evidences that he had, at least, the night before,
been indulging to an excess in those burning
waters. He was dressed in coarse linen
trowsers, and a jacket that covered his shoulders,
leaving his chest bare, to cool as much as
possible by the morning air the consuming fire
that was burning within. He was the director
of a remote plantation which we do not care
to name.

"The slaves have done the work given
them yesterday; there were a few lazy ones,
but a stroke or two had the effect of making
them complete their task."

"Is that all, bastinado ?"

"Yes, massa. One of the cows has calved,
but the calf is dead."

"The calf dead? " asked the director with
a fearful curse— " the calf dead? How can
that be ?  Why is not my property better
taken care of ? That is my property, bastinado."

" I don't know, sir, what was the cause of
the misfortune. Old Herman says that the
cow could not stand yesterday evening, so
that he could not drive her into the stables,
and had to leave her all night in the
meadow."

"So! then this is the fault of that cursed
old Herman! He has neglected to look after
this business. So he left the cow in the
meadow! The lazy nigger, what else has he
to do but to look after my property ? What
else has he to do, bastinado?"

"Nothing, massa, nothing."

"But I understand it perfectly well. It is
all a tale that he could not get the cow into
the stable. He has done all this to suit
himself. He wanted the beast to calve in the
meadow; there was nobody near. He killed
the calf, and now he says it was dropped dead
- thinking I will not eat it, and that he will
thus have it all to himself. Is it not so,
bastinado?"

"I don't know, massa."

"Is it not so, bastinado? " he repeated,
with features excited into savagery, with eyes
threatening to start from their sockets, with
a voice that yelled fearfully through hoarseness
and passion.

"Yes, massa, it is so," answered the
bastinado, apprehensively.

"So, then, you charge Herman with having
killed my calf!"

The bastinado uttered a scarcely audible
"Yes."

"Bring the wretch here! I'll speak to
him."

The bastinado retired, but shortly returned,
accompanied by a slave, who followed him
totteringly and with difficulty. Emaciated
and bowed down with age, the old man
approached, coughing and wheezing, with
evident symptoms of astonishment and fear.
He had been born on that plantation, and
that his father was of European, and not
African origin, was proved by his colour and
features. His whole life he had laboured for

the man who called himself his master. Then,
even in old age, with its attendant infirmities
and failings, he was always driven to the field
with the whip, till he broke his leg by a fall,
when, as he could no longer labour at fieldwork,
he was made a cowkeeper. His duty
then was to look after the director's cattle;
to provide their food, and superintend everything
relating to them.

"So, you ungrateful devil," said the director,
"have you killed my calf? Is that because I
have given you such an easy place of it ?"

"The calf was dropped dead, massa."

"Dropped dead? You liar! And why
then did you leave the cow out ?  And why
were you not in the field that night when she
calved?"

"I could not possibly get the cow in. Last
evening she could scarcely stand on her legs.
I have not been out the whole night."

"You lie. The bastinado caught you at it..
He saw you kill the calf- didn't you,
bastinado?"

The negro nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Is it possible! " sighed the old slave, and
was silent.

"I'll pay you out for this," growled the
director; " you shall remember, my man,
trying to feed so well on my meat. Bring the
wretch to the coffee-loft, bastinado, and shut
him up there. Let nobody go near him; if
anyone dares to go near him, he'll have a
devil to deal with."

The slave, limping, followed the bastinado,
and was locked up in the coffee-loft.

And there lay the unhappy man upon the
floor. Nobody attended to him, for the fear
of the director's rage kept all his fellow-
slaves away. There he lay, unfriended, without
bread to eat or water to drink. With
the evening, hunger and thirst began fearfully
to torment him, but no one came near
to bring him a banana or a draught of
water.

He fell asleep, but at midnight he was awoke,
tormented by an intense burning sensation in
his throat and cutting pains in his stomach
and bowels. But nobody came to console
him, to comfort him, in his dreary solitude.
No slumber came to refresh his heavy eyelids,
and now and then his smarting pain
drew from him shrieks of agony.

At length morning appeared. He hears
footsteps; they approach his prison-house.
At last, thought he, I shall get some food;
but drink! O, for a draught of water!
The footsteps come nearer; the loft door is
opened; the bastinado enters. With straining
eyes the wretched creature watches his
hands, but they bring nothing for him. The
bastinado opens a window in the loft that
looks into the field, and, without uttering a
word, leaves again.

Then the slave sees the creole-mamma
with the young negroes— boys and girls—
entrusted to her care, approach the building
in which he is shut up. Each of the children