Page:Cerise, a tale of the last century (IA cerisetaleoflast00whytrich).pdf/316

 *trees. Do not show yourself, girl, but if they take you, say Célandine sent you down to the negro-houses for eggs. Quick, and come back here like lightning. Bartoletti—have you any fire-arms? Do not be afraid, my darling," she repeated, turning to her daughter, "I know these wretched people well. You need but show a bold front, and they would turn away from a lady's fan if you only shook it hard at them."

"I am not afraid, mamma," answered Cerise, valiantly, though her face was very pale, and her knees shook. "I—I don't like it, of course, but I can do anything you tell me. Oh, mamma! do you—do you think they will kill us?" she added, with rather a sudden breakdown of the courage she tried so gallantly to rally.

"Kill us, mademoiselle!" exclaimed the overseer, quaking in every limb. "Oh, no! never! They cannot be so bad as that. We will temporise, we will supplicate, we will make terms with them; we will offer freedom, and rum, and plunder; we will go on our knees to their chief, and entreat his mercy!"

The girl looked at him contemptuously. Strange to say, her courage rose as his fell, and she seemed to gather strength and energy from the abject selfishness of his despair. The Marquise did not heed him, for she heard Fleurette's footsteps returning, and was herself busied with an oblong wooden case, brass-bound, and carefully locked up, that she lifted from the recess of a cupboard in the room.

Fleurette's black feet could carry her swiftly and lightly as a bird. She had followed her instructions implicitly, had crept noiselessly through the kitchen, and advanced unseen to the old summer-house. Peering from that concealment on the moonlit surface of the lawn, she was horrorstruck to observe nearly a score of slaves intently watching the house. She hurried back panting to her mistress's presence, and made her discouraging report.

Madame de Montmirail was very grave now. The affair had become more than serious. It was, in truth, desperate. Once again, as she looked at her daughter, came that strange quiver over her features, that shudder of repressed horror rather than pain. It was succeeded, as before, by a moment