"It was once the capital of the empire," said Lewis.

"Yes," said Leighton. "Capital of the empire, seat of learning, citadel
of the church, last and greatest of the great slave-marts. That's a
history. Never bother your mind about a man, a woman, or a town that
hasn't got a history. They may be happy, but they're stupid."

The principal street of the lower town was swarming with a strange
mixture of humanity. Here and there hurried a foreigner in whites, his
flushed cheeks and nose flying the banner of John Barleycorn.

Along the sidewalks passed leisurely the doctorated product of the
universities--doctors of law, doctors of medicine, embryo doctors still
in the making--each swinging a light cane. Their black hats and cutaway
coats, in the fashion of a temperate clime, would have looked exotic
were it not for the serene dignity with which they were worn. With them,
merchants lazed along, making a deal as they walked. Clerks, under their
masters' eyes, hurried hither and thither.

These were all white or near-white. The middle of the street, which held
the great throng, was black. Slaves with nothing on but a loin-cloth
staggered under two bags of coffee or under a single monster sack of
cocoa. Their sweating torsos gleamed where the slanting sun struck them.
Other slaves bore other burdens: a basket of chickens or a bundle of
sugar-cane on the way to market; a case of goods headed for the stores
of some importer; now and then a sedan-chair, with curtains drawn; and
finally a piano, unboxed, on a pilgrimage.

The piano came up the middle of the street borne on the heads of six
singing negroes. For a hundred yards they would carry it at a shuffling