Jack’s question remained unanswered, and the child’s thoughts ran on as he lay in his bed, listening to occasional gusts of music that rang through the house from the lungs of Labassandre, and to the perpetual sound of the pumps in the stable.

Moronval’s guests were gone, with a final bang of the large gate, and all was silent. Suddenly the dormitory door was thrown open, and the small black servant entered, with a lantern in his hand.

He shook off the snow that lay thick on his black head, and crept between the two rows of beds, with his head drawn down between his shoulders, and his teeth chattering.

Jack looked at the grotesque shadows on the wall, which exaggerated all the peculiarities of the black boy—the protruding mouth, the enormous ears, and retreating forehead.

The boy hung his lantern at the end of the dormitory and stood there warming his hands, which were covered with chilblains. His face, though dirty, was so honest and kindly, that Jack’s heart warmed toward him. As he stood there the negro looked out into the garden. “Ah! the snow I the snow!” he murmured sadly.

His way of speaking, and the sweet voice, touched little Jack, who looked at the boy with lively pity and curiosity. The negro saw it, and said, half to himself, “Ah! the new pupil! Why don’t you go to sleep, little boy?”

“I cannot,” said Jack, sighing.

“It is good to sigh if you are sorry,” said the negro, cententiously. “If the poor world could not sigh, the poor world would stifle!”

As he spoke, he threw a blanket on the bed next to Jack.

“Do you sleep there?” asked the child, astonished that a servant should occupy a bed in the dormitory of the pupils. “But there are no sheets!”

“Sheets are not good for me, my skin is too black.” The negro laughed gently as he said these words, and prepared to glide into bed, half clothed as he was, when suddenly he stopped, drew from his breast an ivory smelling-bottle, and kissed it devoutly.

“What a funny medal!” cried Jack.

“It is not a medal,” answered the negro; “it is my Gri-qri.”

But Jack had no idea what a Gri-gri was, and the other explained that it was an amulet—something to bring him good luck. His Aunt Kιrika had given it to him when he left his native land,—the aunt who had brought him up, and to whom he hoped to return at some future day.

“As I shall to my mamma,” said little Barancy; and both children were silent, each thinking of the one he loved most on earth.

Jack returned to the charge in a few minutes. “And your country—is it a pretty place? Is it far off? and what is its name?”

“Dahomey,” answered the negro.

Jack started up in bed.

“What! Do you know him? Did you come to this country with him?”

“Who?”

“Why, his royal Highness,—you know him,—the little king of Dahomey.”

“I am he,” said the negro, quietly.

The other looked at him in amazement. A king! this servant, whom he had seen at work all day making fires, sweeping the corridors, waiting on the table, and rinsing glasses!

The negro spoke the truth, nevertheless. The expression of his face grew very sad, and his eyes were fixed as if he were looking into the past, or toward some dear, lost land. Was it the magical word of king that led Jack to examine this black boy, seated on the edge of his bed, his white shirt open, while on his dark breast shone the ivory amulet, with new interest?

“How did all this happen?” asked the child, timidly.

The black boy turned quickly to extinguish the lantern. “M. Moronval not like it if Mβdou lets it burn.” Then he pulled his couch close to that of Jack.

“You are not sleepy,” he said; “and I never wish to sleep if I can talk of Dahomey. Listen!”

And in the darkness, where the whites only of his eyes could be seen, the little negro began his dismal tale.

He was called Mβdou,—the name of his father, an illustrious warrior, one of the most powerful sovereigns in the land of gold and ivory: to whom France, Holland, and England sent presents and envoys. His father had cannon, and soldiers, troops of elephants with trappings for war, musicians and priests, four regiments of Amazons, and two hundred wives. His palace was immense, and ornamented by spears on which hung human heads after a battle or a sacrifice. Mβdou was born in this palace. His Aunt Kιrika, general-in-chief of the Amazons, took him with her in all her expeditions. How beautiful she was, this Kιrika! tall and large as a man,—in a blue tunic; her naked arms and legs loaded with bracelets and anklets; her bow slung over her shoulder, and the tail of a horse streaming below her waist. Upon her head, in her woolly locks, she wore two small antelope horns joining in a half-moon; as if these black warriors had preserved among themselves the tradition of Diana the white huntress! And what an eye she had, what deftness of hand! Why, she could cut off the head of an Ashantee at a single blow. But, however terrible Kιrika might have been on the battlefield, to her nephew Mβdou she was always very gentle, bestowing on him gifts of all kinds: necklaces of coral and of amber, and all the shells he desired,—shells being the money in that part of the world. She even gave him a small but gorgeous musket, presented to herself by the Queen of England, and which Kιrika found too light for her own use. Mβdou always carried it when he went to the forests to hunt with his aunt.

There the trees were so close together, and the foliage so thick, that the sun never penetrated to these green temples. Then Mβdou described with enthusiasm the flowers and the fruits, the butterflies, and birds with wonderful plumage, and Jack listened in delight and astonishment. There were serpents, too, but they were harmless; and black monkeys leaped from tree to tree; and large mysterious lakes, that had never reflected the skies in their brown depths, lay here and there in the forests.

At this, Jack uttered an exclamation, “O, how beautiful it must be!”

“Yes, very beautiful,” said the black boy, who undoubtedly exaggerated a little, and saw his dear native land through the prism of absence, of childish recollections, and with the enthusiasm of his southern nature; but encouraged by his comrade’s sympathy, Mβdou continued his story.

At night the forests were very different; hunting-parties bivouacked in the jungles, building huge fires to drive away wild beasts, who were heard in the distance roaring horribly. The birds were aroused; and the bats, silent and black as shadows, attracted by the fire-light, hovered over and about it until daybreak, when they assembled on some gigantic tree, motionless, and pressed against each other, looking like some singular leaves, dry and dead.

In this open-air life the little prince grew strong and manly,—could wield a sabre and carry a gun at an age when children are usually tied to their mother’s apron-string. The king was proud of his son, the heir to his throne. But, alas! it seemed that it was not enough, even for a negro prince, to know how to shoot an elephant through the eye; he must also learn to read books and writing, for, said the wise king to his son, “White man always has paper in his pocket to cheat black man with.” Of course some European might have been found in Dahomey who could instruct the prince,—for French and English flags floated over the ships in the harbors.