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 panded, the black face grew fierce. It was but a transient emotion which, like all of his emotions, could not pass unheralded, but Madam Fouchère, watching him from her dark recess, lost none of it. Her mockery vanished.

"But why not?" she cried in a low voice, and leaned swiftly toward him. "You have the brain and the spirit and the knowledge and the—money. Fouchère controls a large district in Gonaives and he is your friend." She leaned toward him still farther. "And I am your friend," she added softly, dropping her hand lightly upon his as it rested on the rim of the table. Her eyes glowed at his like two coals upon which one breathes gently.

Dessalines' great muscles tightened; the rim of white about the eyeballs widened; she saw the wide nostrils dilate. His hand, turning, clasped hers until she could have screamed, and he half-raised it to his lips, then slowly lowered it. Her eyes, lurid, questioned him.

"As you say," said Dessalines slowly, thickly, speaking under pressure, "Fouchère is my friend."

Madam Fouchère sank back, eying him curiously. She was a skilled player on the passions of men, both black and white; also, she possessed imagination. Pique and perplexity were tugging different ways. She knew nothing of the English at home; she knew well that she pleased this great Kongo, stirred him to his depths; she had guessed his ambitions, no difficult matter with Dessalines whose cells were single-unit ones and no match for the iridescent mind flashes of the subtle griffonne. She knew of his ambitions, his determination to govern Hayti; it had not taxed her powers of finesse to draw 170