It was Palmyre’s habit to do nothing without painstaking.  “When Mademoiselle comes to be Senora,” thought she—­she knew that her mistress and the don were affianced—­“it will be well to have a Senor’s esteem.  I shall endeavor to succeed.”  It was from this motive, then, that with the aid of her mistress she attired herself in a resplendence of scarlet and beads and feathers that could not fail the double purpose of connecting her with the children of Ethiopia and commanding the captive’s instant admiration.

Alas for those who succeed too well!  No sooner did the African turn his tiger glance upon her than the fire of his eyes died out; and when she spoke to him in the dear accents of his native tongue, the matter of strife vanished from his mind.  He loved.

He sat down tamely in his irons and listened to Palmyre’s argument as a wrecked mariner would listen to ghostly church-bells.  He would give a short assent, feast his eyes, again assent, and feast his ears; but when at length she made bold to approach the actual issue, and finally uttered the loathed word, Work, he rose up, six feet five, a statue of indignation in black marble.

And then Palmyre, too, rose up, glorying in him, and went to explain to master and overseer.  Bras-Coupe understood, she said, that he was a slave—­it was the fortune of war, and he was a warrior; but, according to a generally recognized principle in African international law, he could not reasonably be expected to work.

“As Senor will remember I told him,” remarked the overseer; “how can a man expect to plow with a zebra?”

Here he recalled a fact in his earlier experience.  An African of this stripe had been found to answer admirably as a “driver” to make others work.  A second and third parley, extending through two or three days, were held with the prince, looking to his appointment to the vacant office of driver; yet what was the master’s amazement to learn at length that his Highness declined the proffered honor.

“Stop!” spoke the overseer again, detecting a look of alarm in Palmyre’s face as she turned away, “he doesn’t do any such thing.  If Senor will let me take the man to Agricola—­”

“No!” cried Palmyre, with an agonized look, “I will tell.  He will take the place and fill it if you will give me to him for his own—­but oh, messieurs, for the love of God—­I do not want to be his wife!”

The overseer looked at the Senor, ready to approve whatever he should decide.  Bras-Coupe’s intrepid audacity took the Spaniard’s heart by irresistible assault.

“I leave it entirely with Senor Fusilier,” he said.

“But he is not my master; he has no right—­”

“Silence!”

And she was silent; and so, sometimes, is fire in the wall.