But it was too late.

Letting her dagger sleep in her bosom, and with an undefined belief in imaginary resources, she had consented to join hands with her giant hero before the priest; and when the wedding had come and gone like a white sail, she was seized with a lasting, fierce despair.

A wild aggressiveness that had formerly characterized her glance in moments of anger--moments which had grown more and more infrequent under the softening influence of her Mademoiselle's nature--now came back intensified, and blazed in her eye perpetually.

Whatever her secret love may have been in kind, its sinking beyond hope below the horizon had left her fifty times the mutineer she had been before--the mutineer who has nothing to lose.
"She loves her _candio_" said the negroes.
"Simple creatures!" said the overseer, who prided himself on his discernment, "she loves nothing; she hates Agricola; it's a case of hate at first sight--the strongest kind." Both were partly right; her feelings were wonderfully knit to the African; and she now dedicated herself to Agricola's ruin.
The senor, it has been said, endeavored to be happy; but now his heart conceived and brought forth its first-born fear, sired by superstition--the fear that he was bewitched.

The negroes said that Bras-Coupe had cursed the land.