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 he had no vices. As a boy he had essayed the use of tobacco; it had nauseated him; he never tried it again.

When they left the table madam went to the piano; she played a few pieces: "le Cake Walk" as the Parisians say. Dessalines was delighted; he was unable to keep his feet from shuffling.

Later they went out on the veranda. The night was very dark, very humid, heavy with perfumes; directly beneath, the depth of the valley seemed profound, elusive through the murk, canopied by a veil of haze which might have been vapor, might have been a dimness of the eyes. Up from the abyss there floated random, muffled sounds—the cry of a night bird, water murmuring with a sound which suggested subterranean cascades. Once a wail, long, eerie, inviting, floated weirdly up; it seemed a summons. Madam started and clasped both hands over her bosom: Dessalines' nostrils dilated at the sound; the skin twitched at the back of his neck; an odd gurgle arose to his throat.

There was a silence. Madam leaned toward him; her voice trembled as she spoke.

"Have you ever attended the dance, Comte Dessalines?"

His heart leaped at the query.

"The bamboula?"

"Yes; the parent of all dances."

"In my boyhood—once. It terrified me; then the priest forbade it. I never went again."

"I did not know that you were Catholic."

"I am not; I am strongly Protestant."

"Church of England?"

"No; madam. A small sect which exists only in 232