y. "Now," I exclaimed, "I
shall behold with my own eyes the aboriginal style of burial in these
sacred and almost inaccessible recesses, which that unsatisfactory
historian, Ferdinand Colon, was too lazy to inspect with his own eyes, and
which his father had never seen in all his hunting-matches. Indeed, I don't
think his blood-hounds could climb the ascent to this cave." As I entered,
I felt myself treading on bones! I looked around the narrow chamber of
death, and every where bones--human bones covered the rocky floor; but no
sign of art or trace of religious obsequies rewarded my scrutiny. "Bless
me!" said I, "what a journey I have had for nothing! This is merely the
ordinary HOTTENTOT-HOLE style, with a stone instead of a thorn-bush to
exclude wild beasts!" So I hastened forth, blaming the easy credulity that
drank in traditionary tales of aboriginal tombs. At the entrance I found a
negro standing, leaning on his musket; a brace of pistols were stuck in
his girdle, and a sword hung by his side. I was rather startled, for the
man possessed a fierce and threatening aspect, and I was perfectly
defenceless. Nevertheless there was are air of manly dignity about him
which assured me that he was not likely to be unnecessarily savage. _"Qui
vive?"_ demanded he, sternly. I explained my views in coming to this
secluded spot. He unbent his dark brow on hearing that I was an Englishman.

"Behold that noble expanse!" said he, changing his tone and language
together. "The guileless race whose bones whiten this rocky den once
ranged over that lovely landscape in peace and freedom. The white savages
came, and were received as brethren. They threw off the mask, and repaid
friendship and love with bonds and tortures. The red man was too innocent,
and too ignorant, and too feeble, to co-exist under the same sky with the
cunning and ferocious white demon--and he retired to his caves to die! His
race is extinct, for _he knew not the use of arms_!" He clasped his musket
to his breast with emotion, and remained silent. "Who are you that feel so
much for the exterminated Haytians?" I inquired. "Their avenger!" he
replied, "and the champion of a darker race whose wrongs can never have
vengeance enough. Christophe!"

* * * * *

"You shall see the '_Dead men's feast_,'" said Logan. I followed him in
silence, till we reached the southern bank of the Ohio, not far from his
own residence. The tribe was seated in a