ord vacantly. He turned to his wife,
saying, "Monsieur le Colonel asks for money. We have none."

The girl nodded, her lips moved, but no sound issued; she also was
staring, horror-stricken, into the shadows of the tamarind-tree. Her
arms, bound as they were, threw the outlines of her ripe young bosom
into prominent relief and showed her to be round and supple; she was
lighter in color even than Floreal. A little scar just below her left
eye stood out, dull brown, upon her yellow cheek.

Laguerre now saw her plainly for the first time, and shook off his
indolence. He swung his legs from the hammock and sat up. Something in
the intensity of his regard brought her gaze away from the figure of
Papa Rameau. She saw a large, thick-necked, full-bodied black, of bold
and brutal feature, whose determined eyes had become bloodshot from
staring through dust and sun. He wore a mustache, and a little pointed
woolly patch beneath his lower lip. Involuntarily the girl recoiled.

"Um-m! So!" The barefoot colonel rose and, stepping forward, took her
face in his harsh palm, turning it up for scrutiny. His roving glance
appraised her fully. "Your name is--"

"Pierrine!"

"To be sure. Well then, my little Pierrine, you will tell me about this,
eh?"

"I know nothing," she stammered. "Floreal speaks the truth, monsieur.
What does it mean--all this? We are good people; we harm nobody. Every
one here was happy until the--blacks rose. Then there was fighting
and--this morning you came. It was terrible! Mamma Cleomelie is
dead--the soldiers shot her. Why do you hang Papa Julien?"

Floreal broke in, hysterically: "Yes, monsieur, he is an old man. Punish
me if you will, but my father--he is old. See! He is barely alive. These
riches you speak about are imaginary. We have fields, cattle, a
schooner; take them for the Republic, but, monsieur, my father has
injured no one."

Petithomme Laguerre reseated himself in the hammock and swung himself
idly, his bare soles scuffing the hard earthen floor; he continued to
eye Pierrine.

Now that young Rameau had brought himself to beg, he fell to his knees
and went on: "I swear to you that we are not traitors. Never have we
spoken against the government. We are 'colored,' yes, but the black
people love us. They loved Cleomelie, my mother, whom the soldiers shot.
That was murder. Monsieur--she would have harmed nobody. She was only
frightened." The suppliant's shoulders were heaving, his voice was