One such I witnessed in that same harbour of Grenada, not easily to be forgotten.
A tall and very handsome middle-aged brown woman, in a limp print gown and a gorgeous turban, stood at the gangway in a glare of light, which made her look like some splendid witch by a Walpurgis night-fire.

'Tell your boatman to go round to the other side,' quoth the officer in charge.
'Fanqua! (Francois) You go round oder side of de ship!' Fanqua, who seemed to be her son, being sleepy, tipsy, stupid, or lazy, did not stir.
'Fanqua! You hear what de officer say?
You go round.' No move.
'Fanqua! You not ashamed of youself?
You not hear de officer say he turn a steam-pipe over you ?' No move.
'Fanqua!' (authoritative).
'Fanqua!' (indignant).
'Fanqua!' (argumentative).
'Fanqua!' (astonished).
'Fanqua!' (majestic).
'Fanqua!' (confidentially alluring).
'Fanqua!' (regretful).

And so on, through every conceivable tone of expression.
But Fanqua did not move; and the officer and bystanders laughed.
She summoned all her talents, and uttered one last 'Fanqua!' which was a triumph of art.
Shame and surprise were blended in her voice with tenderness and pity, and they again with meek despair.

To have been betrayed, disgraced, and so unexpectedly, by one whom she loved, and must love still, in spite of this, his fearful fall! It was more than heart could bear.

Breathing his name but that once more, she stood a moment, like a queen of tragedy, one long arm drawing her garments round her, the other outstretched, as if to cast off--had she the heart to do it--the rebel; and then stalked away into the darkness of the paddle-boxes--for ever and a day to brood speechless over her great sorrow?
Not in the least.