,"
he declared. "The President would not dare harm me; no man dares harm
me; but I am willing to pay you--"

"All Hayti could not buy your life, Laguerre!"

Some tone of voice, some haunting familiarity of feature, set the
prisoner's memory to groping blindly. At last he inquired, "Who are
you?"

"I am Floreal."

The name meant nothing. Laguerre's life was black; many Floreals had
figured in it.

"You do not remember me?"

"N-no, and yet--"

"Perhaps you will remember another--a woman. She had a scar, just here."
The speaker laid a tobacco-stained finger upon his left cheek-bone, and
Laguerre noticed for the first time that the wrist beneath it was maimed
as from a burn. "It was a little scar and it was brown, in the
candle-light. She was young and round and her body was soft--" The
mulatto's lean face was suddenly distorted in a horrible grimace which
he intended for a smile. "She was my wife, Laguerre, by the Church, and
you took her. She died, but she had a child--your child."

The huge black figure shrank into its green-and-gold panoply, the
bloodshot eyes rested upon Inocencio with a look of terrified
recognition.

"I have no children, Laguerre; no wife; no home! I am poor and you have
become great. There was an old man whom you stretched by the wrists, in
the moonlight. Do you remember him? And the old woman, my mother, whom