In the midst of the ancient town, in a part which is now crumbling away, stood the Calaboza, with its humid vaults and grated cells, its iron cages and its whips; and there, soon enough, they strapped Bras-Coupe face downward and laid on the lash.  And yet not a sound came from the mutilated but unconquered African to annoy the ear of the sleeping city.

("And you suffered this thing to take place?” asked Joseph Frowenfeld of Honore Grandissime.

“My-de’-seh!” exclaimed the Creole, “they lied to me—­said they would not harm him!”)

He was brought at sunrise to the plantation.  The air was sweet with the smell of the weed-grown fields.  The long-horned oxen that drew him and the naked boy that drove the team stopped before his cabin.

“You cannot put that creature in there,” said the thoughtful overseer.  “He would suffocate under a roof—­he has been too long out-of-doors for that.  Put him on my cottage porch.”  There, at last, Palmyre burst into tears and sank down, while before her, on a soft bed of dry grass, rested the helpless form of the captive giant, a cloth thrown over his galled back, his ears shorn from his head, and the tendons behind his knees severed.  His eyes were dry, but there was in them that unspeakable despair that fills the eye of the charger when, fallen in battle, he gazes with sidewise-bended neck on the ruin wrought upon him.  His eye turned sometimes slowly to his wife.  He need not demand her now—­she was always by him.

There was much talk over him—­much idle talk.  He merely lay still under it with a fixed frown; but once some incautious tongue dropped the name of Agricola.  The black man’s eyes came so quickly round to Palmyre that she thought he would speak; but no; his words were all in his eyes.  She answered their gleam with a fierce affirmative glance, whereupon he slowly bent his head and spat upon the floor.

There was yet one more trial of his wild nature.  The mandate came from his master’s sick-bed that he must lift the curse.

Bras-Coupe merely smiled.  God keep thy enemy from such a smile!

The overseer, with a policy less Spanish than his master’s, endeavored to use persuasion.  But the fallen prince would not so much as turn one glance from his parted hamstrings.  Palmyre was then besought to intercede.  She made one poor attempt, but her husband was nearer doing her an unkindness than ever he had been before; he made a slow sign for silence—­with his fist; and every mouth was stopped.

At midnight following, there came, on the breeze that blew from the mansion, a sound of running here and there, of wailing and sobbing—­another Bridegroom was coming, and the Spaniard, with much such a lamp in hand as most of us shall be found with, neither burning brightly nor wholly gone out, went forth to meet Him.

“Bras-Coupe,” said Palmyre, next evening, speaking low in his mangled ear, “the master is dead; he is just buried.  As he was dying, Bras-Coupe, he asked that you would forgive him.”