The free man of color slowly arose.

“I trust you know,” said Frowenfeld, “that I say nothing in offence.”

“Havery word is tru’,” replied the sad man.

“Mr. Grandissime,” said the apothecary, as his landlord sank back again into his seat, “I know you are a broken-hearted man.”

The quadroon laid his fist upon his heart and looked up.

“And being broken-hearted, you are thus specially fitted for a work of patient and sustained self-sacrifice.  You have only those things to lose which grief has taught you to despise—­ease, money, display.  Give yourself to your people—­to those, I mean, who groan, or should groan, under the degraded lot which is theirs and yours in common.”

The quadroon shook his head, and after a moment’s silence, answered: 

“Ah cannod be one Toussaint l’Ouverture.  Ah cannod trah to be.  Hiv I trah, I h-only s’all soogceed to be one Bras-Coupe.”

“You entirely misunderstand me,” said Frowenfeld in quick response.  “I have no stronger disbelief than my disbelief in insurrection.  I believe that to every desirable end there are two roads, the way of strife and the way of peace.  I can imagine a man in your place, going about among his people, stirring up their minds to a noble discontent, laying out his means, sparingly here and bountifully there, as in each case might seem wisest, for their enlightenment, their moral elevation, their training in skilled work; going, too, among the men of the prouder caste, among such as have a spirit of fairness, and seeking to prevail with them for a public recognition of the rights of all; using all his cunning to show them the double damage of all oppression, both great and petty—­”

The quadroon motioned “enough.”  There was a heat in his eyes which Frowenfeld had never seen before.

“M’sieu’,” he said, “waid till Agricola Fusilier ees keel.”

“Do you mean ’dies’?”

“No,” insisted the quadroon; “listen.”  And with slow, painstaking phrase this man of strong feeling and feeble will (the trait of his caste) told—­as Frowenfeld felt he would do the moment he said “listen”—­such part of the story of Bras-Coupe as showed how he came by his deadly hatred of Agricola.

“Tale me,” said the landlord, as he concluded the recital, “w’y deen Bras Coupe mague dad curze on Agricola Fusilier?  Becoze Agricola ees one sorcier!  Elz ’e bin dade sinz long tamm.”

The speaker’s gestures seemed to imply that his own hand, if need be, would have brought the event to pass.

As he rose to say adieu, Frowenfeld, without previous intention, laid a hand upon his visitor’s arm.

“Is there no one who can make peace between you?”

The landlord shook his head.

“‘Tis impossib’.  We don’ wand.”

“I mean,” insisted Frowenfeld, “Is there no man who can stand between you and those who wrong you, and effect a peaceful reparation?”