is displeasure, a ruddy moss feeding
upon decay, has spread over the stones, and this moss, ever kept damp by
the cloud-banks which wreathe the Citadel continually is moistly red,
like newly shed blood. In cracks and corners, fungi of poisonous hues
adds another touch of wickedness. Manuel shivered with repulsion.
Probably not in all the world, certainly not in the Western Hemisphere,
is there a ruin of such historic terror as the Citadel of the Black
Emperor on the summit of La Ferriere.[1]

[Footnote 1: This ruin, now, is nominally in territory under the
jurisdiction of an American provost-marshal. It is therefore less
difficult of access than formerly, but it is still considered unsafe for
travelers.]

A gleam of sun revealed the extraordinary impregnability of the place.
The double-walled entrance from the hillside, pierced by but a single
gate, could only be battered down by heavy artillery, and no guns
powerful enough for such a feat could be brought up the hill. The Inner
Citadel, access to which was only by a long flight of steps, is
unapproachable from any other point, and a handful of defenders could
keep an army at bay.

The cliff-side is as sheer as Gibraltar, affording not even a foothold
for the most venturesome climber. The walls are built upon its very
verge and are as solid as the rock itself. Its gray mass conveys a
sense of enormous power. "It towers upon the last and highest
precipice," says Hesketh Prichard, "like some sinister monster of the
elder world, ready to launch itself forth upon the spreading lands
below."

The Citadel commands the whole of the Plain of the North clear to the
distant sea. At its south-eastern end it faces toward the frontier of
St. Domingo, the sister republic, fifty miles away. Christophe built it
as a central base, controlling the only roads and passes which command
the range from Dondon to Valliere, and rendering attack impossible, from
the southern side, through Marmalade. (Many names in Haiti give an
irresistible appearance of being comic, such as the Duke of Lemonade,
Duke of Marmalade, Baron the Prophet Daniel, and Colonel the Baron Roast
Beef, but they are intended seriously.)

Manuel had gazed over the landscape but a few moments when the sun was
veiled in one of the cold, raw cloud-fogs which continually sweep the
summit. Billowing, dank masses hurtled about him, blotting out even the
outlines of the ruin. For several minutes the grey mists enwreathed him,