IN THE SHADOW
through her own room, down the stairs and out into the soft, sensuous night. They passed swiftly and in silence down the road to the valley, then turned sharply into a path which led straight over the brow of the declivity.
•••••
Down they went by a winding trail which wound first through the bananas, then over the brink of a slope so steep that one hardly held a footing; next into the jungle, beneath a foliage too dense to permit the passage of one errant ray of light.
Into this murk La Fouchère slipped like a fay. Her small hand clutched the wrist of Dessalines, partly in support, partly to guide his steps. For herself there was no doubt, but in the rush of his emotions Dessalines did not pause to wonder at her familiarity with the way. Twigs lashed his face; bamboo thorns ripped head and shoulders.
"Not so fast!" he gasped, but La Fouchère panting, still dragged him on. He marveled at the strength of her slim fingers.
The beat of the drum was incessant, but seemed to grow no nearer; would grow no nearer although they stood at the shoulder of him who beat it.
They crossed an open glade where the moonbeams straggled down in sickly pallor. Half way across, a thick voice boomed from the inky darkness beyond.
"Ou c'a v'aller?"
"Fouchère!" panted the woman.
"Bon!" growled the negro sentinel and slipped back into the gloom.
There were others near, for Dessalines heard a voice
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