He beheld more luxury in a week than all his subjects had seen in a century.  Here Congo girls were dressed in cottons and flannels worth, where he came from, an elephant’s tusk apiece.  Everybody wore clothes—­children and lads alone excepted.  Not a lion had invaded the settlement since his immigration.  The serpents were as nothing; an occasional one coming up through the floor—­that was all.  True, there was more emaciation than unassisted conjecture could explain—­a profusion of enlarged joints and diminished muscles, which, thank God, was even then confined to a narrow section and disappeared with Spanish rule.  He had no experimental knowledge of it; nay, regular meals, on the contrary, gave him anxious concern, yet had the effect—­spite of his apprehension that he was being fattened for a purpose—­of restoring the herculean puissance which formerly in Africa had made him the terror of the battle.

When one day he had come to be quite himself, he was invited out into the sunshine, and escorted by the driver (a sort of foreman to the overseer), went forth dimly wondering.  They reached a field where some men and women were hoeing.  He had seen men and women—­subjects of his—­labor—­a little—­in Africa.  The driver handed him a hoe; he examined it with silent interest—­until by signs he was requested to join the pastime.

“What?”

He spoke, not with his lips, but with the recoil of his splendid frame and the ferocious expansion of his eyes.  This invitation was a cataract of lightning leaping down an ink-black sky.  In one instant of all-pervading clearness he read his sentence—­WORK.

Bras-Coupe was six feet five.  With a sweep as quick as instinct the back of the hoe smote the driver full in the head.  Next, the prince lifted the nearest Congo crosswise, brought thirty-two teeth together in his wildly kicking leg and cast him away as a bad morsel; then, throwing another into the branches of a willow, and a woman over his head into a draining-ditch, he made one bound for freedom, and fell to his knees, rocking from side to side under the effect of a pistol-ball from the overseer.  It had struck him in the forehead, and running around the skull in search of a penetrable spot, tradition—­which sometimes jests—­says came out despairingly, exactly where it had entered.

It so happened that, except the overseer, the whole company were black.  Why should the trivial scandal be blabbed?  A plaster or two made everything even in a short time, except in the driver’s case—­for the driver died.  The woman whom Bras-Coupe had thrown over his head lived to sell calas to Joseph Frowenfeld.

Don Jose, young and austere, knew nothing about agriculture and cared as much about human nature.  The overseer often thought this, but never said it; he would not trust even himself with the dangerous criticism.  When he ventured to reveal the foregoing incidents to the senor he laid all the blame possible upon the man whom death had removed beyond the reach of correction, and brought his account to a climax by hazarding the asserting that Bras-Coupe was an animal that could not be whipped.