your name; and that at Port Paix—”
“Enough, enough! my boys. Too much, for I see that your hearts are proud.”
“The Commissary and the General said that you are supreme—the idol of your colour. Those were their words.”
“And in this there is yet no glory. I have yet done nothing, but by what is called accident. Our own people were ready—by no preparation of mine; the mulattoes were weak and taken by surprise, through circumstances not of my ordering. Glory there may hereafter be belonging to our name, my boys; but as yet there is none. I have power: but power is less often glory than disgrace.”
“Oh, father! do but listen. Hark again! ‘Toussaint L’Ouverture!’ ”
“I will strive to make that shout a prophecy, my sons. Till then, no pride! Are you not weary? Come in to rest. Can you sleep in my fine chamber here as well as at Breda?”
“Anywhere,” said Isaac, sleepily.
Toussaint gave up his apartment to his sons, and went forth once more to survey the town, and see that his troops were in their quarters. This done, he repaired to his friend Henri, willing for one more night to forego his greatness; and there, in his friend’s small barrack-room, the supreme in the colony—the idol of his colour—slept, as he had hoped for his boys, as tranquilly as if he had been at Breda.
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