



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Quadroon, by Captain Mayne Reid.



CHAPTER ONE.

THE FATHER OF WATERS.

Father of Waters!  I worship thy mighty stream!  As the Hindoo by the
shores of his sacred river, I kneel upon thy banks, and pour forth my
soul in wild adoration!

Far different are the springs of our devotion.  To him, the waters of
his yellow Ganges are the symbols of a superstitious awe, commingled
with dark fears for the mystic future; to me, thy golden wares are the
souvenirs of joy, binding the present to the known and happy past.  Yes,
mighty river!  I worship thee in the past.  My heart fills with joy at
the very mention of thy name!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Father of Waters!  I know thee well.  In the land of a thousand lakes,
on the summit of the "_Hauteur de terre_," I have leaped thy tiny
stream.  Upon the bosom of the blue lakelet, the fountain of thy life, I
have launched my birchen boat; and yielding to thy current, have floated
softly southward.  I have passed the meadows where the wild rice ripens
on thy banks, where the white birch mirrors its silvery stem, and tall
_coniferae_ fling their pyramid shapes, on thy surface.  I have seen the
red Chippewa cleave thy crystal waters in his bark canoe--the giant
moose lave his flanks in thy cooling flood--and the stately wapiti bound
gracefully along thy banks.  I have listened to the music of thy
shores--the call of the cacawee, the laugh of the wa-wa goose, and the
trumpet-note of the great northern swan.  Yes, mighty river!  Even in
that far northern land, thy wilderness home, have I worshipped thee!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Onward through many parallels of latitude--through many degrees of the
thermal line!

I stand upon thy banks where thou leapest the rocks of Saint Antoine,
and with bold frothing current cleavest thy way to the south.  Already I
note a change in the aspect of thy shores.  The _coniferae_ have
disappeared, and thou art draped with a deciduous foliage of livelier
hue.  Oaks, elms, and maples, mingle their frondage, and stretch their
broad arms over thee.  Though I still look upon woods that seem
illimitable, I feel that the wilderness is past.  My eyes are greeted by
the signs of civilisation--its sounds fall upon my ear.  The hewn
cabin--picturesque in its rudeness--stands among prostrate trunks; and
the ring of the lumberer's axe is heard in the far depths of the forest.
The silken blades of the maize wave in triumph over fallen trees, its
golden tassels giving promise of a rich return.  The spire of the church
peers above the green spray of the woods, and the prayer of the
Christian ascends to heaven sublimely mingling with the roar of thy
waters!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I launch my boat once more on thy buoyant wave; and, with heart as
buoyant, glide onward and southward.  I pass between bold bluffs that
hem thy surging waves, and trace with pleasant wonder their singular and
varied outlines--now soaring abruptly upward, now carried in gentle
undulations along the blue horizon.  I behold the towering form of that
noted landmark "_La montaigne qui trempe a l'eau_," and the swelling
cone on whose summit the soldier-traveller pitched his tent.  I glide
over the mirrored bosom of Pepin's lake, regarding with admiration its
turreted shores.  I gaze with deeper interest upon that precipitous
escarpment, the "Lover's Leap," whose rocky wall has oft echoed back the
joyous chaunt of the light-hearted voyageur, and once a sadder strain--
the death-song of Wanona--beautiful Wanona, who sacrificed life to love!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Onward I glide, where the boundless prairies of the West impinge upon
thy stream; and my eye wanders with delight over their fadeless green.

I linger a moment to gaze upon the painted warrior spurring his wild
steed along thy banks--to gaze upon the Dacotah girls bathing their
lithe limbs in thy crystal wave--then on again past the "Cornice
Rocks"--the metalliferous shores of Galena and Dubuque--the aerial tomb
of the adventurous miner.

I reach the point where the turbid Missouri rushes rudely upon thee, as
though he would force thee from thy onward course.  Poised in my light
canoe, I watch the struggle.  Fierce but short it is, for thou
triumphest, and thy conquered rival is compelled to pay his golden
tribute to thy flood that rolls majestically onward!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Upon thy victorious wave I am borne still southward.  I behold huge
green mounds--the sole monuments of an ancient people--who once trod thy
shores.  Near at hand I look upon the dwellings of a far different race.
I behold tall spires soaring to the sky; domes, and cupolas glittering
in the sun; palaces standing upon thy banks, and palaces floating upon
thy wave.  I behold a great city--a metropolis!

I linger not here.  I long for the sunny South; and trusting myself once
more to thy current I glide onward.

I pass the sea-like estuary of the Ohio, and the embouchure of another
of thy mightiest tributaries, the famed river of the plains.  How
changed the aspect of thy shores!  I no longer look upon bold bluffs and
beetling cliffs.  Thou hast broken from the hills that enchained thee,
and now rollest far and free, cleaving a wide way through thine own
alluvion.  Thy very banks are the creation of thine own fancy--the slime
thou hast flung from thee in thy moments of wanton play--and thou canst
break through their barriers at will.  Forests again fringe thee--
forests of giant trees--the spreading _platanus_, the tall tulip-tree,
and the yellow-green cotton-wood rising in terraced groves from the
margin of thy waters.  Forests stand upon thy banks, and the wreck of
forests is borne upon thy bubbling bosom!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I pass thy last great affluent, whose crimson flood just tinges the hue
of thy waters.  Down thy delta I glide, amid scenes rendered classic by
the sufferings of De Soto--by the adventurous daring of Iberville and La
Salle.

And here my soul reaches the acme of its admiration.  Dead to beauty
must be heart and eye that could behold thee here, in this thy southern
land, without a thrill of sublimest emotion!

I gaze upon lovely landscapes ever changing, like scenes of enchantment,
or the pictures of a panorama.  They are the loveliest upon earth--for
where are views to compare with thine?  Not upon the Rhine, with its
castled rocks--not upon the shores of that ancient inland sea--not among
the Isles of the Ind.  No.  In no part of the world are scenes like
these; nowhere is soft beauty blended so harmoniously with wild
picturesqueness.

And yet not a mountain meets the eye--not even a hill--but the dark
_cyprieres_, draped with the silvery _tillandsia_, form a background to
the picture with all the grandeur of the pyrogenous granite!

The forest no longer fringes thee here.  It has long since fallen before
the planter's axe; and the golden sugar-cane, the silvery rice, and the
snowy cotton-plant, flourish in its stead.  Forest enough has been left
to adorn the picture.  I behold vegetable forms of tropic aspect, with
broad shining foliage--the _Sabal_ palm, the anona, the water-loving
tupelo, the catalpa with its large trumpet flowers, the melting
_liquidambar_, and the wax-leaved mangolia.  Blending their foliage with
these fair _indigenes_ are an hundred lovely exotics--the orange, lemon,
and fig; the Indian-lilac and tamarind; olives, myrtles, and bromelias;
while the Babylonian willow contrasts its drooping fronds with the erect
reeds of the giant cane, or the lance-like blades of the _yucca
gloriosa_.

Embowered amidst these beautiful forms I behold villas and mansions; of
grand and varied aspect--varied as the races of men who dwell beneath
their roofs.  And varied are they; for the nations of the world dwell
together upon thy banks--each having sent its tribute to adorn thee with
the emblems of a glorious and universal civilisation.  Father of Waters,
farewell!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Though not born in this fair southern land, I have long lingered there;
and I love it _even better than the land of my birth_.  I have there
spent the hours of bright youth, of adventurous manhood; and the
retrospect of these hours is fraught with a thousand memories tinged
with a romance that can never die.  There my young heart yielded to the
influence of Love--a first and virgin love.  No wonder the spot should
be to me the most hallowed on earth!

Reader! listen to the story of that love!



CHAPTER TWO.

SIX MONTHS IN THE CRESCENT CITY.

Like other striplings escaped from college, I was no longer happy _at
home_.  The yearning for travel was upon me; and I longed to make
acquaintance with that world, as yet only known to me through the medium
of books.

My longing was soon to be gratified; and without a sigh I beheld the
hills of my native land sink behind the black waves--not much caring
whether I should ever see them again.

Though emerging from the walls of a classic college, I was far from
being tinctured with classic sympathies.  Ten years spent in pondering
over the wild hyperbole of Homer, the mechanical verse-work of Virgil,
and the dry indelicacies of Horatius Flaccus, had failed to imbue me
with a perception of that classic beauty felt, or pretended to be felt,
by the spectacled _savant_.  My mind was not formed to live on the
ideal, or dream over the past.  I delight rather in the real, the
positive, and the present.  Don Quixotes may play the troubadour among
ruined castles, and mincing misses cover the ground of the guide-books.
For my part I have no belief in the romance of old-world life.  In the
modern Tell I behold a hireling, ready to barter his brawny limbs to the
use of whatever tyrant; and the picturesque Mazzaroni, upon closer
acquaintance, dwindles down to the standard of a hen-roost thief.  Amid
the crumbling walls of Athens and the ruins of Rome I encounter
inhospitality and hunger.  I am not a believer in the picturesqueness of
poverty.  I have no relish for the romance of rags.

And yet it was a yearning for the romantic that called me from home.  I
longed for the poetic and picturesque, for I was just at that age when
the mind is imbued with its strongest faith in their reality.  Ha! mine
is not yet disabused of this belief.  I am older now, but the hour of
disenchantment has not yet come upon me--nor ever will.  There is a
romance in life, that is no illusion.  It lives not in the effete forms
and childish ceremonies of the fashionable drawing-room--it has no
illustration in the tinsel trappings and gaudy puerilities of a Court.
Stars, garters, and titles are its antidotes; red cloth and plush the
upas-trees of its existence.

Its home is elsewhere, amid the grand and sublime scenes of Nature--
though these are not necessary accompaniments.  It is no more incidental
to field and forest, rock, river, and mountain, than to the well-trodden
ways of the trading-town.  Its home is in human hearts--hearts that
throb with high aspirations--bosoms that burn with the noble passions of
Liberty and Love!

My steps then were not directed towards classic shores, but to lands of
newer and more vigorous life.  Westward went I in search of romance.  I
found it in its most attractive form under the glowing skies of
Louisiana.

In the month of January, 18--, I set foot upon the soil of the
New-World--upon a spot stained with English blood.  The polite skipper,
who had carried me across the Atlantic, landed me in his gig.  I was
curious to examine the field of this decisive action; for at that period
of my life I had an inclination for martial affairs.  But something more
than mere curiosity prompted me to visit the battle-ground of New
Orleans.  I then held an opinion deemed heterodox--namely, that the
_improvised_ soldier is under certain circumstances quite equal to the
professional hireling, and that long military drill is not essential to
victory.  The story of war, superficially studied, would seem to
antagonise this theory, which conflicts also with the testimony of all
military men.  But the testimony of mere military men on such a matter
is without value.  Who ever heard of a military man who did not desire
to have his art considered as mythical as possible?  Moreover, the
rulers of the world have spared no pains to imbue their people with
false ideas upon this point.  It is necessary to put forward some excuse
for that terrible incubus upon the nations, the "standing army."

My desire to view the battle-ground upon the banks of the Mississippi
had chiefly reference to this question.  The action itself had been one
of my strong arguments in favour of my belief; for upon this spot some
six thousand men--who had never heard the absurd command, "Eyes
right!"--out-generalled, "whipped," in fact nearly annihilated, a
well-equipped and veteran army of twice their number!

Since standing upon that battle-ground I have carried a sword in more
than one field of action.  What I then held only as a theory, I have
since proved as an experience.  The "drill" is a delusion.  The standing
army a cheat.

In another hour I was wandering through the streets of the Crescent
City, no longer thinking of military affairs.  My reflections were
turned into a far different channel.  The social life of the New-World,
with all its freshness and vigour, was moving before my eyes, like a
panorama; and despite of my assumption of the _nil admirari_, I could
not help _wondering as I went_.

And one of my earliest surprises--one that met me on the very threshold
of Transatlantic existence--was the discovery of my own utter
uselessness.  I could point to my desk and say, "There lie the proofs of
my erudition--the highest prizes of my college class."  But of what use
they?  The dry theories I had been taught had no application to the
purposes of real life.  My logic was the prattle of the parrot.  My
classic lore lay upon my mind like lumber; and I was altogether about as
well prepared to struggle with life--to benefit either my fellow-man or
myself--as if I had graduated in Chinese mnemonics.

And oh! ye pale professors, who drilled me in syntax and scansion, ye
would deem me ungrateful indeed were I to give utterance to the contempt
and indignation which I then felt for ye--then, when I looked back upon
ten years of wasted existence spent under your tutelage--then, when,
after believing myself an educated man, the illusion vanished, and I
awoke to the knowledge that I _knew nothing_!

With some money in my purse, and very little knowledge in my head, I
wandered through the Streets of New Orleans, wondering as I went.

Six months later, and I was traversing the same streets, with very
little money in my purse, but with my stock of knowledge vastly
augmented.  During this six months I had acquired an experience of the
world more extensive, than in any six years of my previous life.

I had paid somewhat dearly for this experience.  My travelling fund had
melted away in the alembic of cafes, theatres, masquerades, and
"quadroon" balls.  Some of it had been deposited in that bank (faro)
which returns neither principal nor interest!

I was almost afraid to "take stock" of my affairs.  At length with an
effort I did so; and found, after paying my hotel bills, a balance in my
favour of exactly twenty-five dollars!  Twenty-five dollars to live upon
until I could write home, and receive an answer--a period of three
months at the least--for I am talking of a time antecedent to the
introduction of Atlantic steamers.

For six months I had been sinning bravely.  I was now all repentance,
and desirous of making amends.  I was even willing to engage in some
employment.  But my cold classic training, that had not enabled me to
protect my purse, was not likely to aid me in replenishing it; and in
all that busy city I could find no office that I was fitted to fill!

Friendless--dispirited--a little disgusted--not a little anxious in
regard to my immediate future, I sauntered about the streets.  My
acquaintances were becoming scarcer every day.  I missed them from their
usual haunts--the haunts of pleasure.  "Whither had they gone?"

There was no mystery in their disappearance.  It was now mid-June.  The
weather had become intensely hot, and every day the mercury mounted
higher upon the scale.  It was already dancing in the neighbourhood of
100 degrees of Fahrenheit.  In a week or two might be expected that
annual but unwelcome visitor known by the soubriquet of "Yellow Jack,"
whose presence is alike dreaded by young and old; and it was the terror
inspired by him that was driving the fashionable world of New Orleans,
like birds of passage, to a northern clime.

I am not more courageous than the rest of mankind.

I had no inclination to make the acquaintance of this dreaded demon of
the swamps; and it occurred to me, that I, too, had better get out of
his way.  To do this, it was only necessary to step on board a
steamboat, and be carried to one of the up-river towns, beyond the reach
of that tropical malaria in which the _vomito_ delights to dwell.

Saint Louis was at this time the place of most attractive name; and I
resolved to go thither; though how I was to live there I could not
tell--since my funds would just avail to land me on the spot.

Upon reflection, it could scarce be "out of the frying-pan into the
fire," and my resolution to go to Saint Louis became fixed.  So, packing
up my _impedimenta_, I stepped on board the steamboat "Belle of the
West," bound for the far "City of the Mounds."



CHAPTER THREE.

THE "BELLE OF THE WEST."

I was on board at the advertised time; but punctuality on a Mississippi
steamboat must not be expected; and I found myself too early, by a
couple of hours at least.

The time was not thrown away.  I spent it to some profit in examining
the peculiar craft in which I had embarked.  I say, _peculiar_; for the
steamers employed upon the Mississippi and its tributary waters are
unlike those of any other country--even unlike those in use in the
Atlantic or Eastern States.

They are strictly "river-boats," and could not live in anything like a
rough sea; though the reckless owners of some of them have occasionally
risked them along the coast from Mobile to Galveston, Texas!

The hull is built like that of a sea boat, but differs materially from
the latter in depth of hold.  So shallow is it, that there is but little
stowage-room allowed; and the surface of the main deck is but a few
inches above the water-line.  Indeed, when the boat is heavily laden,
the waves lip over the gunwales.  Upon the deck is placed the machinery;
and there rest the huge cast-iron boilers, and the grates or "furnaces,"
necessarily large, because the propelling power is produced from logs of
wood.  There, also, most of the freight is stowed, on account of the
light capacity of the hold; and on every part, not occupied by the
machinery and boilers, may be seen piles of cotton-bales, hogsheads of
tobacco, or bags of corn, rising to the height of many feet.  This is
the freight of a down-river-boat.  On the return trip, of course, the
commodities are of a different character, and consist of boxes of Yankee
furniture, farming implements, and "notions," brought round by ship from
Boston; coffee in bags from the West Indies, rice, sugar, oranges, and
other products of the tropical South.

On the after-part of this deck is a space allotted to the humbler class
of travellers known as "deck passengers."  These are never Americans.
Some are labouring Irish--some poor German emigrants on their way to the
far North-West; the rest are <DW64>s--free, or more generally slaves.

I dismiss the hull by observing that there is a good reason why it is
built with so little depth of hold.  It is to allow the boats to pass
the shoal water in many parts of the river, and particularly during the
season of drought.  For such purpose the lighter the draught, the
greater the advantage; and a Mississippi captain, boasting of the
capacity of his boat in this respect, declared, that all he wanted was
_a heavy dew upon, the grass, to enable him to propel her across the
prairies_!

If there is but little of a Mississippi steamboat under the water, the
reverse is true of what may be seen above its surface.  Fancy a
two-story house some two hundred feet in length, built of plank, and
painted to the whiteness of snow; fancy along the upper story a row of
green-latticed windows, or rather doors, thickly set, and opening out
upon a narrow balcony; fancy a flattish or slightly rounded roof covered
with tarred canvas, and in the centre a range of sky-lights like glass
forcing-pits; fancy, towering above all, two enormous black cylinders of
sheet-iron, each ten feet in diameter, and nearly ten times as high, the
"funnels" of the boat; a smaller cylinder to one side, the
"'scape-pipe;" a tall flag-staff standing up from the extreme end of the
bow, with the "star-spangled banner" flying from its peak;--fancy all
these, and you may form some idea of the characteristic features of a
steamboat on the Mississippi.

Enter the cabin, and for the first time you will be struck with the
novelty of the scene.  You will there observe a splendid saloon, perhaps
a hundred feet in length, richly carpeted and adorned throughout.  You
will note the elegance of the furniture,--costly chairs, sofas, tables,
and lounges; you will note the walls, richly gilded and adorned with
appropriate designs; the crystal chandeliers suspended from the ceiling;
the hundred doors that lead to the "state-rooms" on each side, and the
immense folding-door of stained or ornamental glass, which shuts in the
sacred precinct of the "ladies' saloon."  In short, you will note all
around you a style and luxuriance to which you, as a European traveller,
have not been accustomed.  You have only read of such a scene in some
Oriental tale--in Mary Montagu, or the "Arabian Nights."

And yet all this magnificence is sometimes sadly at variance with the
style of the company that occupies it--for this splendid saloon is as
much the property of the coarse "rowdy" as of the refined gentleman.
You are startled by the apparition of a rough horse-skin boot elevated
along the edge of the shining mahogany; and a dash of brown nicotian
juice may have somewhat altered the pattern of the carpet!  But these
things are exceptional--more exceptional now than in the times of which
I write.

Having satisfied myself with examining the interior structure of the
"Belle of the West," I sauntered out in front of the cabin.  Here a
large open space, usually known as the "awning," forms an excellent
lounging-place for the male passengers.  It is simply the continuation
of the "cabin-deck," projected forward and supported by pillars that
rest upon the main deck below.  The roof, or "hurricane-deck," also
carried forward to the same point, and resting on slight wooden props,
screens this part from sun or rain, and a low guard-rail running around
it renders it safe.  Being open in front and at both sides, it affords
the best view; and having the advantage of a cool breeze, brought about
by the motion of the boat, is usually a favourite resort.  A number of
chairs are here placed to accommodate the passengers, and smoking is
permitted.

He must take very little interest in the movements of human life, who
cannot kill an hour by observing it upon the "Levee" of New Orleans; and
having seated myself and lighted my cigar, I proceeded to spend an hour
in that interesting occupation.



CHAPTER FOUR.

THE RIVAL BOATS.

The part of the "Levee" under my eyes was that known as the "Steamboat
Landing."  Some twenty or thirty boats lay along a series of wooden
wharves that projected slightly into the river.  Some had just arrived
from up-river towns, and were discharging their freight and passengers,
at this season a scanty list.  Others, surrounded by a bustling swarm,
were getting up steam; while still others appeared to be abandoned by
both officers and crew--who were no doubt at the time enjoying
themselves in the brilliant cafes and restaurants.  Occasionally might
be seen a jauntily-dressed clerk, with blue cottonade trowsers, white
linen coat, costly Panama hat, shirt with cambric ruffles, and diamond
studs.  This stylish gentleman would appear for a few minutes by one of
the deserted boats--perhaps transact a little business with some one--
and then hurry off again to his more pleasant haunts in the city.

There were two points upon the Levee where the bustle of active life was
more especially observable.  These were the spaces in front of two large
boats.  One was that on which I had taken passage.  The other, as I
could read upon her wheel-house, was the "Magnolia."  The latter was
also upon the eve of starting, as I could tell by the movements of her
people, by the red fires seen in her furnaces, and the hissing of steam,
that every now and then screamed sharply from the direction of her
boilers.

On the Levee directly in front of her "drays" were depositing their last
loads, passengers were hurrying forward hat-box in hand, in fear they
might be too late; trunks, boxes, bags, and barrels were being rudely
pushed or rolled over the staging-planks; the gaily-dressed clerks,
armed with book and pencil, were checking them off; and everything
denoted the intention of a speedy departure.  A scene exactly similar
was being enacted in front of the "Belle of the West."

I had not been regarding these movements very long, before I observed
that there was something unusual "in the wind."  The boats lay at no
great distance from each other, and their crews, by a slight elevation
of voice, could converse.  This they were freely doing; and from some
expressions that reached me, coupled with a certain tone of defiance in
which they were uttered, I could perceive that the "Magnolia" and the
"Belle of the West" were "rival boats."  I soon gathered the further
information, that they were about to start at the same time, and that a
"race" was in contemplation!

I knew that this was no unusual occurrence among what are termed "crack"
boats, and both the "Belle" and her rival came under that category.
Both were of the first-class in size and magnificence of fitting; both
ran in the same "trade," that is, from New Orleans to Saint Louis; and
both were commanded by well-known and popular river "captains."  They
could not be otherwise than rivals; and this feeling was shared in by
the crews of both, from captain to cabin-slave.

As regards the owners and officers in such cases, there is a substantial
_money motive_ at the bottom of this rivalry.  The boat that "whips" in
one of these races, wins also the future patronage of the public.  The
"fast boat" becomes the fashionable boat, and is ever afterwards sure of
a strong list of passengers at a high rate of fare--for there is this
peculiarity among Americans: many of them will spend their last dollar
to be able to say at the end of his journey that he came upon the
fashionable boat, just as in England you find many people desirous of
making it known that they travelled "first-class."  Snobbery is peculiar
to no country--it appears to be universal.

With regard to the contemplated trial of speed between the "Belle of the
West" and the "Magnolia," the feeling of rivalry pervaded not only the
crews of both boats, but I soon discovered that the passengers were
affected with it.  Most of these seemed as eager for the race as an
English blackleg for the Derby.  Some no doubt looked forward to the
sport and excitement, but I soon perceived that the greater number were
betting upon the result!

"The Belle's boun' to win!" cried a gold-studded vulgar-looking fellow
at my shoulder.  "I'll go twenty dollars on the Belle.  Will you bet,
stranger?"

"No," I replied, somewhat angrily, as the fellow had taken a liberty by
laying his hand on my shoulder.

"Well," retorted he, "jest as you like 'bout that;" and addressing
himself to some one else he continued, "the Belle's the conquering boat
for twenty dollars!  Twenty dollars on the Belle!"

I confess I had no very pleasant reflections at that moment.  It was my
first trip upon an American steamboat, and my memory was brimful of
stories of "boiler burstings", "snaggings", "blowings up," and boats on
fire.  I had heard that these races not infrequently resulted in one or
other of the above-named catastrophes, and I had reason to know that my
information was correct.

Many of the passengers--the more sober and respectable ones--shared my
feelings; and some talked of appealing to the Captain not to allow the
race.  But they knew they were in the minority, and held their peace.

I had made up my mind at least to ask the Captain "his intentions."  I
was prompted rather by curiosity than by any other motive.

I left my seat, therefore, and having crossed the staging, walked toward
the top of the wharf, where this gentleman was standing.



CHAPTER FIVE.

A DESIRABLE FELLOW-PASSENGER.

Before I had entered into conversation with the Captain, I saw a
barouche approaching on the opposite side, apparently coming from the
French quarter of the city.  It was a handsome equipage, driven by a
well-clad and evidently well-fed black, and as it drew near, I could
perceive that it was occupied by a young and elegantly-attired lady.

I cannot say why, but I felt a presentiment, accompanied perhaps by a
silent wish, that the occupant of the barouche was about to be a
fellow-passenger.  It was not long before I learnt that such was her
intention.

The barouche drew up on the crest of the Levee, and I saw the lady
directing some inquiry to a bystander, who immediately pointed to our
Captain.  The latter, perceiving that he was the object inquired after,
stepped up to the side of the carriage, and bowed to the lady.  I was
close to the spot, and every word reached me.

"Monsieur! are you the captain of the Belle of the West?"

The lady spoke in French, a smattering of which the Captain in his
intercourse with the Creoles had picked up.

"Yes, madame," was the reply.

"I wish to take passage with you."

"I shall be most happy to accommodate you, madame.  There is still one
state-room disengaged, I believe, Mr Shirley?"

Here the Captain appealed to the clerk, in order to ascertain if such
was the case.

"Never mind!" said the lady, interrupting him, "for the matter of a
state-room it is of no importance!  You will reach my plantation before
midnight, and therefore I shall not require to sleep aboard."

The phrase, "my plantation," evidently had an effect upon the Captain.
Naturally not a rude man, it seemed to render him still more attentive
and polite.  The proprietor of a Louisiana plantation is a somebody not
to be treated with nonchalance; but, when that proprietor chances to be
a young and charming lady, who could be otherwise than amiable?  Not
Captain B., commander of the "Belle of the West!"  The very name of his
boat negatived the presumption!

Smiling blandly, he inquired where he was to land his fair charge.

"At Bringiers," replied the lady.  "My residence is a little below, but
our landing is not a good one; besides, there is some freight which it
would be better to put ashore at Bringiers."

Here the occupant of the barouche pointed to a train of drays, loaded
with barrels and boxes, that had just driven up, and halted in the rear
of the carriage.

The sight of the freight had a still further pleasant effect on the
Captain, who was himself _part owner_ of his boat.  He became profuse in
offers of service, and expressed his willingness to accommodate his new
passenger in every way she might desire.

"Monsieur Capitaine," continued this handsome lady, still remaining
seated in her carriage, and speaking in a tone of good-natured
seriousness, "I must make one condition with you."

"Please to name it, madame."

"Well then!  It is reported that your boat is likely to have a race with
some other one.  If that be so, I cannot become your passenger."  The
Captain looked somewhat disconcerted.  "The fact is," continued she, "I
had a narrow escape once before, and I am determined to run no such risk
in future."

"Madame--," stammered the Captain--then hesitating--

"Oh, then!" interrupted the lady, "if you cannot give me the assurance
that you will not race, I must wait for some other boat."

The Captain hung his head for some seconds.  He was evidently reflecting
upon his answer.  To be thus denied the anticipated excitement and
pleasure of the race--the victory which he confidently expected, and its
grand consequences; to appear, as it were, afraid of trying the speed of
his boat; afraid that she would be beaten; would give his rival a large
opportunity for future bragging, and would place himself in no enviable
light in the eyes of his crew and passengers--all of whom had already
made up their minds for a race.  On the other hand, to refuse the
request of the lady--not very unreasonable when properly viewed--and
still more reasonable when it was considered that that lady was the
proprietress of several dray-loads of freight, and when still further
considered that that lady was a rich _plantress_ of the "French coast,"
and might see fit next fall to send several hundred casks of sugar and
as many hogsheads of tobacco down on his (the Captain's) boat;--these
considerations, I say, made the request quite reasonable.  And so we
suppose, upon reflection, it must have appeared to Captain B--, for
after a little hesitation he granted it.  Not with the best grace,
however.  It evidently cost him a struggle; but interest prevailed, and
he granted it.

"I accept your conditions, madame.  The boat shall _not_ run.  I give
you my promise to that effect."

"_Assez_! thanks!  Monsieur le Capitaine; I am greatly obliged to you.
If you will be so good as to have my freight taken aboard.  The carriage
goes along.  This gentleman is my steward.  Here, Antoine!  He will look
to everything.  And now pray, Capitaine, when do you contemplate
starting?"

"In fifteen minutes, madame, at the latest."

"Are you sure of that, mon Capitaine?" she inquired, with a significant
laugh, which told she was no stranger to the want of punctuality of the
boats.

"Quite sure, madame," replied the Captain; "you may depend on the time."

"Ah! then, I shall go aboard at once!"  And, so saying, she lightly
tripped down the steps of the barouche, and giving her arm to the
Captain, who had gallantly proffered himself, was conducted to the
ladies' cabin, and of course for a time lost to the admiring eyes, not
only of myself, but of a goodly number of others who had already been
attracted to gaze upon this beautiful apparition.



CHAPTER SIX.

ANTOINE THE STEWARD.

I had been very much struck by the appearance of this dame.  Not so much
on account of her physical beauty--though that was of a rare kind--as by
the air that characterised her.  I should feel a difficulty in
describing this, which consisted in a certain _braverie_ that bespoke
courage and self-possession.  There was no coarseness of manner--only
the levity of a heart gay as summer, and light as gossamer, but capable,
when occasion required, of exhibiting a wonderful boldness and strength.
She was a woman that would be termed beautiful in any country; but with
her beauty there was combined elegance, both in dress and manner, that
told you at once she was a lady accustomed to society and the world.
And this, although still young--she certainly could not have been much
over twenty.  Louisiana has a precocious climate, however; and a Creole
of twenty will count for an Englishwoman of ten years older.

Was she married?  I could not bring myself to think so; besides the
expressions, "my plantation" and "my steward," would scarcely have been
used by a lady who had "somebody" at home, unless, indeed, that somebody
were held in very low estimation--in short, considered a "nobody."  A
widow she might be--a very young widow--but even that did not seem to me
probable.  She had not the "cut" of a widow in my eyes, and there was
not the semblance of a "weed" either about her dress or her looks.  The
Captain had styled her _Madame_, but he was evidently unacquainted with
her, and also with the French idiom.  In a doubtful case such as this,
it should have been "Mademoiselle."

Inexperienced as I was at the time--"green," as the Americans have it--I
was not without some curiosity in regard to women, especially when these
chanced to be beautiful.  My curiosity in the present case had been
stimulated by several circumstances.  First, by the attractive
loveliness of the lady herself; second, by the style of her conversation
and the facts it had revealed; third, by the circumstance that the lady
was, or I fancied her to be, a "Creole."

I had as yet had but little intercourse with people of this peculiar
race, and was somewhat curious to know more about them.  I had found
them by no means ready to open their doors to the Saxon stranger--
especially the old "Creole _noblesse_," who even to this hour regard
their Anglo-American fellow-citizens somewhat in the light of invaders
and usurpers!  This feeling was at one time deeply rooted.  With time,
however, it is dying out.

A fourth spur to my curiosity was found in the fact, that the lady in
passing had eyed me with a glance of more than ordinary inquisitiveness.
Do not be too hasty in blaming me for this declaration.  Hear me first.
I did not for a moment fancy that that glance was one of admiration.  I
had no such thoughts.  I was too young at the time to flatter myself
with such fancies.  Besides, at that precise moment I was far from being
"in my zenith."  With scarce five dollars in my purse, I felt rather
forlorn; and how could I have fancied that a brilliant beauty such as
she--a star of first magnitude--a rich proprietress--the owner of a
plantation, a steward, and a host of slaves--would condescend to look
admiringly on such a friendless wretch as I?

In truth, I did not flatter myself with such thoughts.  I supposed that
it was simple curiosity on her part--and no more.  She saw that I was
not of her own race.  My complexion--the colour of my eyes--the cut of
my garments--perhaps something _gauche_ in my manner--told her I was a
stranger to the soil, and that had excited her interest for a passing
moment.  A mere ethnological reflection--nothing more.

The act, however, had helped to pique my curiosity; and I felt desirous
of knowing at least the name of this distinguished creature.

The "steward," thought I, may serve my purpose, and I turned towards
that individual.

He was a tall, grey-haired, lathy, old Frenchman, well-dressed, and
sufficiently respectable-looking to have passed for the lady's father.
His aspect, too, was quite venerable, giving you the idea of long
service and a very old family.

I saw, as I approached him, that my chances were but indifferent.  I
found him as "close as a clam."  Our conversation was very brief; his
answers laconic.

"Monsieur, may I ask who is your mistress?"

"A lady."

"True: any one may tell that who has the good fortune of looking at her.
It was her name I asked for."

"It does not concern you to know it."

"Not if it be of so much importance to keep it a secret!"

"_Sacr-r-re_!"

This exclamation, muttered, rather than spoken aloud, ended the
dialogue; and the old fellow turned away on giving expression to it--no
doubt cursing me in his heart as a meddling Yankee.

I applied myself to the sable Jehu of the barouche, but with no better
success.  He was getting his horses aboard, and not liking to give
direct answers to my questions, he "dodged" them by dodging around his
horses, and appearing to be very busy on the offside.  Even the _name_ I
was unable to get out of him, and I also gave _him_ up in despair.

The name, however, was furnished me shortly after from an unexpected
source.  I had returned to the boat, and had seated myself once more
under the awning, watching the boatmen, with rolled-up red shirts, use
their brawny arms in getting their freight aboard.  I saw it was the
same which had been delivered from the drays--the property of the lady.
It consisted, for the most part, of barrels of pork and flour, with a
quantity of dried hams, and some bags of coffee.

"Provisions for her large establishment," soliloquised I.

Just then some packages of a different character were pushed upon the
staging.  These were leathern trunks, travelling bags, rosewood cases,
bonnet-boxes, and the like.

"Ha! her personal luggage," I again reflected, and continued to puff my
cigar.  Regarding the transfer of the trunks, my eye was suddenly
attracted to some lettering that appeared upon one of the packages--a
leathern portmanteau.  I sprang from my seat, and as the article was
carried up the gangway stair I met it halfway.  I glanced my eye over
the lettering, and read--

"_Mademoiselle Eugenie Besancon_."



CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE STARTING.

The last bell rings--the "can't-get-away" folks rush ashore--the
staging-plank is drawn in--some heedless wight has to jump for it--the
cable is pulled aboard and coiled--the engineer's bell tinkles--the
great wheels revolve, lashing the brown water into foam--the steam
"whistles" and screams at the boilers, and booms from the 'scape-pipe in
regular repetitions--neighbouring boats are pressed out of their
places--their planks cringe and crackle--guards are broken, or the
slight timbers of wheel-houses, causing a cross-fire of curses between
the crews--and after some minutes of this pandemoniac confusion, the
huge craft clears herself, and rides out upon the broad bosom of the
river.

She heads up-stream; a few strokes of the revolving paddles and the
current is mastered; and the noble boat yielding to the mighty
propulsion, cleaves her liquid way, "walking the water like a thing of
life!"

Perchance the boom of a cannon announces her departure; perchance it is
animated by the harmonious swell of brazen instruments; or still more
appropriate, some old "boatman's song," with its lively chorus, is heard
issuing from the rude, though not unmusical throats of the "hands"
below.

Lafayette and Carrolton are soon passed; the humbler roofs of stores and
dwellings sink out of sight; and the noble dome of Saint Charles, the
spires of churches, and the towers of the great cathedral, are all of
the Crescent City that remain above the horizon.  These, at length, go
down; and the "floating palace" moves on in stately grandeur between the
picturesque shores of the Mississippi.

I have said "picturesque."  This word does not satisfy me, nor can I
think of one that will delineate my idea.  I must make use of a phrase,
"picturesquely beautiful," to express my admiration of the scenery of
those shores.  I have no hesitation in pronouncing it the finest in the
world.

I am not gazing upon it with a mere cold eye-glance.  I cannot separate
scenery from its associations--not its associations of the past, but
with the present.  I look upon the ruined castles of the Rhine, and
their story impresses me with a feeling of disgust for what _has been_.
I look upon its modern homes and their dwellers; I am equally filled
with disgust for what _is_.  In the Bay of Naples I experience a similar
feeling, and roaming "around" the lordly parks of England, I see them
through an enclosure of wretchedness and rags, till their loveliness
seems an illusion!

Here alone, upon the banks of this majestic river, do I behold wealth
widely diffused, intelligence broadcast, and comfort for all.  Here, in
almost every house, do I meet the refined taste of high civilisation--
the hospitality of generous hearts combined with the power to dispense
it.  Here can I converse with men by thousands, whose souls are free--
not politically alone, but free from vulgar error and fanatic
superstition; here, in short, have I witnessed, not the perfectedness--
for that belongs to a far future time--but the most advanced stage of
civilisation yet reached upon the globe.

A dark shadow crosses my eye-glance, and my heart is stung with sudden
pain.  It is the shadow of a human being with a black skin.  _He is a
slave_!

For a moment or two the scene looks black!  What is there to admire
here--in these fields of golden sugar-cane, of waving maize, of
snow-white cotton?  What to admire in those grand mansions, with their
orangeries, their flowery gardens, their drooping shade-trees, and their
soft arbours?  All this is but the sweat of the slave!

For a while I behold without admiring.  The scene has lost its _couleur
de rose_; and a gloomy wilderness is before me!  I reflect.  Slowly and
gradually the cloud passes away, and the brightness returns.  I reflect
and compare.

True, he with the black skin is a slave--but not a _voluntary_ slave.
That is a difference in his favour at least.

In other lands--mine own among them--I see around me slaves as well, and
far more numerous.  Not the slaves of an individual, but of an
association of individuals--a class--an oligarchy.  Not slaves of the
corvee--serfs of the feud--but victims of its modern representative the
tax, which is simply its commutation, and equally baneful in its
effects.

On my soul, I hold that the slavery of the Louisiana black is less
degrading than that of the white pleb of England.  The poor,
woolly-headed helot is the victim of conquest, and may claim to place
himself in the honourable category of a prisoner of war.  He has not
willed his own bondage; while you, my grocer, and butcher, and baker--
ay, and you, my fine city merchant, who fondly fancy yourself a
freeman--ye are voluntary in your serfdom; ye are loyal to a political
juggle that annually robs ye of half your year's industry; that annually
requires some hundred thousands of your class to be sloughed off into
exile, lest your whole body should gangrene and die.  And all this
without even a protest.  Nay, worse--you are ever ready to cry "crucify"
to him who would attempt to counteract this condition--ever ready to
glorify the man and the motion that would fix another rivet in your
fetters!

Even while I write, the man who loves you least; he who for forty
years--for all his life, in fact--has been your systematic enemy, is the
most popular of your rulers!  Even while I write the Roman wheel is
revolving before your eyes, squibs and crackers sound sweetly in your
ears, and you are screaming forth your rejoicings over the acts of a
convention that had for its sole object the strengthening of your
chains!  But a short twelve months ago, you were just as enthusiastic
for a war that was equally antagonistic to your interests, equally
hostile to the liberties of your kind!  Miserable delusion!

I repeat what I have uttered with a feeling of solemnity.  On my soul, I
hold that the slavery of the Louisiana black is less degrading than that
of the white pleb of England.

True, this black man is a _slave_, and there are three millions of his
race in the same condition.  Painful thought! but less painful when
accompanied by the reflection that the same broad land is trodden by
_twenty millions of free and sovereign men_.  Three millions of slaves
to twenty millions of masters!  In mine own land the proportion is
exactly reversed!

The truth may be obscure.  For all that, I dare say there are some who
will understand it.

Ah! how pleasant to turn from these heart-stirring but painful thoughts
to the calmer contemplation of themes furnished by science and nature.
How sweet was it to study the many novel forms that presented themselves
to my eyes on the shores of that magnificent stream!  There is a
pleasaunce even in the retrospect; and as I now sit dreaming over them
far away--perhaps never more to behold them with mortal eye--I am
consoled by a fond and faithful memory, whose magic power enables me to
recall them before the eye of my mind in all their vivid colouring of
green and gold!



CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE "COAST" OF THE MISSISSIPPI.

As soon as we had fairly started, I ascended to the "hurricane-deck," in
order to obtain a better view of the scenery through which we were
passing.  In this place I was alone; for the silent pilot, boxed up in
his little tower of glass, could hardly be called a companion.

I make the following observations:

The breadth of the Mississippi river has been much exaggerated.  It is
here about half a mile wide.  Sometimes more, occasionally less.  (This
average width it preserves for more than a thousand miles from its
mouth.)  Its waters run at the rate of three or four miles to the hour,
and are of a yellowish cast, with a slight tincture of "red."  The
yellow colour it derives from the Missouri, while the deeper tint is
obtained by the influx of the "Red."

Driftwood floats thickly upon its surface; here in single logs, there in
raft-like clusters.  To run a boat against one of these is attended with
danger, and the pilot avoids them.  Sometimes one swimming below the
surface escapes his eye; and then a heavy bumping against the bows
shakes the boat, and startles the equanimity of the less experienced
passengers.  The "snag" is most dreaded.  That is a dead tree with heavy
roots still adhering.  These, from their weight, have settled upon the
bottom, and the _debris_ gathering around holds them firmly imbedded.
The lighter top, riven of its branches, rises towards the surface; but
the pressure of the current prevents it from attaining to the
perpendicular, and it is held in a slanting position.  When its top
rises above the water, the danger is but trifling--unless in a very dark
night--it is when the top is hidden a foot or two below the surface that
the snag is feared.  Then a boat running upon it up-stream, is lost to a
certainty.  The roots firmly imbedded in the bottom mud, prevent the
pile from yielding; and the top, usually a spiky one, penetrates the bow
timbers of the boat, sinking her almost instantly.  A boat properly
"snagged" will go down in a few minutes.

The "sawyer" is a log fixed in the water similarly to the snag, but kept
bobbing up and down by the current, thus suggesting the idea of a sawyer
engaged at his work--hence the name.  A boat getting aground upon a
sunken log _crosswise_, is sometimes snagged upon its branches, and
sometimes broken into two pieces by the pressure of her own weight.

Among the drift, I notice odd matters that interest me.  Stalks of
sugar-cane that have been crushed in the press-mill (a hundred miles
farther up I should not meet these), leaves and stems of the maize
plant, corn-cobs, pieces of broken gourd-shell, tufts of raw cotton,
split fence-rails, now and then the carcase of some animal, with a
buzzard or black vulture (_Cathartes aura_ and _atratus_) perched upon
it, or hovering above.

I am within the geographical range of the alligator but here the great
Saurian is seldom seen.  He prefers the more sluggish _bayous_, or the
streams whose shores are still wild.  In the rapid current of the
Mississippi, and along its well-cultivated banks, he is but rarely
observed by the passing traveller.

Alternately the boat approaches both shores of the river ("coasts" they
are called).  The land is an alluvion of no very ancient formation.  It
is a mere strip of _terra firma_, varying in breadth from a few hundred
yards to several miles, and gradually declining from the banks, so that
the river is actually running along the top of a ridge!  Beyond this
strip commences the "Swamp," a tract that is annually inundated, and
consists of a series of lagoons and marshes covered with coarse grass
and reeds.  This extends in some places for a score of miles, or even
farther--a complete wilderness of morass.  Some portions of this--where
the inundation is only annual--are covered with dark and almost
impenetrable forests.  Between the cultivated strip on the immediate
bank of the river, and the "Swamp" in the rear, runs a belt of this
forest, which forms a kind of background to the picture, answering to
the mountain-ranges in other lands.  It is a high, dark forest,
principally composed of cypress-trees (_Cupressus disticka_).  But there
are other kinds peculiar to this soil, such as the sweet-gum
(_Liquidambar styraciflua_), the live-oak (_Quercus vivens_), the tupelo
(_Nyssa aquatica_), the water-locust (_Gleditschia aquatica_), the
cotton-wood (_Populus angulata_), with _carya, celtis_, and various
species of _acer, cornus, juglans, magnolia_, and oaks.  Here an
underwood of palmettoes (_Sabal_ palms), _smilax, llianes_, and various
species of _vitis_; there thick brakes of cane (_Arundo gigantea_), grow
among the trees; while from their branches is suspended in long festoons
that singular parasite, the "Spanish moss" (_Tillandsia usneoides_),
imparting a sombre character to the forest.

Between this dank forest and the river-banks lie the cultivated fields.
The river current is often several feet above their level; but they are
protected by the "Levee," an artificial embankment which has been formed
on both sides of the river, to a distance of several hundred miles from
its mouth.

In these fields I observe the culture of the sugar-cane, of the
rice-plant, of tobacco and cotton, of indigo and maize.  I see the
"gangs" of black slaves at their work, in their cotton dresses of
striped and gaudy colours, in which sky-blue predominates.  I see huge
waggons drawn by mules or oxen returning from the cane-fields, or slowly
toiling along the banks.  I see the light-bodied Creole, in "cottonade"
jacket and trousers of bright blue, mounted upon his small Spanish
horse, and galloping along the Levee road.  I see the grand mansion of
the planter, with its orange-groves and gardens, its green Venetians,
cool verandahs, and pretty palings.  I see the huge sugar-house, or
tobacco-shed, or cotton "pickery;" and there, too, are the neat
"cabins," clustering together or running in a row, like the
bathing-boxes at a fashionable watering-place.

Now we are passing a plantation where they are making merry--a _fete
champetre_.  Many horses stand under the trees, "hitched" in the shade
with saddles on, not a few of which are "ladies' saddles."  In the
verandah, the lawn, and through the orange shrubbery, may be seen moving
about gentlemen and ladies richly attired.  Music is heard, and there is
dancing in the open air.  One cannot help envying these happy Creoles
the enjoyment of their Arcadian life.

Scenes varied and lovely were passing panorama-like before my eyes.
Lost in admiration of them, I had for the moment forgotten _Eugenie
Besancon_.



CHAPTER NINE.

EUGENIE BESANCON.

No, Eugenie Besancon was not forgotten.  Every now and then her
sylph-like form flitted before my imagination, and I could not help
associating it with the scenery through which we were passing, and
amidst which, no doubt, she was born and nurtured--its fair _indigene_.
The glimpse of the _fete champetre_, where several Creole-like girls
were conspicuous, brought her more forcibly into my thoughts; and,
descending from the hurricane-deck, I entered the cabin with some
curiosity, once more to look upon this interesting lady.

For some time I dreaded disappointment.  The great glass folding-door of
the ladies' cabin was closed; and although there were several ladies
outside in the main saloon, the Creole was not among the number.  The
ladies' cabin, which occupies the after-part of the boat, is a sacred
precinct, into which bachelors are admitted only when they enjoy the
privilege of having a friend inside--then only at certain hours.

I was not one of the privileged.  Out of the hundred and odd passengers
on board, I did not know a soul, male or female; and I had the happiness
or misfortune of being equally unknown to them.  Under these
circumstances my entry into the ladies' cabin would have been deemed an
intrusion; and I sat down in the main saloon, and occupied myself in
studying the physiognomy and noting the movements of my
fellow-passengers.

They were a mixed throng.  Some were wealthy merchants, bankers, money
or commission brokers from New Orleans, with their wives and daughters,
on their annual migration to the north, to escape from the yellow fever,
and indulge in the more pleasant epidemic of life at a fashionable
watering-place.  There were corn and cotton-planters from the
up-country, on their return home, and storekeepers from the up-river
towns; boatmen who, in jean trousers and red flannel shirts, had pushed
a "flat" two thousand miles down stream, and who were now making the
back trip in shining broadcloth and snow-white linen.  What "lions"
would these be on getting back to their homes about the sources of Salt
River, the Cumberland, the Licking, or the Miami!  There were Creoles,
too--old wine-merchants of the French quarter--and their families; the
men distinguished by a superabundance of ruffles, plaited pantaloons,
shining jewellery, and light- cloth boots.

There was a sprinkling of jauntily-dressed clerks, privileged to leave
New Orleans in the dull season; and there were some still more
richly-dressed gentlemen, with the finest of cloth in their coats, the
whitest of linen and raffles, the brightest of diamonds in their studs,
and the most massive of finger-rings.  These last were "sportsmen."
They had already fathered around a table in the "smoking-saloon," and
were fingering a span new pack of cards--the implements of their
peculiar industry.

Among these I observed the fellow who had so loudly challenged me to bet
upon the boat-race.  He had passed me several times, regarding me with a
glance that appeared anything but friendly.

Our close friend the steward was seated in the saloon.  You must not
suppose that his holding the office of steward, or overseer, disentitled
him to the privileges of the first-class cabin.  There is no "second
saloon" on board an American steamer.  Such a distinction is not known
so far west as the Mississippi.

The overseers of plantations are usually men of rude and brutal
dispositions.  The very nature of their calling makes them so.  This
Frenchman, however, seemed to be an exception.  He appeared a most
respectable old gentleman.  I rather liked his looks, and began to feel
quite an interest in him, though he by no means appeared to reciprocate
the feeling.

Some one complained of the mosquitoes, and suggested the opening of the
folding-doors of the ladies' cabin.  This suggestion was backed up by
several others--ladies and gentlemen.  The clerk of the boat is the man
charged with such responsibilities.  He was at length appealed to.  The
appeal was reasonable--it was successful; and the great gates of the
steamboat Paradise were thrown open.  The result was a current of air
which swept through the long saloon from stem to stern; and in less than
five minutes not a mosquito remained on board, except such as had
escaped the blast by taking shelter in the state-rooms.  This was
certainly a great relief.

The folding-doors were permitted to remain open--an arrangement quite
satisfactory to all, but particularly to a number of the gaily-dressed
young clerks, who could now command a full view of the interior of the
harem.  Several of them might be observed taking advantage of the new
arrangement--not staring broadly, as that would be accounted rude and
noted against them.  They only appealed to the sacred shrine by
side-glances, or over books which they pretended to read, or pacing up
and down approached the favoured limit, glancing in at intervals, as if
undesignedly.  Some appeared to have acquaintances inside, though not
upon terms of sufficient familiarity to give them the right of entry.
Others were in hopes of making acquaintances, should opportunity offer.
I could detect expressive looks, and occasionally a smile that seemed to
denote a mutual intelligence.  Many a pleasant thought is conveyed
without words.  The tongue is often a sad disenchanter.  I have known it
to spoil many a nice love-plot silently conceived, and almost ripe for
being carried out.

I was amused at this speechless pantomime, and sat for some minutes
regarding it.  My eyes wandered at intervals towards the interior of the
ladies' saloon, guided thither partly by a common curiosity.  I have an
observant habit.  Anything new interests me, and this cabin-life on an
American steamboat was entirely new, and not a little _piquante_.  I
desired to study it.  Perhaps I was somewhat interested in another way--
desirous of having one more look at the young Creole, Besancon.

My desire, then, was gratified.  I saw the lady at last.  She had come
out of her state-room, and was moving around the saloon, graceful and
gay.  She was now unbonneted, and her rich golden tresses were arranged
_a la Chinoise_--a Creole fashion as well.  The thick masses, coiled
into a large "club" at the back of the head, denoted the luxuriance of
her hair: and the style of coiffure, displaying her noble forehead and
finely-formed neck, became her well.  Fair hair with blonde complexion,
although rare among the Creoles, is sometimes met with.  Dark hair with
a brunette skin is the rule, to which Eugenie Besancon was a remarkable
exception.

Her features expressed gaiety, approaching to volatility; yet one could
not help feeling that there was firmness of character _en perdu_.  Her
figure was beyond criticism; and the face, if not strikingly beautiful
was one that you could not look upon without emotions of pleasure.

She appeared to know some of her fellow-passengers--at least she was
conversing with them in a style of easy freedom.  Women, however, rarely
exhibit embarrassment among themselves; women of French race, never.

One thing I observed--her cabin companions appeared to regard her with
deference.  Perhaps they had already learnt that the handsome carriage
and horses belonged to her.  That was very, very likely!

I continued to gaze upon this interesting lady.  Girl I cannot call her,
for although young enough, she had the air of a woman--a woman of
experience.  She appeared quite at ease; seemed mistress of herself, and
indeed of everything else.

"What an air of _insouciance_," thought I.  "That woman is not in love!"

I cannot tell why I should have made these reflections, or why the
thought pleased me; but certainly it did.  Why?  She was nothing to me--
she was far above me.  I dared scarce look upon her.  I regarded her as
some superior being, and with timid stolen glances, as I would regard
beauty in a church.  Ho! she was nothing to me.  In another hour it
would be night, and she was to land in the night; I should never see her
again!  I should think of her though for an hour or two, perhaps for a
day--the longer that was now foolish enough to sit gazing upon her!  I
was weaving a net for myself--a little agony that might last for some
time after she was gone.

I had formed a resolution to withdraw from the fascinating influence,
and return to my meditation on the hurricane-deck.  A last look at the
fair Creole, and I should depart.

Just at that moment she flung herself into a chair.

It was of the kind known as a "rocking-chair," and its motions displayed
the fine proportion and outlines of her form.  As she now sat she was
facing the door, and her eye for the first time rested upon me.  By
Heavens! she was gazing on me just as before!  What meant that strange
glance? those burning eyes?

Stedfast and fixed, they remained bent upon mine--and mine trembled to
answer them!

Thus for some moments her eyes dwelt upon me, without motion or change
of direction.  I was too young at that time to understand the expression
that was in them.  I could translate such an one afterwards, but not
then.

At length she rose from her seat with an air of uneasiness, as if
displeased either with herself or me; and, turning away her head, she
opened the latticed door and passed into her state-room.

Had I done anything to give offence?  No! not by word, nor look, nor
gesture.  I had not spoken--I had not moved, and my timid glance could
not have been construed into one of rudeness.

I was somewhat bewildered by the conduct of Mademoiselle Besancon; and,
in the full belief that I should never see her again, I hurried away
from the saloon, and once more climbed up to the hurricane-deck.



CHAPTER TEN.

A NEW MODE OF RAISING THE STEAM.

It was near sunset--the fiery disc was going down behind the dark
outline of cypress forest that belted the western horizon, and a yellow
light fell upon the river.  Promenading back and forward upon the
canvas-covered roof, I was gazing upon the scene, wrapt in admiration of
its glowing beauty.

My reverie was interrupted.  On looking down the river I saw that a
large boat was in our wake, and coming rapidly after us.  The volume of
smoke rolling up out of her tall funnels, and the red glowing of her
fires, showed that she was moving under a full head of steam.  Her size,
as well as the loud reports of her 'scape-pipe, told that she was a boat
of the first-class.  She was the "Magnolia."  She was moving with great
velocity, and I had not watched her long, before I perceived that she
was fast gaining upon us.

At this moment my ears were assailed by a variety of sounds coming from
below.  Loud voices in earnest tones, the stamping and pattering of
feet, as of men rushing over the wooden decks and along the guard-ways.
The voices of women, too, were mingled in the medley.

I surmised what all this meant.  The approach of the rival boat was the
cause of the excitement.

Up to this time the boat-race seemed to have been nearly forgotten.  It
had got abroad among both "hands" and passengers that the Captain did
not intend to "run;" and although this backing-out had been loudly
censured at first, the feeling of disappointment had partially subsided.
The crew had been busy at their work of stowage--the firemen with their
huge billets of cord-wood--the gamblers with their cards--and the
passengers, in general, with their portmanteaus, or the journal of the
day.  The other boat not starting at the same time, had been out of
sight until now, and the feeling of rivalry almost "out of mind."

The appearance of the rival produced a sudden change.  The gamblers
flung down the half-dealt pack, in hopes of having something more
exciting to bet upon; the readers hastily closed their books, and tossed
aside their newspapers; the rummagers of trunks banged down the lids;
the fair occupants of rocking-chairs suddenly sprang to their feet; and
all ran out of the cabins, and pressed towards the after-part of the
boat.

My position on the hurricane-deck was the best possible for a good view
of the rival boat, and I was soon joined by a number of my
fellow-passengers.  I wished, however, to witness the scene on the
cabin-deck, and went below.

On reaching the main saloon, I found it quite forsaken.  All the
passengers, both male and female, had gone out upon the guard-way; and
leaning against the guards were anxiously watching the approach of the
Magnolia.

I found the Captain under the front-cabin awning.  He was surrounded by
a crowd of gentlemen-passengers, all of whom appeared to be in a high
state of excitement.  One after the other was proffering speech to him.
They were urging him to "raise the steam."

The Captain, evidently wishing to escape from these importunities, kept
passing from place to place.  It was to no purpose.  Wherever he went he
was met or followed by a knot of individuals, all with the same request
in their mouths--some even begging him for "God's sake" not to let the
Magnolia pass him!

"Wal, Cap!" cried one, "if the Belle don't run, I guess she'll never be
heerd of on these waters agin, she won't."

"You're right!" added another.  "For my part the next trip I make I'll
try the Magnolia."

"She's a fast boat that 'ere Magnolia!" remarked a third.

"She ain't anything else," rejoined the first speaker: "she's got her
steam on a few, I reckon."

I walked out on the guard-way in the direction of the ladies' cabin.
The inmates of the latter were clustered along the guards, and seemingly
as much interested in the boat-race as the men.  I could hear several of
them expressing their wishes aloud that the boats would run.  All idea
of risk or fear of consequences had departed; and I believe that if the
company had been "polled" at the moment in favour of the race, there
would not have been three dissentient voices.  I confess that I, myself,
would have voted for running,--I had caught the infection, and no longer
thought of "snags", "sawyers," or bursting boilers.

As the Magnolia drew near the excitement increased.  It was evident that
in a few minutes more she would be alongside, and then pass us.  The
idea was unsupportable to some of the passengers; and loud words could
be heard, now and then interspersed with an angry oath.  The poor
Captain had to bear all this--for it was known that the rest of the
officers were well disposed for a trial of speed.  It was the Captain
only who "showed the white feather."

The Magnolia was close in our wake; her head bearing a little to one
side.  She was evidently preparing to pass us!

Her officers and crew were moving actively about; both pilots were seen
above at the wheel-house; the firemen were all at work upon the deck;
the furnace-doors were glowing red-hot; and the bright blaze stood
several feet above the tops of her tall funnels!  One might have fancied
she was on fire!

"They are burning bacon hams!" shouted a voice.

"They are by--!" exclaimed another.  "See, yonder's a pile of them in
front of the furnace!"

I turned my eyes in that direction.  It was quite true.  A
pyramidal-shaped mass of dark-brown objects lay upon the deck in front
of the fires.  Their size, shape, and colour told what they were--dried
hams of bacon.  The firemen were seen taking them from the pile, and
thrusting them one after another up the red tunnels of the furnace!

The Magnolia was still gaining upon us.  Already her head was even with
the wheel-house of the Belle.  On the latter boat the excitement
increased, and the noise along with it.  An occasional taunt from the
passengers of the rival boat added fuel to the flame; and the Captain
was once more abjured to run.  Men almost threatened him with violence!

The Magnolia continued to advance.  She was now head for head with us.
Another minute passed--a minute of deep silence--the crews and
passengers of both boats watched their progress with hearts too full for
utterance.  Another minute, and the Magnolia had shot ahead!

A triumphant cheer rang along her decks, mingled with taunting shouts
and expressions of insult.

"Throw us a line, and we'll tow you!" cried one.

"Whar's yer old ark now?" shouted another.

"Hurraw for the Magnolia!  Three groans for the Belle of the West!
Three groans for the old dugout!" vociferated a third, amidst jeers and
shouts of laughter.

I can hardly describe the mortification felt by those on board the
Belle.  It was not confined to the officers and crew.  The passengers,
one and all, seemed to partake of the feeling.  I shared it myself, more
than I could have believed to be possible.

One dislikes to be among the conquered, even on any terms of
association.  Besides, one involuntarily catches the impulse of the
moment.  The sentiment that surrounds you--perhaps by physical laws
which you cannot resist--for the moment becomes your own; and even when
you know the object of exultation to be worthless or absurd, you are
controlled by the electric current to join in the enthusiasm.  I
remember once being thus carried away, and mingled my voice with the
rude throats that cheered the passing cortege of royalty.  The moment it
was past, however, my heart fell, abashed at its own meanness and
wickedness.

Both his crew and passengers seemed to think our Captain imprudent in
his prudence: and a general clamour, mingled with cries of "Shame!" was
heard all over the boat.

The poor Captain!  I had my eyes upon him all this while.  I really
pitied him.  I was perhaps the only passenger on board, beside the fair
Creole, who knew his secret; and I could not help admiring the chivalric
fortitude with which he kept it to himself.  I saw his cheek glow, and
his eye sparkle with vexation; and I felt satisfied, that had he been
called upon to make that promise then, he would not have done so for the
privilege of carrying all the freight upon the river.

Just then, as if to escape the importunities that beset him, I saw him
steal back and pass through the ladies' cabin.  There he was at once
recognised, and a general onset was made upon him by his fair
passengers, who were almost as noisy in their petitions as the men.
Several threatened him, laughingly, that they would never travel by his
boat again; while others accused him of a want of gallantry.  Surely it
was impossible to resist such banterings; and I watched the Captain
closely, expecting a crisis one way or the other.  The crisis was at
hand.

Drawing himself up in the midst of a knot of these importunates, he thus
addressed them:--

"Ladies!  Nothing would give me more pleasure than to gratify you, but
before leaving New Orleans I gave my promise--in fact, passed my word of
honour to a lady--" Here the gallant speech was interrupted by a young
lady, who, rushing up from another part of the boat, cried out--

"Oh, Capitaine! cher Capitaine! do not let that wicked boat get ahead of
us! do put on more steam, and pass her--that is a dear Captain!"

"Why, Mademoiselle!" replied the Captain, in astonishment, "it was to
you I gave the promise not to run--it was--"

"Pardieu!" exclaimed Mademoiselle Besancon, for it was she.  "So you
did.  I had quite forgotten it.  Oh, cher Capitaine, I release you from
that promise.  _Helas_!  I hope it is not too late.  For Heaven's sake,
try to pass her!  _Ecoutez! les polissons_! how they taunt us!"

The Captain's face brightened up for a moment, and then suddenly resumed
its vexed expression.  He replied--

"Mademoiselle, although grateful to you, I regret to say that under the
circumstances I cannot hope to run successfully against the Magnolia.
We are not on equal terms.  _She is burning bacon hams_, of which she
has a large supply.  I should have had the same, but after promising you
not to run, I, of course, did not take any on board.  It would be
useless to attempt a race with only common cord-wood--unless indeed the
Belle be much the faster boat, which we do not yet know, as we have
never tried her speed."

Here appeared to be a dilemma, and some of the ladies regarded
Mademoiselle Besancon with looks of displeasure.

"Bacon hams!" she exclaimed; "bacon hams did you say, cher Capitaine?
How many would be enough?  Would two hundred be enough?"

"Oh! less than that," replied the Captain.

"Here!  Antoine!  Antoine!" continued she, calling to the old steward.
"How many bacon hams have you on board?"

"Ten barrels of them, Mademoiselle," answered the steward, bowing
respectfully.

"Ten barrels! that will do, I suppose?  Cher Capitaine, they are at your
service!"

"Mademoiselle, I shall pay you for them," said the Captain, brightening
up, and becoming imbued with the general enthusiasm.

"No--no--no!  Let the expense be mine.  I have hindered you.  They were
for my plantation people, but they are not in want.  We shall send down
for more.  Go, Antoine! go to the firemen.  Knock in the heads of the
barrels!  Use them as you please, but do not let us be beaten by that
wicked Magnolia!  Hark! how they cheer!  Ha! we shall pass them yet."

So saying, the fiery Creole rushed back to the guard-way, followed by a
group of admirers.

The Captain's "dander" was now fairly up; and the story of the bacon
hams soon spreading over the boat, still further heightened the
enthusiasm of both passengers and crew.  Three loud cheers were given
for the young lady, which seemed to mystify the Magnolians, who had now
been for some time in the enjoyment of their triumph, and had forged a
considerable distance ahead.

All hands went to work with a will--the barrels were rolled-up, their
heads knocked in, and part of their contents "chucked" up the blazing
furnace.  The iron walls soon grew red--the steam rose--the boat
trembled under the increased action of the engine--the bells of the
engineers tinkled their signals--the wheels revolved more rapidly, and
an increase of velocity was soon perceptible.

Hope had stifled clamour--comparative silence was restored.  There was
heard only an occasional utterance--the expression of an opinion upon
the speed of the rival boats--the fixing the conditions of a bet--and
now and then some allusion to the story of the bacon hams.

At intervals, all eyes were bent upon the water eagerly glancing along
the line that separated the rival steamers.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

A BOAT-RACE UPON THE MISSISSIPPI.

It had now become quite dark.  There was no moon in the sky--not a speck
of a star.  A clear heaven over the lower region of the Mississippi, at
night, is rather rare than otherwise.  The film of the swamp too often
obscures it.

There was light enough for the race.  The yellow water shone clear.  It
was easily distinguishable from the land.  The track was a wide one; and
the pilots of both boats--old hands--knew every "shute" and sand-bar of
the river.

The rival steamers were quite visible to one another.  No lamps needed
to be hung out, although the gaff over the bow of each boat carried its
 signal.  The cabin windows of both were full of light, and the
blaze of the bacon fires flung a vermilion glare far over the water.

Upon each boat the spectators could be seen from the other in their
state-room windows, or leaning against the guards, in attitudes that
betokened their interest.

By the time the Belle had fairly got up steam, the Magnolia was a full
half-mile in advance of her.  This distance, though nothing where there
is a large difference of speed, is not so easily overtaken where the
swiftness of the boats approximates to anything like an equality.  It
was a long while, therefore, before the people of the Belle could be
certain as to whether she was gaining upon her rival; for it is somewhat
difficult to tell this when one vessel is running in the wake of the
other.  Questions were put by passengers to the various officials and to
one another, and "guesses" were continually being made on this
interesting point.

At length an assurance was derived from the Captain, that several
hundred yards had been already taken up.  This produced general joy,
though not _universal_; for there were some "unpatriotic" individuals on
board the Belle who had risked their dollars on the Magnolia.

In another hour, however, it was clear to all that our boat was fast
gaining upon the Magnolia, as she was now within less than a quarter of
a mile of her.  A quarter of a mile on smooth water appears but a short
distance, and the people of the two boats could hold converse at will.
The opportunity was not neglected by those of the Belle to pay back the
boasts of the Magnolians.  Shouts of banter reached their ears, and
their former taunts were now returned with interest.

"Have you any message for Saint Louis?  We're going up there, and will
be happy to carry it for you," shouted one from the Belle.

"Hurraw for the bully-boat Belle!" vociferated another.

"How are you off for bacon hams?" asked a third.  "We can lend you a
few, if you're out."

"Where shall we say we left you?" inquired a fourth.  "In Shirt-tail
Bend?"  And loud peals of laughter followed this joking allusion to a
point in the river well-known to the boatmen.

It had now approached the hour of midnight, and not a soul on either
boat had thought of retiring to rest.  The interest in the race
precluded the idea of sleep, and both men and women stood outside the
cabins, or glided out and in at short intervals to note the progress.
The excitement had led to drinking, and I noticed that several of the
passengers were already half intoxicated.  The officers, too, led on by
those, were indulging too freely, and even the Captain showed symptoms
of a similar condition.  No one thought of censure--prudence had fled
from the boat.

It is near midnight, and amidst the growling and grinding of the
machinery, the boats are moving on!  There is deep darkness upon the
water, but this is no impediment.  The red fires glow; the blaze stands
high above the tall funnels; steam booms from the iron pipes; the huge
paddles lash the water into foam; the timbers creak and tremble under
the fierce pressure, and the boats move on!

It is near midnight.  A space of two hundred yards alone separates the
steamers--the Belle is bounding upon the waves of the Magnolia.  In less
than ten minutes her head will overlap the stern of her rival.  In less
than twenty, and the cheer of victory rising from her deck will peal
from shore to shore!

I was standing by the Captain of our boat, regarding him not without a
feeling of solicitude.  I regretted to see him pass so often to the
"bar."  He was drinking deeply.

He had returned to his station by the wheel-house, and was gazing ahead.
Some straggling lights were gleaming on the right bank of the river, a
mile farther up.  The sight of these caused him to start, and utter a
wild exclamation:--

"By Heavens! it is _Bringiers_!"

"Ye-e-s," drawled the pilot at his elbow.  "We've reached it in quick
time, I reckon."

"Great God!  I must lose the race!"

"How?" said the other, not comprehending him; "what has that got to do
with it?"

"I must land there.  I must--I must--the lady who gave us the hams--I
must land her!"

"Oh! _that_," replied the phlegmatic pilot; "a darned pity it is," he
added; "but if you must, you must.  Darn the luck!  We'd a-beat them
into shucks in another quarter, I reckon.  Darn the luck!"

"We must give it up," said the Captain.  "Turn her head in."

Saying this, he hurried below; and, observing his excited manner, I
followed him.

A group of ladies stood upon the guard-way where the Captain descended
over the wheel-house.  The Creole was among them.

"Mademoiselle," said the Captain, addressing himself to this lady, "we
must lose the race after all."

"Why?" asked she in surprise; "are there not enough?  Antoine! have you
delivered them all?"

"No, Mademoiselle," replied the Captain, "it is not that, thanks to your
generosity.  You see those lights?"

"Yes--well?"

"That is _Bringiers_."

"Oh! it is, is it?"

"Yes;--and of course you must be landed there."

"And that would lose you the race?"

"Certainly."

"Then, of course, I must _not_ be landed there.  What care I for a day?
I am not so old but that I can spare one.  Ha! ha! ha!  You shall not
lose your race, and the reputation of your fine boat, on my account.
Think not of landing, cher Capitaine!  Take me on to Baton Rouge.  I can
get back in the morning!"

A cheer rose from the auditory; and the Captain, rushing back to the
pilot, countermanded his late order.

The Belle again stands in the wake of the Magnolia, and again scarce two
hundred yards of the river lie between.  The rumbling of their
machinery--the booming of their steam--the plashing of their paddles--
the creaking of their planks--the shouts of those on board, mingle in
rude concert.

Up forges the Belle--up--up--gaining in spite of the throes of her
antagonist.  Up, nearer still--nearer, till her head laps upon the
stern, then the wheel-house, then the foredeck of the Magnolia!  Now the
lights of both cross each other--their fires glow together upon the
water--they are head and head!

Another foot is gained--the Captain waves his hat--and the cheer of
triumph peals forth!

That cheer was never finished.  Its first notes had scarce broke upon
the midnight air, when it was interrupted by an explosion like the
bursting of some vast magazine--an explosion that shook the air, the
earth, and the water!  Timbers crashed and flew upward--men shouted as
their bodies were projected to the heavens--smoke and vapour filled the
air--and one wild cry of agony arose upon the night!



CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE LIFE-PRESERVER.

The concussion, unlike anything I had ever heard, was, nevertheless,
significant of the nature of the catastrophe.  I felt an instantaneous
conviction that the boilers had burst, and such in reality was the fact.

At the moment, I chanced to be on the balcony in rear of my state-room.
I was holding by the guard-rail,--else the shock and the sudden lurch of
the boat would have flung me headlong.

Scarce knowing what I did, I staggered into my state-room, and through
the opposite door into the main saloon.

Here I paused and looked around me.  The whole forward part of the boat
was shrouded in steam and smoke, and already a portion of the hot
scalding vapour floated through the cabin.

Dreading the contact of this, I rushed aft; but by a fortunate chance
the lurch of the boat had brought her stern to windward, and the breeze
blew the dangerous element away.

The engine was now silent--the wheels had ceased to move--the
'scape-pipe no longer gave out its booming notes; but instead of these
sounds, others of terrible import fell upon the ear.  The shouts of men,
mingled with oaths--wild, awful imprecations--the more shrill piercing
shrieks of women--the groans of rounded from the deck below--the
agonised cry of those blown into the water and drowning--all rang upon
the ear with terrible emphasis!

How changed the tones from those that, but a moment before, pealed from
the self-same lips!

The smoky vapour was soon partially blown off, and I could catch a
glimpse of the forward part of the boat.  There a complete chaos met the
eye.  The smoking-saloon, the bar with its contents, the front awning,
and part of the starboard wheel-house, were completely carried away--
blown up as if a mine had been sprung beneath them--and the huge
sheet-iron funnels had fallen forward upon the deck!  At a glance I was
convinced that captain, pilots, all who had been upon that part of the
boat, must have perished!

Of course such reflections passed with the rapidity of thought itself,
and occupied me not a moment of time.  I felt that _I_ was still unhurt,
and my first natural thought was that of preserving my life.  I had
sufficient presence of mind to know there was no danger of a second
explosion; but I perceived that the boat was badly injured, and already
leaning to one side.  How long would she swim?

I had hardly asked myself the question when it was answered by a voice
that, in terrified accents, shouted out:--

"Good God! she is sinking! she is sinking!"

This announcement was almost simultaneous with the cry of "Fire!" and at
the same moment flames were seen bursting forth and shooting up to the
height of the hurricane-deck!  Whether by burning up or going down, it
was evident the wreck would afford us but short refuge.

The thoughts of the survivors were now turned to the Magnolia.  I looked
in the direction of that boat.  I perceived that she was doing her best
to back, and put round toward us; but she was still several hundred
yards off!  In consequence of the Belle having steered a while towards
the Bringiers landing, the boats no longer ran in the same track; and,
although they were head and head at the moment of the explosion, they
were separated from each other by a wide stretch of the river.  A full
quarter of a mile distant appeared the Magnolia; and it was evident that
a considerable time must elapse before she could get alongside.  Would
the wreck of the Belle keep afloat so long?

At a glance I was convinced it would not.  I felt it settling down under
my feet inch by inch; and the blaze already threatened the after-part of
the boat, licking the light wood-work of the gaudy saloon as if it had
been flax!  Not a moment was to be lost: we must take voluntarily to the
water, be drawn in by the sinking wreck, or driven to it by the fire.
One of the three was inevitable!

You will fancy me to have been in a state of extreme terror at this
moment.  Such, however, was not the case.  I had not the slightest fear
for my own safety: not that I was redeemed from the common lot by any
superior courage, but simply that I had confidence _in my resources_.
Though sufficiently reckless in my temperament, I have never been a
fatalist.  I have saved my life more than once by acts of volition--by
presence of mind and adroitness.  The knowledge of this has freed me
from the superstitions of fore-ordination and fatalism; and therefore,
when not too indolent, I take precautions against danger.

I had done so on the occasion of which I am writing.  In my portmanteau
I carried--I do so habitually--a very simple contrivance, a
life-preserver.  I always carry it in such a position as to be ready to
the hand.  It is but the work of a moment to adjust this, and with it
around my body I feel no fear of being plunged into the broadest river,
or even a channel of the sea.  It was the knowledge of this, and not any
superior courage, that supported me.

I ran back to my state-room--the portmanteau was open--and in another
moment I held the piece of quilted cork in my hands.  In a few seconds
its strap was over my head, and the strings securely knotted around my
waist.

Thus accoutred, I stood _inside_ the state-room, intending to remain
there till the wreck should sink nearer the surface of the water.
Settling rapidly as it was, I was convinced I should not have long to
wait.  I closed the inner door of the room, and turned the bolt.  The
outer one I held slightly ajar, my hand firmly clutching the handle.

I had my object in thus shutting myself up.  I should be less exposed to
the view of the terror-stricken wretches that ran to and fro like
spectres--for any fear I now had was of _them_--not of the water.  I
knew that, should the life-preserver be discovered, I should have a
crowd around me in a moment--in fact, that escape by such means would be
hopeless.  Dozens would follow me into the water--would cling to my
limbs--would drag me, in their despairing grasp, to the bottom!

I knew this; and, clutching the Venetian door with firmer grasp, I stood
peering through the apertures in stealthy silence.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

"BLESSE."

I had not been in this position more than a few seconds, when some
figures appeared in front of the door, and voices fell upon my ear that
I thought I recognised.  Another glance revealed the speakers.  They
were the young Creole and her steward.

The conversation passing between them was not a dialogue, but a series
of exclamations--the hurried language of terror.  The old man had got
together a few cabin chairs; and with trembling hands was endeavouring
to bind them together, with the design of forming a raft.  He had no
other cord than a handkerchief, and some strips of silk, which his young
mistress was tearing from her dress!  It would have been but a feeble
raft, had it been completed--not fit to have floated a cat.  It was but
the effort of the drowning man "catching at straws."  I saw at a glance
that it would afford to neither of them the respite of a minute's life.
The chairs were of heavy rosewood; and, perchance, would have gone to
the bottom of themselves!

The scene produced upon me an impression indescribably strange.  I felt
myself standing upon a crisis.  I felt called upon to choose between
self and self-sacrifice.  Had the choice left no chance of saving my own
life, I fear I should have obeyed the "first law of nature;" but, as
already stated, of my own life I felt secure; the question was, whether
it would be possible for me also to save the lady?

I reasoned rapidly, and as follows;--The life-preserver--a very small
one--will not sustain us both!  What if I fasten it upon her, and swim
alongside?  A little help from it now and then will be sufficient to
keep me afloat.  I am a good swimmer.  How far is it to the shore?

I looked in that direction.  The glare of the blazing boat lit up the
water to a wide circumference.  I could see the brown bank distinctly.
It was full a quarter of a mile distant, with a sharp cross-current
running between it and the wreck.

"Surely I can swim it?" thought I: "sink or swim, I shall make the
attempt to save her!"

I will not deny that other reflections passed through my mind as I was
forming this resolve.  I will not deny that there was a little _French_
gallantry mixed up with better motives.  Instead of being young and
lovely, had Mademoiselle Besancon been old and plain, I think--that is--
I--I fear--she would have been left to Antoine and his raft of chairs!
As it was, my resolve was made; and I had no time to reflect upon
motives.

"Mademoiselle Besancon!"  I called out of the door.

"Ha!  Some one calls me;" said she, turning suddenly.  "Mon Dieu! who is
there?"

"One who, Mademoiselle--"

"_Peste_!" muttered the old steward, angrily, as his eyes fell upon my
face.  He was under the belief that I wished to share his raft.

"_Peste_!" he repeated; "'twill not carry two, monsieur."

"Nor one," I replied.  "Mademoiselle," I continued, addressing myself to
the lady; "those chairs will not serve,--they will rather be the means
of drowning you,--here--take this! it will save your life."

As I spoke I had pulled off the preserver, and held it towards her.

"What is this?" she inquired hastily; and then, comprehending all, she
continued, "No--no--no, Monsieur!  Yourself--yourself!"

"I believe I can swim ashore without it.  Take it, Mademoiselle!  Quick!
quick! there is no time to be lost.  In three minutes the boat will go
down.  The other is not near yet: besides, she may fear to approach the
fire!  See the flames! they come this way!  Quick!  Permit me to fasten
it for you?"

"My God!--my God! generous stranger--!"

"No words; now--now it is on!  Now to the water!  Have no fear! plunge
in, and strike out from the wreck! fear not!  I shall follow and guide
you!  Away!"

The girl, partly influenced by terror, and partly yielding to my
remonstrances, sprang off into the water; and the next moment I saw her
body afloat, distinguishable by the whitish drapery of her dress, that
still kept above the surface.

At that instant I felt some one grasping me by the hand.  I turned
round.  It was Antoine.

"Forgive me, noble youth! forgive me!" he cried, while the tears ran
down his cheeks.

I would have replied, but at the moment I perceived a man rush forward
to the guards, over which the girl had just passed.  I could see that
his eye was fixed upon her, and that he had marked the life-preserver!
His intention was evident--he had mounted the guard-rail, and was just
springing off as I reached the spot.  I caught him by the collar, and
drew him back.  As I did so his face came under the blaze, and I
recognised my betting bully.  "Not so fast, Sir!" said I, still holding
him.  He uttered but one word in reply--and that was a fearful oath--but
at the moment I saw in his uplifted hand the shining blade of a
bowie-knife!  So unexpectedly did this weapon appear, that I had no
chance of evading the blow; and the next moment I felt the cold steel
passing through my arm.  It was not a fatal stab, however; and before
the brute could repeat it, I had, in the phraseology of the ring,
"planted" a blow upon his chin, that sent him sprawling over the chairs,
while at the same time the knife flew out of his grasp.  This I caught
up, and hesitated for a moment whether to use it upon the ruffian; but
my better feelings overcame my passion, and I flung the weapon into the
river.

Almost instantaneously I plunged after.  I had no time to tarry.  The
blaze had reached the wheel-house, close to which we were, and the heat
was no longer to be borne.  My last glance at the spot showed me Antoine
and my antagonist struggling among the chairs!

The white drapery served me for a beacon, and I swam after it.  The
current had already carried it some distance from the boat, and directly
down stream.

I had hurriedly divested myself of coat and boots, and as my other
garments were of light material they did not impede me.  After a few
strokes I swam perfectly free; and, keeping the white dress before my
eyes, I continued on down the river.

Now and then I raised my head above the surface and looked back.  I
still had fears that the ruffian might follow; and I had nerved myself
for a struggle in the water!

In a few minutes I was alongside my _protegee_; and, after half-a-dozen
hurried words of encouragement, I laid hold of her with one hand, and
with the other endeavoured to direct our course towards the shore.

In this way the current carried us in a diagonal line, but we still
floated down stream at a rapid rate.  A long and weary swim it seemed to
me.  Had it been much longer I never should have reached the end of it.

At length we appeared to be near the bank; but as we approached it my
strokes became feebler, and my left hand grasped my companion with a
sort of convulsive effort.

I remember reaching land, however; I remember crawling up the bank with
great difficulty, my companion assisting me!  I remember seeing a large
house directly in front of where we had come ashore; I remember hearing
the words--

"_C'est drole! c'est ma maison_--_ma maison veritable_!"

I remember staggering across a road, led by a soft hand, and entering a
gate, and a garden where there were benches, and statues, and
sweet-smelling flowers--I remember seeing servants come from the house
with lights, and that my arms were red, and my sleeves dripping with
blood!  I remember from a female voice the cry--

"_Blesse_!" followed by a wild shriek; and of that scene I remember no
more!



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

WHERE AM I?

When I awoke to consciousness, it was day.  A bright sun was pouring his
yellow light across the floor of my chamber; and from the diagonal
slanting of the beam, I could perceive that it was either very early in
the morning, or near sunset.

But birds were singing without.  It must be morning, reasoned I.

I perceived that I was upon a low couch of elegant construction--without
curtains--but in their stead a mosquito-netting spread its gauzy meshes
above and around me.  The snow-white colour and fineness of the linen,
the silken gloss of the counterpane, and the soft yielding mattress
beneath, imparted to me the knowledge that I lay upon a luxurious bed.
But for its extreme elegance and fineness, I might not have noticed
this; for I awoke to a sense of severe bodily pain.

The incidents of the preceding night soon came into my memory, and
passed rapidly one by one as they had occurred.  Up to our reaching the
bank of the river, and climbing out of the water, they were all clear
enough.  Beyond that time I could recall nothing distinctly.  A house, a
large gateway, a garden, trees, flowers, statues, lights, black
servants, were all jumbled together on my memory.

There was an impression on my mind of having beheld amid this confusion
a face of extraordinary beauty--the face of a lovely girl!  Something
angelic it seemed; but whether it had been a real face that I had seen,
or only the vision of a dream, I could not now tell.  And yet its
lineaments were still before me, so plainly visible to the eye of my
mind, so clearly outlined, that, had I been an artist, I could have
portrayed them!  The face alone I could remember nothing else.  I
remembered it as the opium-eater his dream, or as one remembers a
beautiful face seen during an hour of intoxication, when all else is
forgotten!  Strange to say, I did not associate this face with my
companion of the night; and my remembrance painted it not at all like
that of Eugenie Besancon!

Was there any one besides--any one on board the boat that my dream
resembled?  No, not one--I could not think of one.  There was none in
whom I had taken even a momentary interest--with the exception of the
Creole--but the lineaments my fancy, or memory, now conjured up were
entirely unlike to hers: in fact, of quite an opposite character!

Before my mind's eye hung masses of glossy black hair, waving along the
brows and falling over the shoulders in curling clusters.  Within this
ebon framework were features to mock the sculptor's chisel.  The mouth,
with its delicate rose- ellipse; the nose, with smooth straight
outline, and small recurvant nostril; the arching brows of jet; the long
fringes upon the eyelids; all were vividly before me, and all unlike the
features of Eugenie Besancon.  The colour of the skin, too--even that
was different.  It was not that Circassian white that characterised the
complexion of the Creole, but a colour equally clear, though tinged with
a blending of brown and olive, which gave to the red upon the cheeks a
tint of crimson.  The eye I fancied, or remembered well--better than
aught else.  It was large, rounded, and of dark-brown colour; but its
peculiarity consisted in a certain expression, strange but lovely.  Its
brilliance was extreme, but it neither flashed nor sparkled.  It was
more like a gorgeous gem viewed by the spectator while at rest.  Its
light did not blaze--it seemed rather to burn.

Despite some pain which I felt, I lay for many minutes pondering over
this lovely portrait, and wondering whether it was a memory or a dream.
A singular reflection crossed my mind.  I could not help thinking, that
if such a face were real, I could forget Mademoiselle Besancon, despite
the romantic incident that had attended our introduction!

The pain of my arm at length dissipated the beautiful vision, and
recalled me to my present situation.  On throwing back the counterpane,
I observed with surprise that the wound had been dressed, and evidently
by a surgeon!  Satisfied on this head, I cast my eye abroad to make a
reconnoissance of my quarters.

The room I occupied was small, but notwithstanding the obstruction of
the mosquito bar, I could see that it was furnished with taste and
elegance.  The furniture was light--mostly cane-work--and the floor was
covered with a matting of sea-grass finely woven, and stained into
various colours.  The windows were garnished with curtains of silk
damask and muslin, corresponding to the colour of the wood-work.  A
table richly inlaid was near the centre of the floor, another, with
_portefeuille_, pens, and ornamental ink stand, stood by the wall, and
over this last was a collection of books ranged upon shelves of red
cedar-wood.  A handsome clock adorned the mantelpiece; and in the open
fireplace was a pair of small "andirons," with silver knobs, cast after
a fanciful device, and richly chased.  Of course, there was no fire at
that season of the year.  Even the heat caused by the mosquito bar would
have been annoying, but that the large glass-door on one side, and the
window on the other, both standing open, gave passage to the breeze that
penetrated through the nettings of my couch.

Along with this breeze came the most delicious fragrance--the essence of
flowers.  Through both door and window I could see their thousand
clustering corollas--roses, red, pink, and white--the rare camelia--
azaleas, and jessamines--the sweet-scented China-tree--and farther off a
little I could distinguish the waxen leaves and huge lily-like blossoms
of the great American laurel--the _Magnolia grandiflora_.  I could hear
the voices of many singing-birds, and a low monotonous hum that I
supposed to be the noise of falling water.  These were the only sounds
that reached my ears.

Was I alone?  I looked inquiringly around the chamber.  It appeared so--
no living thing met my glance.

I was struck with a peculiarity in the apartment I occupied.  It
appeared to stand by itself, and did not communicate with any other!
The only door I could see, opened directly to the outside.  So did the
window, reaching door-like to the ground.  Both appeared to lead into a
garden filled with shrubs and flowers.  Excepting the chimney, I could
perceive no other inlet or outlet to the apartment!

This at first seemed odd; but a moment's reflection explained it.  It is
not uncommon upon American plantations to have a kind of office or
summer-house apart from the main building, and often fitted up in a
style of comfort and luxuriance.  This becomes upon occasions the
"stranger's room."  Perhaps I was in such an apartment.

At all events, I was under an hospitable roof, and in good hands; that
was evident.  The manner in which I was encouched, along with certain
preparations,--the signs of a projected _dejeuner_ that appeared upon
the table, attested this.  But who was my host? or was it a hostess?
Was it Eugenie Besancon?  Did she not say something of her house--"_ma
maison_?" or did I only dream it?

I lay guessing and reflecting over a mass of confused memories; but I
could not from these arrive at any knowledge of whose guest I was.
Nevertheless, I had a sort of belief that I was in the house of my last
night's companion.

I became anxious, and in my weakness perhaps felt a little vexed at
being left alone.  I would have rung, but no bell was within reach.  At
that moment, however, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

Romantic miss! you will fancy that those footsteps were light and soft,
made by a small satin slipper, scarcely discomposing the loosest,
tiniest pebble--stealthily drawing near lest their sound might awake the
sleeping invalid--and then, in the midst of bird-music, and humming
waters, and the sweet perfume of flowers, a fair form appeared in the
doorway, and I saw a gentle face, with a pair of soft, lovely eyes, in a
timid inquiring glance, gazing upon me.  You will fancy all this, no
doubt; but your fancy is entirely at fault, and not at all like the
reality.

The footsteps I heard were made by a pair of thick "brogans" of
alligator leather, and full thirteen inches in length; which brogans the
next moment rested upon the sill of the door directly before my eyes.

On raising my glance a little higher, I perceived a pair of legs, in
wide copper- "jeans," pantaloons; and carrying my eye still
higher, I perceived a broad, heavy chest, covered with a striped cotton
shirt; a pair of massive arms and huge shoulders, surmounted by the
shining face and woolly head of a jet black <DW64>!

The face and head came under my observation last; but on these my eyes
dwelt longest, scanning them over and over, until I at length, despite
the pain I was suffering, burst out into a sonorous laugh!  If I had
been dying, I could not have helped it; there was something so comic, so
irresistibly ludicrous, in the physiognomy of this sable intruder.

He was a full-grown and rather large <DW64>, as black as charcoal, with a
splendid tier of "ivories;" and with eyeballs, pupil and irides
excepted, as white as his teeth.  But it was not these that had tickled
my fancy.  It was the peculiar contour of his head, and the set and size
of his ears.  The former was as round as a globe, and thickly covered
with small kinky curlets of black wool, so closely set that they seemed
to root at both ends, and form a "nap!"  From the sides of this sable
sphere stood out a pair of enormous ears, suggesting the idea of wings,
and giving to the head a singularly ludicrous appearance.

It was this peculiarity that had set me laughing; and, indecorous though
it was, for the life of me I could not help it.

My visitor, however, did not seem to take it amiss.  On the contrary, he
at once opened his thick lips, and displaying the splendid armature of
his mouth in a broad and good-natured grin, began laughing as loudly as
myself!

Good-natured was he.  His bat-like ears had infused nothing of the
vampire into his character.  No--the very type of jollity and fun was
the broad black face of "Scipio Besancon," for such was the cognomen of
my visitor.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

"OLE ZIP."

Scipio opened the dialogue:--

"Gollies, young mass'r!  Ole Zip 'joiced to see um well 'gain--daat he
be."

"Scipio is it?"

"Ye', mass'r--daat same ole <DW65>.  Doctor told um to nuss de white
genl'um.  Won't young missa be glad haself!--white folks, black folks--
all be glad, Wugh!"

The finishing exclamation was one of those thoracic efforts peculiar to
the American <DW64>, and bearing a strong resemblance to the snort of a
hippopotamus.  Its utterance signified that my companion had finished
his sentence, and waited for me to speak.

"And who is `young missa'?"  I inquired.

"Gorramighty! don't mass'r know?  Why, de young lady you fotch from de
boat, when twar all ober a blaze.  Lor! what a swum you make--half cross
de riber!  Wugh!"

"And am I in her house?"

"Ob sartin, mass'r--daat ar in de summer-house--for de big house am on
oder side ob de garden--all de same, mass'r."

"And how did I get here?"

"Golly! don't mass'r 'member how?  Why, ole Zip carried 'im in yar in
dese berry arms.  Mass'r an young missa come 'shore on de Lebee, down
dar jes by de gate.  Missa shout--black folks come out an find um--white
genl'um all blood--he faint, an missa have him carried in yar."

"And after?"

"Zip he mount fastest hoss--ole White Fox--an gallop for de doctor--
gallop like de debil, too.  Ob course de doctor he come back along and
dress up mass'r's arm.

"But," continued Scipio, turning upon me an inquiring look, "how'd young
mass'r come by de big ugly cut?  Dat's jes wha de Doc wanted to know, an
dat's jes wha young missa didn't know nuffin 'tall 'bout."

For certain reasons I forbore satisfying the curiosity of my sable
nurse, but lay for a moment reflecting.  True, the lady knew nothing of
my encounter with the bully.  Ha!  Antoine--then.  Had he not come
ashore?  Was he--?  Scipio anticipated the question I was about to put.
His face became sad as he recommenced speaking.

"Ah! young mass'r, Mamselle 'Genie be in great 'stress dis mornin--all
de folks be in great 'stress.  Mass'r Toney!  Poor Mass'r Toney."

"The steward, Antoine?  What of him?  Tell me, has he not come home?"

"No, mass'r--I'se afeerd he nebber, nebber will--ebberybody 'feerd he be
drownded--folks a been to de village--up an down de Lebee--ebery wha.
No Toney.  Captain ob de boat blowed clar into de sky, an fifty
passengers gone to de bottom.  Oder boat save some; some, like young
mass'r, swam 'shore: but no Toney--no Mass'r Toney!"

"Do you know if he could swim?"  I asked.

"No, mass'r, ne'er a stroke.  I knows daat, 'kase he once falled into de
bayou, and Ole Zip pull 'im out.  No--he nebber swim--nebber."

"Then I fear he is lost indeed."

I remembered that the wreck went down before the Magnolia had got close
alongside.  I had noticed this on looking around.  Those who could not
swim, therefore, must have perished.

"Poor Pierre, too.  We hab lost Pierre."

"Pierre?  Who was he?"

"De coachman, mass'r, he war."

"Oh!  I remember.  You think he is drowned, also?"

"I'se afeerd so, mass'r.  Ole Zip sorry, too, for Pierre.  A good <DW65>
war daat Pierre.  But, Mass'r Toney, Mass'r Toney, ebberybody sorry for
Mass'r Toney."

"He was a favourite among you?"

"Ebberybody like 'im--black folks, white folks, all lub 'im.  Missa
'Genie lub 'im.  He live wi' ole Mass'r Sancon all him life.  I believe
war one ob Missy 'Genie gardiums, or whatever you call 'em.
Gorramighty! what will young Missa do now?  She hab no friends leff; and
daat ole fox Gayarre--he no good--"

Here the speaker suddenly interrupted himself, as if he feared that his
tongue was going too freely.

The name he had pronounced and the expression by which it was qualified,
at once awakened my curiosity--the name more than the qualification.

"If it be the same," thought I, "Scipio has characterised him not
otherwise than justly.  Can it be the same?"

"You mean Monsieur Dominique Gayarre, the _avocat_?"  I asked, after a
pause.

Scipio's great white eyeballs rolled about with an expression of mingled
surprise and apprehension, and rather stammeringly he replied:--

"Daat am de genl'um's name.  Know 'im, young mass'r?"

"Only very slightly," I answered, and this answer seemed to set my
companion at his ease again.

The truth is, I had no _personal_ acquaintance with the individual
mentioned; but during my stay in New Orleans, accident had brought me in
contact with the name.  A little adventure had befallen me, in which the
bearer of it figured--not to advantage.  On the contrary, I had
conceived a strong dislike for the man, who, as already stated, was a
lawyer, or _avocat_ of the New Orleans bar.  Scipio's man was no doubt
the same.  The name was too rare a one to be borne by two individuals;
besides, I had heard that he was owner of a plantation somewhere up the
coast--at Bringiers, I remembered.  The probabilities were it was he.
If so, and Mademoiselle Besancon had no other friend, then, indeed, had
Scipio spoken truly when he said, "She hab no friends leff."

Scipio's observation had not only roused my curiosity, but had imparted
to me a vague feeling of uneasiness.  It is needless to say that I was
now deeply interested in this young Creole.  A man who has saved a
life--the life of a beautiful woman--and under such peculiar
circumstances, could not well be indifferent to the after-fate of her he
has rescued.

Was it a lover's interest that had been awakened within me?

My heart answered, No!  To my own astonishment, it gave this answer.  On
the boat I had fancied myself half in love with this young lady; and
now, after a romantic incident--one that might appear a very provocative
to the sublime passion--I lay on my couch contemplating the whole affair
with a coolness that surprised even myself!  I felt that I had lost much
blood--had my incipient passion flowed out of my veins at the same time?

I endeavoured to find some explanation for this rare psychological fact;
but at that time I was but an indifferent student of the mind.  The land
of love was to me a _terre inconnue_.

One thing was odd enough.  Whenever I essayed to recall the features of
the Creole, the dream-face rose up before me more palpable than ever!

"Strange!" thought I, "this lovely vision! this dream of my diseased
brain!  Oh! what would I not give to embody this fair spectral form!"

I had no longer a doubt about it.  I was certain I did not love
Mademoiselle Besancon, and yet I was far from feeling indifferent
towards her.  Friendship was the feeling that now actuated me.  The
interest, I felt for her was that of a friend.  Strong enough was it to
render me anxious on her account--to make me desirous of knowing more
both of herself and her affairs.

Scipio was not of secretive habit; and in less than half an hour I was
the confidant of all he knew.

Eugenie Besancon was the daughter and only child of a Creole planter,
who had died some two years before, as some thought wealthy, while
others believed that his affairs were embarrassed.  Monsieur Dominique
Gayarre had been left joint-administrator of the estate with the steward
Antoine, both being "guardiums" (sic Scipio) of the young lady.  Gayarre
had been the lawyer of Besancon, and Antoine his faithful servitor.
Hence the trust reposed in the old steward, who in latter years stood in
the relation of friend and companion rather than of servant to Besancon
himself.

In a few months mademoiselle would be of age; but whether her
inheritance was large, Scipio could not tell.  He only knew that since
her father's death, Monsieur Dominique, the principal executor, had
furnished her with ample funds whenever called upon; that she had not
been restricted in any way; that she was generous; that she was profuse
in her expenditure, or, as Scipio described it, "berry wasteful, an
flung about de shinin dollars as ef dey war _donicks_!"

The black gave some glowing details of many a grand ball and _fete
champetre_ that had taken place on the plantation, and hinted at the
expensive life which "young missa" led while in the city, where she
usually resided during most part of the winter.  All this I could easily
credit.  From what had occurred on the boat, and other circumstances, I
was impressed with the belief that Eugenie Besancon was just the person
to answer to the description of Scipio.  Ardent of soul--full of warm
impulses--generous to a fault--reckless in expenditure--living
altogether in the present--and not caring to make any calculation for
the future.  Just such an heiress as would exactly suit the purposes of
an unprincipled administrator.

I could see that poor Scipio had a great regard for his young mistress;
but, even ignorant as he was, he had some suspicion that all this
profuse outlay boded no good.  He shook his head as he talked of these
matters, adding--

"I'se afeerd, young mass'r, it'll nebber, nebber last.  De Planters'
bank hisseff would be broke by such a constant drawin ob money."

When Scipio came to speak of Gayarre he shook his head still more
significantly.  He had evidently some strange suspicions about this
individual, though he was unwilling, just then, to declare them.

I learnt enough to identify Monsieur Dominique Gayarre with my _avocat_
of the Rue --, New Orleans.  No doubt remained on my mind that it was
the same.  A lawyer by profession, but more of a speculator in stocks--a
money-lender, in other words, usurer.  In the country a planter, owning
the plantation adjoining that of Besancon, with more than a hundred
slaves, whom he treats with the utmost severity.  All this is in
correspondence with the calling and character of my Monsieur Dominique.
They are the same.

Scipio gives me some additional details of him.  He was the law adviser
and the companion of Monsieur Besancon--Scipio says, "Too often for ole
mass'r's good," and believes that the latter suffered much from his
acquaintance: or, as Scipio phrases it, "Mass'r Gayarre humbug ole
mass'r; he cheat 'im many an many a time, I'se certain."

Furthermore, I learn from my attendant, that Gayarre resides upon his
plantation during the summer months; that he is a daily visitor at the
"big house"--the residence of Mademoiselle Besancon--where he makes
himself quite at home; acting, says Scipio, "as ef de place 'longed to
him, and he war de boss ob de plantation."

I fancied Scipio knew something more about this man--some definite
matter that he did not like to talk about.  It was natural enough,
considering our recent acquaintance.  I could see that he had a strong
dislike towards Gayarre.  Did he found it on some actual knowledge of
the latter, or was it instinct--a principle strongly developed in these
poor slaves, who are not permitted to _reason_?

His information, however, comprised too many facts to be the product of
mere instinct: it savoured of actual knowledge.  He must have learnt
these things from some quarter.  Where could he have gathered them?

"Who told you all this, Scipio?"

"Aurore, mass'r."

"Aurore!"



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

MONSIEUR DOMINIQUE GAYARRE.

I felt a sudden desire, amounting almost to anxiety, to learn who was
"Aurore."  Why?  Was it the singularity and beauty of the name,--for
novel and beautiful it sounded in my Saxon ears?  No.  Was it the mere
euphony of the word; its mythic associations; its less ideal application
to the rosy hours of the Orient, or the shining phosphorescence of the
North?  Was it any of these associate thoughts that awoke within me this
mysterious interest in the name "Aurore?"

I was not allowed time to reflect, or question Scipio farther.  At that
moment the door was darkened by the entrance of two men; who, without
saying a word, stepped inside the apartment.

"Da doctor, mass'r," whispered Scipio, falling back, and permitting the
gentlemen to approach.

Of the two it was not difficult to tell which was the "doctor."  The
professional face was unmistakeable: and I knew that the tall pale man,
who regarded me with interrogative glance, was a disciple of Esculapius,
as certainly as if he had carried his diploma in one hand and his
door-plate in the other.

He was a man of forty, not ill-featured, though the face was not one
that would be termed handsome.  It was, however, interesting, from a
quiet intellectuality that characterised it, as well as an habitual
expression of kind feeling.  It had been a German face some two or three
generations before, but an American climate,--political, I mean,--had
tamed down the rude lines produced by ages of European despotism, and
had almost restored it to its primitive nobility of feature.
Afterwards, when better acquainted with American types, I should have
known it as a Pennsylvanian face, and such in reality it was.  I saw
before me a graduate of one of the great medical schools of
Philadelphia, Dr Edward Reigart.  The name confirmed my suspicion of
German origin.

Altogether my medical attendant made a pleasing impression upon me at
first sight.

How different was that I received on glancing toward his companion--
antagonism, hatred, contempt, disgust!  A face purely French;--not that
noble French face we see in the Duguesclins, the Jean Barts, and among
many of the old Huguenot heroes; and in modern days in a Rollin, a Hugo,
an Arago, or a Pyat;--but such an one as you may see any day by hundreds
sneaking around the Bourse or the _coulisses_ of the Opera, or in
thousands scowling from under a shako in the ranks of a ruffian
soldiery.  A countenance that I cannot describe better than by saying
that its features forcibly reminded me of those of a fox.  I am not in
jest.  I observed this resemblance plainly.  I observed the same
obliquity of eyes, the same sharp quick glance that betokened the
presence of deep dissimulation, of utter selfishness, of cruel
inhumanity.

In the Doctor's companion I beheld a type of this face,--the fox in
human form, and with all the attributes of this animal highly developed.

My instincts chimed with Scipio's, for I had not the slightest doubt
that before me stood Monsieur Dominique Gayarre.  It was he.

A man of small stature he was, and thinly built, but evidently one who
could endure a great deal before parting with life.  He had all the
subtle wiry look of the _carnivora_, as well as their disposition.  The
eyes, as already observed, obliqued strongly downwards.  The balls were
not globe-shaped, but rather obtuse cones, of which the pupil was the
apex.  Both pupils and irides were black, and glistened like the eyes of
a weasel.  They seemed to sparkle in a sort of habitual smile; but this
smile was purely cynical and deceptive.  If any one knew themselves
guilty of a weakness or a crime they felt certain that Dominique Gayarre
knew it, and it was at this he was laughing.  When a case of misfortune
did really present itself to his knowledge, his smile became more
intensely satirical, and his small prominent eyes sparkled with evident
delight.  He was a lover of himself and a hater of his kind.

For the rest, he had black hair, thin and limp--shaggy dark brows, set
obliquely--face without beard, of pale cadaverous hue, and surmounted by
a parrot-beak nose of large dimensions.  His dress had somewhat of a
professional cut, and consisted of dark broadcloth, with vest of black
satin; and around his neck, instead of cravat, he wore a broad black
ribbon.  In age he looked fifty.

The doctor felt my pulse, asked me how I had slept, looked at my tongue,
felt my pulse a second time, and then in a kindly way desired me to keep
myself "as quiet as possible."  As an inducement to do so he told me I
was still very weak, that I had lost a good deal of blood, but hoped
that a few days would restore me to my strength.  Scipio was charged
with my diet, and was ordered to prepare tea, toast, and broiled
chicken, for my breakfast.

The doctor did not inquire how I came by my wound.  This I thought
somewhat strange, but ascribed it to his desire that I should remain
quiet.  He fancied, no doubt, that any allusion to the circumstances of
the preceding night might cause me unnecessary excitement.  I was too
anxious about Antoine to remain silent, and inquired the news.  Nothing
more had been heard of him.  He was certainly lost.

I recounted the circumstances under which I had parted with him, and of
course described my encounter with the bully, and how I had received the
wound.  I could not help remarking a strange expression that marked the
features of Gayarre as I spoke.  He was all attention, and when I told
of the raft of chairs, and expressed my conviction that they would not
support the steward a single moment, I fancied I saw the dark eyes of
the _avocat_ flashing with delight!  There certainly was an expression
in them of ill-concealed satisfaction that was hideous to behold.  I
might not have noticed this, or at all events not have understood it,
but for what Scipio had already told me.  Now its meaning was
unmistakeable, and notwithstanding the "poor Monsieur Antoine!" to which
the hypocrite repeatedly gave utterance, I saw plainly that he was
secretly delighted at the idea of the old steward's having gone to the
bottom!

When I had finished my narrative, Gayarre drew the doctor aside; and the
two conversed for some moments in a low tone.  I could hear part of what
passed between them.  The doctor seemed not to care whether I overheard
him, while the other appeared equally anxious that their conversation
should not reach me.  From the replies of the doctor I could make out
that the wily lawyer wished to have me removed from my present quarters,
and taken to an hotel in the village.  He urged the peculiar position in
which the young lady (Mademoiselle Besancon) would be placed--alone in
her house with a stranger--a young man, etcetera, etcetera.

The doctor did not see the necessity of my removal on such grounds.  The
lady herself did not wish it--in fact, would not hear of it; he
pooh-poohed the "peculiarity" of the "situation," good Doctor Reigart!--
the accommodation of the hotel was none of the best; besides, it was
already crowded with other sufferers; and here the speaker's voice sank
so low I could only catch odd phrases, as "stranger,", "not an
American", "lost everything", "friends far away", "the hotel no place
for a man without money."  Gayarre's reply to this last objection was
that _he_ would be responsible for my hotel bill.

This was intentionally spoken loud enough for me to hear it; and I
should have felt grateful for such an offer, had I not suspected some
sinister motive for the lawyer's generosity.  The doctor met the
proposal with still further objections.

"Impossible," said he; "bring on fever", "great risk", "would not take
the responsibility", "bad wound", "much loss of blood", "must remain
where he is for the present at least", "might be taken to the hotel in a
day or two when stronger."

The promise of my removal in a day or two appeared to satisfy the weasel
Gayarre, or rather he became satisfied that such was the only course
that could be taken with me, and the consultation ended.

Gayarre now approached the bed to take leave, and I could trace that
ironical expression playing in the pupils of his little eyes as he
pronounced some pretended phrases of consolation.  He little knew to
whom he was speaking.  Had I uttered my name it would perhaps have
brought the colour to his pale cheek, and caused him to make an abrupt
exit.  Prudence prevented me from declaring it; and when the doctor
requested to know upon whom he had the honour of attending, I adopted
the pardonable strategy, in use among distinguished travellers, of
giving a _nom du voyage_.  I assumed my maternal patronymic of
Rutherford,--Edward Rutherford.

Recommending me to keep myself quiet, not to attempt leaving my bed, to
take certain prescriptions at certain hours, etcetera, etcetera, the
doctor took his leave; Gayarre having already gone out before him.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

"AURORE."

I was for the moment alone, Scipio having betaken himself to the kitchen
in search of the tea, toast, and chicken "fixings."  I lay reflecting
upon the interview just ended, and especially upon the conversation
between the doctor and Gayarre, in which had occurred several points
that suggested singular ideas.  The conduct of the doctor was natural
enough, indeed betokened the true gentleman; but for the other there was
a sinister design--I could not doubt it.

Why the desire--an anxiety, in fact--to have me removed to the hotel?
Evidently there was some strong motive, since he proposed to pay the
expenses; for from my slight knowledge of the man I knew him to be the
very opposite to generous!

"What can be his motive for my removal?"  I asked myself.

"Ha!  I have it--I have the explanation!  I see through his designs
clearly!  This fox, this cunning _avocat_, this guardian, is no doubt in
love with his own ward!  She is young, rich, beautiful, a belle, and he
old, ugly, mean, and contemptible; but what of that?  He does not think
himself either one or the other; and she--bah!--he may even hope: far
less reasonable hopes have been crowned with success.  He knows the
world; he is a lawyer; he knows at least her world.  He is her
solicitor; holds her affairs entirely in his hands; he is guardian,
executor, agent--all; has perfect and complete control.  With such
advantages, what can he not effect?  All that he may desire--her
marriage, or her ruin.  Poor lady!  I pity her!"

Strange to say, it was only _pity_.  That it was not another feeling was
a mystery I could not comprehend.

The entrance of Scipio interrupted my reflections.  A young girl
assisted him with the plates and dishes.  This was "Chloe," his
daughter, a child of thirteen, or thereabouts, but not black like the
father!  She was a "yellow girl," with rather handsome features.  Scipio
explained this.  The mother of his "leettle Chlo," as he called her, was
a mulatta, and "`Chlo' hab taken arter de ole 'oman.  Hya! hya!"

The tone of Scipio's laugh showed that he was more than satisfied--
proud, in fact--of being the father of so light-skinned and pretty a
little creature as Chloe!

Chloe, like all her kind, was brimful of curiosity, and in rolling about
the whites of her eyes to get a peep at the buckra stranger who had
saved her mistress' life, she came near breaking cups, plates, and
dishes; for which negligence Scipio would have boxed her ears, but for
my intercession.  The odd expressions and gestures, the novel behaviour
of both father and daughter, the peculiarity of this slave-life,
interested me.

I had a keen appetite, notwithstanding my weakness.  I had eaten nothing
on the boat; in the excitement of the race, supper had been forgotten by
most of the passengers, myself among the number.  Scipio's preparations
now put my palate in tune, and I did ample justice to the skill of
Chloe's mother, who, as Scipio informed me, was "de boss in de kitchen."
The tea strengthened me; the chicken, delicately fricasseed and
garnished upon rice, seemed to refill my veins with fresh blood.  With
the exception of the slight pain of my wound, I already felt quite
restored.

My attendants removed the breakfast things, and after a while Scipio
returned to remain in the room with me, for such were his orders.

"And now, Scipio," I said, as soon as we were alone, "tell me of
Aurore!"

"'Rore, mass'r!"

"Yes--Who is Aurore?"

"Poor slave, mass'r; jes like Ole Zip heamseff."

The vague interest I had begun to feel in "Aurore" vanished at once.

"A slave!" repeated I, involuntarily, and in a tone of disappointment.

"She Missa 'Genie's maid," continued Scipio; "dress missa's hair--wait
on her--sit wi' her--read to her--do ebbery ting--"

"Read to her! what!--a slave?"

My interest in Aurore began to return.

"Ye, mass'r--daat do 'Rore.  But I 'splain to you.  Ole Mass'r 'Sancon
berry good to de <DW52> people--teach many ob um read de
books--'specially 'Rore.  'Rore he 'struckt read, write, many, many
tings, and young Missa 'Genie she teach her de music.  'Rore she
'complish gal--berry 'complish gal.  Know many ting; jes like de white
folks.  Plays on de peany--plays on de guitar--guitar jes like banjo, an
Ole Zip play on daat heamseff--he do.  Wugh!"

"And withal, Aurore is a poor slave just like the rest of you, Scipio?"

"Oh! no, mass'r; she be berry different from de rest.  She lib different
life from de other nigga--she no hard work--she berry vallyble--she
fetch two thousand dollar!"

"Fetch two thousand dollars!"

"Ye, mass'r, ebbery cent--ebbery cent ob daat."

"How know you?"

"'Case daat much war bid for her.  Mass'r Marigny want buy 'Rore, an
Mass'r Crozat, and de American Colonel on de oder side ob ribber--dey
all bid two thousand dollar--ole mass'r he only larf at um, and say he
won't sell de gal for no money."

"This was in old master's time?"

"Ye--ye--but one bid since--one boss ob ribber-boat--he say he want
'Rore for de lady cabin.  He talk rough to her.  Missa she angry--tell
'im go.  Mass'r Toney he angry, tell 'im go; and de boat captain he go
angry like de rest.  Hya! hya! hya!"

"And why should Aurore command such a price?"

"Oh! she berry good gal--berry good gal--but--"

Scipio hesitated a moment--"but--"

"Well?"

"I don't b'lieve, mass'r, daat's de reason."

"What, then?"

"Why, mass'r, to tell de troof, I b'lieve dar all bad men daat wanted to
buy de gal."

Delicately as it was conveyed, I understood the insinuation.

"Ho!  Aurore must be beautiful, then?  Is it so, friend Scipio?"

"Mass'r, 'taint for dis ole <DW65> to judge 'bout daat; but folks dey
say--bof white folks an black folks--daat she am de best-lookin' an
hansomest quaderoom in all Loozyanna."

"Ha! a _quadroon_?"

"Daat are a fact, mass'r, daat same--she be a gal ob colour--nebber
mind--she white as young missa herseff.  Missa larf and say so many,
many time, but fr'all daat dar am great difference--one rich lady--
t'other poor slave--jes like Ole Zip--ay, jes like Ole Zip--buy 'em,
sell 'em, all de same."

"Could you describe Aurore, Scipio?"

It was not idle curiosity that prompted me to put this question.  A
stronger motive impelled me.  The dream-face still haunted me--those
features of strange type--its strangely-beautiful expression, not
Caucasian, not Indian, not Asiatic.  Was it possible--probable--

"Could you describe her, Scipio?"  I repeated.

"'Scribe her, mass'r; daat what you mean? ye--yes."

I had no hope of a very lucid painting, but perhaps a few "points" would
serve to identify the likeness of my vision.  In my mind the portrait
was as plainly drawn as if the real face were before my eyes.  I should
easily tell if Aurore and my dream were one.  I began to think it was no
dream, but a reality.

"Well, mass'r, some folks says she am proud, case de common <DW65>s envy
ob her--daat's de troof.  She nebber proud to Ole Zip, daat I knows--she
talk to 'im, an tell 'im many tings--she help teach Ole Zip read, and de
ole Chloe, and de leettle Chloe, an she--"

"It is a description of her person I ask for, Scipio."

"Oh! a 'scription ob her person--ye--daat is, what am she like?"

"So.  What sort of hair, for instance?  What colour is it?"

"Brack, mass'r; brack as a boot."

"Is it straight hair?"

"No, mass'r--ob course not--Aurore am a quaderoom."

"It curls?"

"Well, not dzactly like this hyar;" here Scipio pointed to his own kinky
head-covering; "but for all daat, mass'r, it curls--what folks call de
wave."

"I understand; it falls down to her shoulders?"

"Daat it do, mass'r, down to de berry small ob her back."

"Luxuriant?"

"What am dat, mass'r?"

"Thick--bushy."

"Golly! it am as bushy as de ole <DW53>'s tail."

"Now the eyes?"

Scipio's description of the quadroon's eyes was rather a confused one.
He was happy in a simile, however, which I felt satisfied with: "Dey am
big an round--dey shine like de eyes of a deer."  The nose puzzled him,
but after some elaborate questioning, I could make out that it was
straight and small.  The eyebrows--the teeth--the complexion--were all
faithfully pictured--that of the cheeks by a simile, "like de red ob a
Georgium peach."

Comic as was the description given, I had no inclination to be amused
with it.  I was too much interested in the result, and listened to every
detail with an anxiety I could not account for.

The portrait was finished at length, and I felt certain it must be that
of the lovely apparition.  When Scipio had ended speaking, I lay upon my
couch burning with an intense desire to see this fair--this priceless
quadroon.  Just then a bell rang from the house.

"Scipio wanted, mass'r--daat him bell--be back, 'gain in a minute,
mass'r."

So saying, the <DW64> left me, and ran towards the house.

I lay reflecting on the singular--somewhat romantic--situation in which
circumstances had suddenly placed me.  But yesterday--but the night
before--a traveller, without a dollar in my purse, and not knowing what
roof would next shelter me--to-day the guest of a lady, young, rich,
unmarried--the invalid guest--laid up for an indefinite period; well
cared for and well attended.

These thoughts soon gave way to others.  The dream-face drove them out
of my mind, and I found myself comparing it with Scipio's picture of the
quadroon.  The more I did so, the more I was struck with their
correspondence.  How could I have dreamt a thing so palpable?  Scarce
probable.  Surely I must have seen it?  Why not?  Forms and faces were
around me when I fainted and was carried in; why not hers among the
rest?  This was, indeed, probable, and would explain all.  But was she
among them?  I should ask Scipio on his return.

The long conversation I had held with my attendant had wearied me, weak
and exhausted as I was.  The bright sun shining across my chamber did
not prevent me from feeling drowsy; and after a few minutes I sank back
upon my pillow, and fell asleep.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE CREOLE AND QUADROON.

I slept for perhaps an hour soundly.  Then something awoke me, and I lay
for some moments only half sensible to outward impressions.

Pleasant impressions they were.  Sweet perfumes floated around me; and I
could distinguish a soft, silky rustling, such as betokens the presence
of well-dressed women.

"He wakes, ma'amselle!" half whispered a sweet voice.

My eyes, now open, rested upon the speaker.  For some moments I thought
it was but the continuation of my dream.  There was the dream-face, the
black profuse hair, the brilliant orbs, the arching brows, the small,
curving lips, the damask cheek--all before me!

"Is it a dream?  No--she breathes; she moves; she speaks!"

"See! ma'amselle--he looks at us!  Surely he is awake!"

"It is no dream, then--no vision; it is she--it is Aurore!"

Up to this moment I was still but half conscious.  The thought had
passed from my lips; but, perhaps, only the last phrase was uttered loud
enough to be heard.  An ejaculation that followed fully awoke me, and I
now saw two female forms close by the side of my couch.  They stood
regarding each other with looks of surprise.  One was Eugenie; beyond
doubt the other was Aurore!

"Your name!" said the astonished mistress.

"My name!" repeated the equally astonished slave.

"But how?--he knows your name--how?"

"I cannot tell, ma'amselle."

"Have you been here before?"

"No; not till this moment."

"'Tis very strange!" said the young lady, turning towards me with an
inquiring glance.

I was now awake, and in full possession of my senses--enough to perceive
that I had been talking too loud.  My knowledge of the quadroon's name
would require an explanation, and for the life of me I knew not what to
say.  To tell what I had been thinking--to account for the expressions I
had uttered--would have placed me in a very absurd position; and yet to
maintain silence might leave Ma'amselle Besancon busy with some strange
thoughts.  Something must be said--a little deceit was absolutely
necessary.

In hopes she would speak first, and, perchance, give me a key to what I
should say, I remained for some moments without opening my lips.  I
pretended to feel pain from my wound, and turned uneasily on the bed.
She seemed not to notice this, but remained in her attitude of surprise,
simply repeating the words--

"'Tis very strange he should know your name!"

My imprudent speech had made an impression.  I could remain silent no
longer; and, turning my face once more, I pretended now for the first
time to be aware of Mademoiselle's presence, at the same time offering
my congratulations, and expressing my joy at seeing her.

After one or two anxious inquiries in relation to my wound, she asked--

"But how came you to name Aurore?"

"Aurore!"  I replied.  "Oh! you think it strange that I should know her
name?  Thanks to Scipio's faithful portraiture, I knew at the first
glance that this was Aurore."

I pointed to the quadroon, who had retired a pace or two, and stood
silent and evidently astonished.

"Oh!  Scipio has been speaking of her?"

"Yes, ma'amselle.  He and I have had a busy morning of it.  I have drawn
largely on Scipio's knowledge of plantation affairs.  I am already
acquainted with Aunt Chloe, and little Chloe, and a whole host of your
people.  These things interest me who am strange to your Louisiana
life."

"Monsieur," replied the lady, seemingly satisfied with my explanation,
"I am glad you are so well.  The doctor has given me the assurance you
will soon recover.  Noble stranger!  I have heard how you received your
wound.  For me it was--in my defence.  Oh! how shall I ever repay you?--
how thank you for my life?"

"No thanks, ma'amselle, are necessary.  It was the fulfilment of a
simple duty on my part.  I ran no great risk in saving you."

"No risk, monsieur!  Every risk--from the knife of an assassin--from the
waves.  No risk!  But, monsieur, I can assure you my gratitude shall be
in proportion to your generous gallantry.  My heart tells me so;--alas,
poor heart! it is filled at once with gratitude and grief."

"Yes, ma'amselle, I understand you have much to lament, in the loss of a
faithful servant."

"Faithful servant, monsieur, say, rather, friend.  Faithful, indeed!
Since my poor father's death, he has been my father.  All my cares were
his; all my affairs in his hands.  I knew not trouble.  But now, alas!
I know not what is before me."

Suddenly changing her manner, she eagerly inquired--

"When you last saw him, monsieur, you say he was struggling with the
ruffian who wounded you?"

"He was.--It was the last I saw of either.  There is no hope--none--the
boat went down a few moments after.  Poor Antoine! poor Antoine!"

Again she burst into tears, for she had evidently been weeping before.
I could offer no consolation.  I did not attempt it.  It was better she
should weep.  Tears alone could relieve her.

"The coachman, Pierre, too--one of the most devoted of my people--he,
too, is lost.  I grieve for him as well; but Antoine was my father's
friend--he was mine--Oh! the loss--the loss;--friendless; and yet,
perhaps, I _may soon need friends.  Pauvre Antoine_!"

She wept as she uttered these phrases.  Aurore was also in tears.  I
could not restrain myself--the eyes of childhood returned, and I too
wept.

This solemn scene was at length brought to a termination by Eugenie, who
appearing suddenly to gain the mastery over her grief, approached the
bedside.

"Monsieur," said she, "I fear for some time you will find in me a sad
host.  I cannot easily forget my friend, but I know you will pardon me
for thus indulging in a moment of sorrow.  For the present, adieu!  I
shall return soon, and see that you are properly waited upon.  I have
lodged you in this little place, that you might be out of reach of
noises that would disturb you.  Indeed I am to blame for this present
intrusion.  The doctor has ordered you not to be visited, but--I--I
could not rest till I had seen the preserver of my life, and offered him
my thanks.  Adieu, adieu!  Come, Aurore!"

I was left alone, and lay reflecting upon the interview.  It had
impressed me with a profound feeling of friendship for Eugenie
Besancon;--more than friendship--sympathy: for I could not resist the
belief that, somehow or other, she was in peril--that over that young
heart, late so light and gay, a cloud was gathering.

I felt for her regard, friendship, sympathy,--nothing more.  And why
nothing more?  Why did I not love her, young, rich, beautiful?  Why?

Because I loved another--_I loved Aurore_!



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A LOUISIAN LANDSCAPE.

Life in the chamber of an invalid--who cares to listen to its details?
They can interest no one--scarce the invalid himself.  Mine was a daily
routine of trifling acts, and consequent reflections--a monotony,
broken, however, at intervals, by the life-giving presence of the being
I loved.  At such moments I was no longer _ennuye_; my spirit escaped
from its death-like lassitude; and the sick chamber for the time seemed
an Elysium.

Alas! these scenes were but of a few minutes' duration, while the
intervals between them were hours--long hours--so long, I fancied them
days.  Twice every day I was visited by my fair host and her companion.
Neither ever came alone!

There was constraint on my part, often bordering upon perplexity.  My
conversation was with the _Creole_, my thoughts dwelt upon the
_Quadroon_.  With the latter I dare but exchange glances.  Etiquette
restrained the tongue, though all the conventionalities of the world
could not hinder the eyes from speaking in their own silent but
expressive language.

Even in this there was constraint.  My love-glances were given by
stealth.  They were guided by a double dread.  On one hand, the fear
that their expression should not be understood and reciprocated by the
Quadroon.  On the other, that they might be too well understood by the
Creole, who would regard me with scorn and contempt.  I never dreamt
that they might awaken jealousy--I thought not of such a thing.  Eugenie
was sad, grateful, and friendly, but in her calm demeanour and firm tone
of voice there was no sign of love.  Indeed the terrible shock
occasioned by the tragic occurrence, appeared to have produced a
complete change in her character.  The sylph-like elasticity of her
mind, formerly a characteristic, seemed to have quite forsaken her.
From a gay girl she had all at once become a serious woman.  She was not
the less beautiful, but her beauty impressed me only as that of the
statue.  It failed to enter my heart, already filled with beauty of a
still rarer and more glowing kind.  The Creole loved me not; and,
strange to say, the reflection, instead of piquing my vanity, rather
gratified me!

How different when my thoughts dwelt upon the Quadroon!  Did _she_ love
me?  This was the question, for whose answer my heart yearned with fond
eagerness.  She always attended upon Mademoiselle during her visits; but
not a word dare I exchange with _her_, although my heart was longing to
yield up its secret.  I even feared that my burning glances might betray
me.  Oh! if Mademoiselle but knew of my love, she would scorn and
despise me.  What! in love with a slave! her slave!

I understood this feeling well--this black crime of her nation.  What
was it to me?  Why should I care for customs and conventionalities which
I at heart despised, even outside the levelling influence of love?  But
under that influence, less did I care to respect them.  In the eyes of
Love, rank loses its fictitious charm--titles seem trivial things.  For
me, Beauty wears the crown.

So far as regarded my feelings, I would not have cared a straw if the
whole world had known of my love--not a straw for its scorn.  But there
were other considerations--the courtesy due to hospitality--to
friendship; and there were considerations of a less delicate but still
graver nature--the promptings of _prudence_.  The situation in which I
was placed was most peculiar, and I knew it.  I knew that my passion,
even if reciprocated, must be secret and silent.  Talk of making love to
a young miss closely watched by governess or guardian--a ward in
Chancery--an heiress of expectant thousands!  It is but "child's play"
to break through the _entourage_ that surrounds one of such.  To
scribble sonnets and scale walls is but an easy task, compared with the
bold effrontery that challenges the passions and prejudices of a people!

My wooing promised to be anything but easy; my love-path was likely to
be a rugged one.

Notwithstanding the monotony of confinement to my chamber, the hours of
my convalescence passed pleasantly enough.  Everything was furnished me
that could contribute to my comfort or recovery.  Ices, delicious
drinks, flowers, rare and costly fruits, were constantly supplied to me.
For my dishes I was indebted to the skill of Scipio's helpmate, Chloe,
and through her I became acquainted with the Creole delicacies of
"gumbo", "fish chowder," fricasseed frogs, hot "waffles," stewed
tomatoes, and many other dainties of the Louisiana _cuisine_.  From the
hands of Scipio himself I did not refuse a slice of "roasted 'possum,"
and went even so far as to taste a "'<DW53> steak,"--but only once, and I
regarded it as once too often.  Scipio, however, had no scruples about
eating this fox-like creature, and could demolish the greater part of
one at a single sitting!

By degrees I became initiated into the little habitudes and customs of
life upon a Louisiana plantation.  "Ole Zip" was my instructor, as he
continued to be my constant attendant.  When Scipio's talk tired me, I
had recourse to books, of which a good stock (mostly French authors,)
filled the little book-case in my apartment.  I found among them nearly
every work that related to Louisiana--a proof of rare judgment on the
part of whoever had made the collection.  Among others, I read the
graceful romance of Chateaubriand, and the history of Du Pratz.  In the
former I could not help remarking that want of _vraisemblance_ which, in
my opinion, forms the great charm of a novel; and which must ever be
absent where an author attempts the painting of scenes or costumes not
known to him by actual observation.

With regard to the historian, he indulges largely in those childish
exaggerations so characteristic of the writers of the time.  This remark
applies, without exception, to all the old writers on American
subjects--whether English, Spanish, or French--the chroniclers of
two-headed snakes, crocodiles twenty yards long, and was big enough to
swallow both horse and rider!  Indeed, it is difficult to conceive how
these old authors gained credence for their incongruous stories; but it
must be remembered that science was not then sufficiently advanced "to
audit their accounts."

More than in anything else was I interested in the adventures and
melancholy fate of La Salle; and I could not help wondering that
American writers have done so little to illustrate the life of the brave
chevalier--surely the most picturesque passage in their early history--
the story and the scene equally inviting.

"The scene!  Ah! lovely indeed!"

With such an exclamation did I hail it, when, for the first time, I sat
at my window and gazed out upon a Louisiana landscape.

The windows, as in all Creole houses, reached down to the floor; and
seated in my lounge-chair, with the sashes wide open, with the beautiful
French curtains thrown back, I commanded an extended view of the
country.

A gorgeous picture it presented.  The pencil of the painter could
scarcely exaggerate its vivid colouring.

My window faces westward, and the great river rolls its yellow flood
before my face, its ripples glittering like gold.  On its farther shore
I can see cultivated fields, where wave the tall graceful culms of the
sugar-cane, easily distinguished from the tobacco-plant, of darker hue.
Upon the bank of the river, and nearly opposite, stands a noble mansion,
something in the style of an Italian villa, with green Venetians and
verandah.  It is embowered in groves of orange and lemon-trees, whose
frondage of yellowish green glistens gaily in the distance.  No
mountains meet the view--there is not a mountain in all Louisiana; but
the tall dark wall of cypress, rising against the western rim of the
sky, produces an effect very similar to a mountain background.

On my own side of the river the view is more gardenesque, as it consists
principally of the enclosed pleasure-ground of the plantation Besancon.
Here I study objects more in detail, and am able to note the species of
trees that form the shrubbery.  I observe the _Magnolia_, with large
white wax-like flowers, somewhat resembling the giant _nympha_ of
Guiana.  Some of these have already disappeared, and in their stead are
seen the coral-red seed-cones, scarce less ornamental than the flowers
themselves.

Side by side with this western-forest queen, almost rivalling her in
beauty and fragrance, and almost rivalling her in fame, is a lovely
exotic, a native of Orient climes--though here long naturalised.  Its
large doubly-pinnate leaves of dark and lighter green,--for both shades
are observed on the same tree; its lavender- flowers hanging in
axillary clusters from the extremities of the shoots; its yellow
cherry-like fruits--some of which are already formed,--all point out its
species.  It is one of the _meliaceae_, or honey-trees,--the
"Indian-lilac," or "Pride of China" (_Melia azedarach_).  The
nomenclature bestowed upon this fine tree by different nations indicates
the estimation in which it is held.  "Tree of Pre-eminence," lays the
poetic Persian, of whose land it is a native; "Tree of Paradise" (_Arbor
de Paraiso_), echoes the Spaniard, of whose land it is an exotic.  Such
are its titles.

Many other trees, both natives and exotics, meet my gaze.  Among the
former I behold the "catalpa," with its silvery bark and trumpet-shaped
blossoms; the "Osage orange," with its dark shining leaves; and the red
mulberry, with thick shady foliage, and long crimson calkin-like fruits.
Of exotics I note the orange, the lime, the West Indian guava (_Psidium
pyriferum_), and the guava of Florida, with its boxwood leaves; the
tamarisk, with its spreading minute foliage, and splendid panicles of
pale rose- flowers; the pomegranate, symbol of democracy--"the
queen who carries her crown upon her bosom"--and the legendary but
flowerless fig-tree, here not supported against the wall, but rising as
a standard to the height of thirty feet.

Scarcely exotic are the _yuccas_, with their spherical heads of sharp
radiating blades; scarcely exotic the _cactacea_, of varied forms--for
species of both are indigenous to the soil, and both are found among the
flora of a not far-distant region.

The scene before my window is not one of still life.  Over the shrubbery
I can see the white-painted gates leading to the mansion, and outside of
these runs the Levee road.  Although the foliage hinders me from a full
view of the road itself, I see at intervals the people passing along it.
In the dress of the Creoles the sky-blue colour predominates, and the
hats are usually palmetto, or "grass," or the costlier Panama, with
broad sun-protecting brims.  Now and then a <DW64> gallops past, turbaned
like a Turk; for the chequered Madras "toque" has much the appearance of
the Turkish head-dress, but is lighter and even more picturesque.  Now
and then an open carriage rolls by, and I catch a glimpse of ladies in
their gossamer summer-dresses.  I hear their clear ringing laughter; and
I know they are on their way to some gay festive scene.  The travellers
upon the road--the labourers in the distant cane-field, chanting their
chorus songs--occasionally a boat booming past on the river--more
frequently a flat silently floating downward--a "keel," or a raft with
its red-shirted crew--are all before my eyes, emblems of active life.

Nearer still are the winged creatures that live and move around my
window.  The mock-bird (_Turdus polyglotta_) pipes from the top of the
tallest magnolia; and his cousin, the red-breast (_Turdus migratorius_),
half intoxicated with the berries of the _melia_, rivals him in his
sweet song.  The oriole hops among the orange-trees, and the bold red
cardinal spreads his scarlet wings amidst the spray of the lower
shrubbery.

Now and then I catch a glimpse of the "ruby-throat," coming and going
like the sparkle of a gem.  Its favourite haunt is among the red and
scentless flowers of the buck-eye, or the large trumpet-shaped blossoms
of the _bignonia_.

Such was the view from the window of my chamber.  I thought I never
beheld so fair a scene.  Perhaps I was not looking upon it with an
impartial eye.  The love-light was in my glance, and that may have
imparted to it a portion of its _couleur de rose_.  I could not look
upon the scene without thinking of that fair being, whose presence alone
was wanted to make the picture perfect.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

MY JOURNAL.

I varied the monotony of my invalid existence by keeping a journal.

The journal of a sick chamber must naturally be barren of incident.
Mine was a diary of reflections rather than acts.  I transcribe a few
passages from it--not on account of any remarkable interest which they
possess--but because, dotted down at the time, they represent more
faithfully some of the thoughts and incidents that occurred to me during
the remainder of my stay on the plantation Besancon.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_July 12th_.--To-day I am able to sit up and write a little.  The
weather is intensely hot.  It would be intolerable were it not for the
breeze which sweeps across my apartment, charged with the delicious
perfume of the flowers.  This breeze blows from the Gulf of Mexico, by
Lakes Borgne, Pontchartrain, and Maauepas.  I am more than one hundred
miles from the Gulf itself--that is, following the direction of the
river--but these great inland seas deeply penetrate the delta of the
Mississippi, and through them the tidal wave approaches within a few
miles of New Orleans, and still farther to the north.  Sea-water might
be reached through the swamps at a short distance to the rear of
Bringiers.

This sea-breeze is a great benefit to the inhabitants of Lower
Louisiana.  Without its cooling influence New Orleans during the summer
months would hardly be habitable.

Scipio tells me that a new "overseer" has arrived on the plantation, and
thinks that he has been appointed through the agency of Mass'r Dominick.
He brought a letter from the _avocat_.  It is therefore probable
enough.

My attendant does not seem very favourably impressed with the new comer,
whom he represents as a "poor white man from de norf, an a Yankee at
daat."

Among the blacks I find existing an antipathy towards what they are
pleased to call "poor white men"--individuals who do not possess slave
or landed property.  The phrase itself expresses this antipathy; and
when applied by a <DW64> to a white man is regarded by the latter as a
dire insult, and usually procures for the imprudent black a scoring with
the "cowskin," or a slight "rubbing down" with the "oil of hickory."

Among the slaves there is a general impression that their most
tyrannical "overseers" are from the New England States, or "Yankees," as
they are called in the South.  This term, which foreigners apply
contemptuously to all Americans, in the United States has a restricted
meaning; and when used reproachfully it is only applied to natives of
New England.  At other times it is used jocularly in a patriotic spirit;
and in this sense every American is proud to call himself a Yankee.
Among the southern blacks, "Yankee" is a term of reproach, associated in
their minds with poverty of fortune, meanness of spirit, wooden nutmegs,
cypress hams, and such-like chicanes.  Sad and strange to say, it is
also associated with the whip, the shackle, and the cowhide.  Strange,
because these men are the natives of a land peculiarly distinguished for
its Puritanism!  A land where the purest religion and strictest morality
are professed.

This would seem an anomaly, and yet perhaps it is not so much an anomaly
after all.  I had it explained to me by a Southerner, who spoke thus:--

"The countries where Puritan principles prevail are those which produce
vice, and particularly the smaller vices, in greatest abundance.  The
villages of New England--the foci of blue laws and Puritanism.--furnish
the greatest number of the _nymphes du pave_ of New York, Philadelphia,
Baltimore, and New Orleans; and even furnish a large export of them to
the Catholic capital of Cuba!  From the same prolific soil spring most
of the sharpers, quacks, and cheating traders, who disgrace the American
name.  This is not an anomaly.  It is but the inexorable result of a
pseudo-religion.  Outward observance, worship, Sabbath-keeping, and the
various forms, are engrafted in the mind; and thus, by complicating the
true duties which man owes to his fellow-man, obscure or take precedence
of them.  The latter grow to be esteemed as only of secondary
importance, and are consequently neglected."

The explanation was at least ingenious.

_July 14th_.--To-day, twice visited by Mademoiselle; who, as usual, was
accompanied by Aurore.

Our conversation does not flow easily or freely, nor is it of long
continuance.  She (Mademoiselle) is still evidently suffering, and there
is a tone of sadness in everything she says.  At first I attributed this
to her sorrow for Antoine, but it has now continued too long to be thus
explained.  Some other grief presses upon her spirit.  I suffer from
restraint.  The presence of Aurore restrains me; and I can ill give
utterance to those common-places required in an ordinary conversation.
She (Aurore) takes no part in the dialogue; but lingers by the door, or
stands behind her mistress, respectfully listening.  When I regard her
steadfastly, her fringed eyelids droop, and shut out all communion with
her soul.  _Oh that I could make her understand me_!

_July 15th_.--Scipio is confirmed in his dislike for the new overseer.
His first impressions were correct.  From two or three little matters
which I have heard about this gentleman, I am satisfied that he is a bad
successor to the good Antoine.

_A propos_ of poor Antoine, it was reported that his body had been
washed up among some drift-timber below the plantation; but the report
proved incorrect.  A body _was_ found, but not that of the steward.
Some other unfortunate, who had met with a similar fate.  I wonder if
the wretch who wounded me is yet above water!

There are still many of the sufferers at Bringiers.  Some have died of
the injuries they received on board the boat.  A terrible death is this
scalding by steam.  Many who fancied themselves scarce injured, are now
in their last agonies.  The doctor has given me some details that are
horrifying.

One of the men, a "fireman," whose nose is nearly gone, and who is
conscious that he has but a short while to live, requested to see his
face in a looking-glass.  Upon the request being granted, he broke into
a diabolical laugh, crying out at the same time, in a loud voice, "What
a damned ugly corpse I'll make."

This reckless indifference to life is a characteristic of these wild
boatmen.  The race of "Mike Fink" is not extinct: many true
representatives of this demi-savage still navigate the great rivers of
the West.

_July 20th_.  Much better to-day.  The doctor tells me that in a week I
may leave my room.  This is cheering; and yet a week seems a long while
to one not used to being caged in this way.  The books enable me to kill
time famously.  All honour to the men who make books!

_July 21st_.--Scipio's opinion of the new overseer is not improved.  His
name is "Larkin."  Scipio says that he is well-known in the village as
"Bully Bill Larkin"--a soubriquet which may serve as a key to his
character.  Several of the "field-hands" complain (to Scipio) of his
severity, which they say is daily on the increase.  He goes about
constantly armed with a "cowhide," and has already, once or twice, made
use of it in a barbarous manner.

To-day is Sunday, and I can tell from the "hum" that reaches me from the
<DW64> "quarters," that it is a day of rejoicing.  I can see the blacks
passing the Levee road, dressed in their gayest attire--the men in white
_beaver_ hats, blue long-tailed coats, and shirts with enormous ruffles;
the women in gaudy patterns of cotton, and not a few in silks brilliant
enough for a ball-room!  Many carry silk parasols, of course of the
brightest colours.  One would almost be tempted to believe that in this
slave-life there was no great hardship, after all; but the sight of Mr
Larkin's cowhide must produce a very opposite impression.

_July 24th_.--I noticed to-day more than ever the melancholy that seems
to press upon the spirit of Mademoiselle.  I am now convinced that
Antoine's death is not the cause of it.  There is some _present_ source
of distraction, which renders her ill at ease.  I have again observed
that singular glance with which she at first regarded me; but it was so
transitory, I could not read its meaning, and my heart and eyes were
searching elsewhere.  Aurore gazes upon me less timidly, and seems to be
interested in my conversation, though it is not addressed to her.  Would
that it were!  Converse with her would perhaps relieve my heart, which
burns all the more fiercely under the restraint of silence.

_July 25th_.--Several of the "field-hands" indulged too freely on
yesternight.  They had "passes" to the town, and came back late.  "Bully
Bill" has flogged them all this morning, and very severely--so as to
draw the blood from their backs.  This is rough enough for a _new_
overseer; but Scipio learns that he is an "old hand" at the business.
Surely Mademoiselle does not know of these barbarities!

_July 26th_.--The doctor promises to let me out in three days.  I have
grown to esteem this man--particularly since I made the discovery that
he is _not_ a friend of Gayarre.  He is not his medical attendant
either.  There is another _medico_ in the village, who has charge of
Monsieur Dominique and his blacks, as also the slaves of the Besancon
plantation.  The latter chanced to be out of the way, and so Reigart was
called to me.  Professional etiquette partly, and partly my own
interference, forbade any change in this arrangement; and the latter
continued to attend me.  I have seen the other gentleman, who came once
in Reigart's company, and he appears much more suited to be the friend
of the _avocat_.

Reigart is a stranger in Bringiers, but seems to be rapidly rising in
the esteem of the neighbouring planters.  Indeed, many of these--the
"grandees" among them--keep physicians of their own, and pay them
handsomely, too!  It would be an unprofitable speculation to neglect the
health of the slave; and on this account it is better looked after than
that of the "poor white folks" in many a European state.

I have endeavoured to draw from the doctor some facts, regarding the
connexion existing between Gayarre and the family of Besancon.  I could
only make distant allusion to such a subject.  I obtained no very
satisfactory information.  The doctor is what might be termed a "close
man," and too much talking would not make one of his profession very
popular in Louisiana.  He either knows but little of their affairs, or
affects not to know; and yet, from some expressions that dropped from
him, I suspect the latter to be the more probable.

"Poor young lady!" said he; "quite alone in the world.  I believe there
is an aunt, or something of the kind, who lives in New Orleans, but she
has no male relation to look after her affairs.  Gayarre seems to have
everything in his hands."

I gathered from the doctor that Eugenie's father had been much richer at
one period--one of the most extensive planters on the coast; that he had
kept a sort of "open house," and dispensed hospitality in princely
style.  "Fetes" on a grand scale had been given, and this more
particularly of late years.  Even since his death profuse hospitality
has been carried on, and Mademoiselle continues to receive her father's
guests after her father's fashion.  Suitors she has in plenty, but the
doctor has heard of no one who is regarded in the light of a "lover."

Gayarre had been the intimate friend of Besancon.  Why, no one could
tell; for their natures were as opposite as the poles.  It was thought
by some that their friendship had a little of the character of that
which usually exists between _debtor_ and _creditor_.

The information thus imparted by the doctor confirms what Scipio has
already told me.  It confirms, too, my suspicions in regard to the young
Creole, that there is a cloud upon the horizon of her future, darker
than any that has shadowed her past--darker even than that produced by
the memory of Antoine!

_July 28th_.--Gayarre has been here to-day--at the house, I mean.  In
fact, he visits Mademoiselle nearly every day; but Scipio tells me
something new and strange.  It appears that some of the slaves who had
been flogged, complained of the overseer to their young mistress; and
she in her turn spoke to Gayarre on the subject.  His reply was that the
"black rascals deserved all they had got, and more," and somewhat rudely
upheld the ruffian Larkin, who is beyond a doubt his _protege_.  The
lady was silent.

Scipio learns these facts from Aurore.  There is something ominous in
all this.

Poor Scipio has made me the confidant of another, and a private grief.
He suspects that the overseer is looking too kindly upon "him kettle
Chloe."  The brute! if this be so!--My blood boils at the thought--oh!
slavery!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_August 2nd_.--I hear of Gayarre again.  He has been to the house, and
made a longer stay with Mademoiselle than usual.  What can he have to do
with her?  Can his society be agreeable to her?  Surely that is
impossible!  And yet such frequent visits--such long conferences!  If
she marry such a man as this I pity her, poor victim!--for victim will
she be.  He must have some power over her to act as he is doing.  He
seems master of the plantation, says Scipio, and issues his orders to
every one with the air of its owner.  All fear him and his
"<DW65>-driver," as the ruffian Larkin is called.  The latter is more
feared by Scipio, who has noticed some further rude conduct on the part
of the overseer towards "him leettle Chloe."  Poor fellow! he is greatly
distressed; and no wonder, when even the law does not allow him to
protect the honour of his own child!

I have promised to speak to Mademoiselle about the affair; but I fear,
from what reaches my ears, that she is almost as powerless as Scipio
himself!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_August 3rd_.--To-day, for the first time, I am able to go out of my
room.  I have taken a walk through the shrubbery and garden.  I
encountered Aurore among the orange-trees, gathering the golden fruit;
but she was accompanied by little Chloe, who held the basket.  What
would I not have given to have found her alone!  A word or two only was
I able to exchange with her, and she was gone.

She expressed her pleasure at seeing me able to be abroad.  She _seemed_
pleased; I fancied she felt so, I never saw her look so lovely.  The
exercise of shaking down the oranges had brought out the rich crimson
bloom upon her cheeks, and her large brown eyes were shining like
sapphires.  Her full bosom rose and fell with her excited breathing, and
the light wrapper she wore enabled me to trace the noble outlines of her
form.

I was struck with the gracefulness of her gait as she walked away.  It
exhibited an undulating motion, produced by a peculiarity of figure--a
certain _embonpoint_ characteristic of her race.  She was large and
womanly, yet of perfect proportion and fine delicate outlines.  Her
hands were small and slender, and her little feet seemed hardly to press
upon the pebbles.  My eyes followed her in a delirium of admiration.
The fire in my heart burned fiercer as I returned to my solitary
chamber.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A CHANGE OF QUARTERS.

I was thinking over my short interview with Aurore--congratulating
myself upon some expressions she had dropped--happy in the anticipation
that such encounters would recur frequently, now that I was able to be
abroad--when in the midst of my pleasant reverie the door of my
apartment became darkened.  I looked up, and beheld the hated face of
Monsieur Dominique Gayarre.

It was his first visit since the morning after my arrival upon the
plantation.  What could _he_ want with _me_?

I was not kept long in suspense, for my visitor, without even
apologising for his intrusion, opened his business abruptly and at once.

"Monsieur," began he, "I have made arrangements for your removal to the
hotel at Bringiers."

"You have?" said I, interrupting him in a tone as abrupt and something
more indignant than his own.  "And who, sir, may I ask, has commissioned
_you_ to take this trouble?"

"Ah--oh!" stammered he, somewhat tamed down by his brusque reception, "I
beg pardon, Monsieur.  Perhaps you are not aware that I am the agent--
the friend--in fact, the guardian of Mademoiselle Besancon--and--and--"

"Is it Mademoiselle Besancon's wish that I go to Bringiers?"

"Well--the truth is--not exactly her wish; but you see, my dear sir, it
is a delicate affair--your remaining here, now that you are almost quite
recovered, upon which I congratulate you--and--and--"

"Go on, sir!"

"Your remaining here any longer--under the circumstances--would be--you
can judge for yourself, sir--would be, in fact, a thing that would be
talked about in the neighbourhood--in fact, considered highly improper."

"Hold, Monsieur Gayarre!  I am old enough not to require lessons in
etiquette from you, sir."

"I beg pardon, sir.  I do not mean that but--I--you will observe--I, as
the lawful guardian of the young lady--"

"Enough, sir.  I understand you perfectly.  For _your purposes, whatever
they be_, you do not wish me to remain any longer on this plantation.
Your desire shall be gratified.  I shall leave the place, though
certainly not with any intention of accommodating you.  I shall go hence
this very evening."

The words upon which I had placed emphasis, startled the coward like a
galvanic shock.  I saw him turn pale as they were uttered, and the
wrinkles deepened about his eyes.  I had touched a chord, which he
deemed a secret one, and its music sounded harsh to him.  Lawyer-like,
however, he commanded himself, and without taking notice of my
insinuation, replied in a tone of whining hypocrisy--

"My dear monsieur!  I regret this necessity; but the fact is, you see--
the world--the busy, meddling world--"

"Spare your homilies, sir!  Your business, I fancy, is ended; at all
events your company is no longer desired."

"Humph!" muttered he.  "I regret you should take it in this way--I am
sorry--"

And with a string of similar incoherent phrases he made his exit.

I stepped up to the door and looked after, to see which way he would
take.  He walked direct to the house!  I saw him go in!

This visit and its object had taken me by surprise, though I had not
been without some anticipation of such an event.  The conversation I had
overheard between him and the doctor rendered it probable that such
would be the result; though I hardly expected being obliged to change my
quarters so soon.  For another week or two I had intended to stay where
I was.  When quite recovered, I should have moved to the hotel of my own
accord.

I felt vexed, and for several reasons.  It chagrined me to think that
this wretch possessed such a controlling influence; for I did not
believe that Mademoiselle Besancon had anything to do with my removal.
Quite the contrary.  She had visited me but a few hours before, and not
a word had been said of the matter.  Perhaps she might have thought of
it, and did not desire to mention it?  But no.  This could hardly be.  I
noticed no change in her manner during the interview.  The same
kindness--the same interest in my recovery--the same solicitude about
the little arrangements of my food and attendance, were shown by her up
to the last moment.  She evidently contemplated no change so sudden as
that proposed by Gayarre.  Reflection convinced me that the proposal had
been made without any previous communication with _her_.

What must be the influence of this man, that he dare thus step between
her and the rites of hospitality?  It was a painful thought to me, to
see this fair creature in the power of such a villain.

But another thought was still more painful--the thought of parting with
Aurore.  Though I did not fancy that parting was to be for ever.  No!
Had I believed that, I should not have yielded so easily.  I should have
put Monsieur Dominique to the necessity of a positive expulsion.  Of
course, I had no apprehension that by removing to the village I should
be debarred from visiting the plantation as often as I felt inclined.
Had that been the condition, my reflections would have been painful
indeed.

After all, the change would signify little.  I should return as a
visitor, and in that character be more independent than as a guest--more
free, perhaps, to approach the object of my love!  I could come as often
as I pleased.  The same opportunities of seeing her would still be open
to me.  I wanted but one--one moment alone with Aurore--and then bliss
or blighted hopes!

But there were other considerations that troubled me at this moment.
How was I to live at the hotel?  Would the proprietor believe in
promises, and wait until my letters, already sent off, could be
answered?  Already I had been provided with suitable apparel,
mysteriously indeed.  I awoke one morning and found it by my bedside.  I
made no inquiry as to how it came there.  That would be an
after-consideration; but with regard to money, how was that to be
obtained?  Must I become _her_ debtor?  Or am I to be under obligations
to Gayarre?  Cruel dilemma!

At this juncture I thought of Reigart.  His calm, kind face came up
before me.

"An alternative!" soliloquised I; "he will help me!"

The thought seemed to have summoned him; for at that moment the good
doctor entered the room, and became the confidant of my wishes.

I had not misjudged him.  His purse lay open upon the table; and I
became his debtor for as much of its contents as I stood in need of.

"Very strange!" said he, "this desire of hurrying you off on the part of
Monsieur Gayarre.  There is something more in it than solicitude for the
character of the lady.  Something more: what can it all mean?"

The doctor said this partly in soliloquy, and as if searching his own
thoughts for an answer.

"I am almost a stranger to Mademoiselle Besancon," he continued, "else I
should deem it my duty to know more of this matter.  But Monsieur
Gayarre is her guardian; and if he desire you to leave, it will perhaps
be wiser to do so.  _She may not be her own mistress entirely_.  Poor
thing!  I fear there is debt at the bottom of the mystery; and if so,
she will be more a slave than any of her own people.  Poor young lady!"

Reigart was right.  My remaining longer might add to her embarrassments.
I felt satisfied of this.

"I am desirous to go at once, doctor."

"My barouche is at the gate, then.  You can have a seat in it.  I can
set you down at the hotel."

"Thanks, thanks! the very thing I should have asked of you, and I accept
your offer.  I have but few preparations to make, and will be ready for
you in a moment."

"Shall I step over to the house, and prepare Mademoiselle for your
departure?"

"Be so kind.  I believe Gayarre is now there?"

"No.  I met him near the gate of his own plantation, returning home.  I
think she is alone.  I shall see her and return for you."

The doctor left me, and walked over to the house.  He was absent but a
few minutes, when he returned to make his report.  He was still further
perplexed at what he had learnt.

Mademoiselle had heard from Gayarre, just an hour before, that _I had
expressed my intention_ of removing to the hotel!  She had been
surprised at this, as I had said nothing about it at our late interview.
She would not hear of it at first, but Gayarre had used _arguments_ to
convince her of the policy of such a step; and the doctor, on my part,
had also urged it.  She had at length, though reluctantly, consented.
Such was the report of the doctor, who further informed me that she was
waiting to receive me.

Guided by Scipio, I made my way to the drawing-room.  I found her
seated; but upon my entrance she rose, and came forward to meet me with
both hands extended.  I saw that _she was in tears_!

"Is it true you intend leaving us, Monsieur?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle; I am now quite strong again.  I have come to thank
you for your kind hospitality, and say adieu."

"Hospitality!--ah, Monsieur, you have reason to think it cold
hospitality since I permit you to leave us so soon.  I would you had
remained; but--" Here she became embarrassed: "but--you are not to be a
stranger, although you go to the hotel.  Bringiers is near; promise that
you will visit us often--in fact, every day?"

I need not say that the promise was freely and joyfully given.

"Now," said she, "since you have given that promise, with less regret I
can say adieu!"

She extended her hand for a parting salute.  I took her fingers in mine,
and respectfully kissed them.  I saw the tears freshly filling in her
eyes, as she turned away to conceal them.

I was convinced she was acting under constraint, and against her
inclination, else I should not have been allowed to depart.  Hers was
not the spirit to fear gossip or scandal.  Some other _pressure_ was
upon her.

I was passing out through the hall, my eyes eagerly turning in every
direction.  Where was _she_?  Was I not to have _even a parting word_!

At that moment a side-door was gently opened.  My heart beat wildly as
it turned upon its hinge.  Aurore!

I dare not trust myself to speak aloud.  It would have been overheard in
the drawing-room.  A look, a whisper, a silent pressure of the hand, and
I hurried away; but the return of that pressure, slight and almost
imperceptible as it was, fired my veins with delight; and I walked on
towards the gate with the proud step of a conqueror.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

AURORE LOVES ME.

"_Aurore loves me_!"

The thought thus expressed was of younger date than the day of my
removing to Bringiers from the plantation.  A month had elapsed since
that day.

The details of my life during that month would possess but little
interest for you, reader; though to me every hour was fraught with hopes
or fears that still hold a vivid place in my memory.  When the heart is
charged with love, every trifle connected with that love assumes the
magnitude of an important matter; and thoughts or incidents that
otherwise would soon be forgotten, hold a firm place in the memory.  I
could write a volume about my affairs of that month, every line of which
would be deeply interesting to _me_, but not to _you_.  Therefore I
write it not; I shall not even present you with the journal that holds
its history.

I continued to live in the hotel at Bringiers.  I grew rapidly stronger.
I spent most of my time in rambling through the fields and along the
Levee--boating upon the river--fishing in the bayous--hunting through
the cane-breaks and cypress-swamps, and occasionally killing time at a
game of billiards, for every Louisiana village has its billiard salon.

The society of Reigart, whom I now called friend, I enjoyed--when his
professional engagements permitted.

His books, too, were my friends; and from these I drew my first lessons
in botany.  I studied the _sylva_ of the surrounding woods, till at a
glance I could distinguish every tree and its kind--the giant cypress,
emblem of sorrow, with tall shaft shooting out of the apex of its
pyramidal base, and crowned with its full head of sad dark foliage,--
sadder from its drapery of _tillandsia_; the "tupelo" (_Nyssa
aquatica_), that nymph that loves the water, with long delicate leaves
and olive-like fruit--the "persimmon," or "American lotus" (_Diospyros
Virginiana_), with its beautiful green foliage and red date-plums--the
gorgeous magnolia grandiflora, and its congener, the tall tulip-tree
(_Liriodendron tulipifera_)--the water-locust (_Gleditschia
monosperma_); and, of the same genus, the three-thorned honey-locust
(_triacanthos_), whose light pinnated leaves scarce veil the sun--the
sycamore (_platanus_), with its smooth trunk and wide-reaching limbs of
silvery hue--the sweet-gum (_Liquidambar styraciflua_), exuding its
golden drops--the aromatic but sanitary "sassafras" (_Laurus
sassafras_)--the "red-bay" (_Laurus Caroliniensis_), of cinnamon-like
aroma--the oaks of many species, at the head of which might be placed
that majestic evergreen of the southern forests, the "live-oak"
(_Quercus virens_)--the "red ash," with its hanging bunches of
_samarce_--the shady nettle-tree (_Celtis crassifolia_), with its large
cordate leaves and black drupes--and last, though not least interesting,
the water-loving cotton-wood (_Populus angulata_).  Such is the sylva
that covers the alluvion of Louisiana.

It is a region beyond the limits of the true palm-tree; but this has its
representative in the palmetto--"latanier" of the French--the _Sabal_
palm of the botanist, of more than one species, forming in many places
the underwood, and giving a tropical character to the forest.

I studied the parasites--the huge llianas, with branches like
tree-trunks, black and gnarled; the cane-vines, with pretty star-like
flowers; the muscadine grape-vines, with their dark purple clusters; the
_bignonias_, with trumpet-shaped corollas; the _smilacae_, among which
are conspicuous the _Smilax rotundifolia_, the thick bamboo-briar, and
the balsamic sarsaparilla.

Not less interesting were the vegetable forms of cultivation--the
"staples" from which are drawn the wealth of the land.  These were the
sugar-cane, the rice-reed, the maize and tobacco-plants, the cotton
shrub, and the indigo.  All were new to me, and I studied their
propagation and culture with interest.

Though a month apparently passed in idleness, it was, perhaps, one of
the most profitably employed of my life.  In that short month I acquired
more real knowledge than I had done during years of classic study.

But I had learnt one fact that I prized above all, and that was, that _I
was beloved by Aurore_!

I learnt it not from her lips--no words had given me the assurance--and
yet I was certain that it _was_ so; certain as that I lived.  Not all
the knowledge in the world could have given me the pleasure of that one
thought!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"_Aurora loves me_!"

This was my exclamation, as one morning I emerged from the village upon
the road leading to the plantation.  Three times a week--sometimes even
more frequently--I had made this journey.  Sometimes I encountered
strangers at the house--friends of Mademoiselle.  Sometimes I found her
alone, or in company with Aurore.  The latter I could never find alone!
Oh! how I longed for that opportunity!

My visits, of course, were ostensibly to Mademoiselle.  I dared not seek
an interflow with the slave.

Eugenie still preserved the air of melancholy, that now appeared to have
settled upon her.  Sometimes she was even sad,--at no time cheerful.  As
I was not made the confidant of her sorrows, I could only guess at the
cause.  Gayarre, of course, I believed to be the fiend.

Of him I had learnt little.  He shunned me on the road, or in the
fields; and upon _his_ grounds I never trespassed.  I found that he was
held in but little respect, except among those who worshipped his
wealth.  How he was prospering in his suit with Eugenie I knew not.  The
world talked of such a thing as among the "probabilities"--though one of
the strange ones, it was deemed.  I had sympathy for the young Creole,
but I might have felt it more profoundly under other circumstances.  As
it was, my whole soul was under the influence of a stronger passion--my
love for Aurore.

"Yes--Aurore loves me!"  I repeated to myself as I passed out from the
village, and faced down the Levee road.

I was mounted.  Reigart, in his generous hospitality, had even made me
master of a horse--a fine animal that rose buoyantly under me, as though
he was also imbued by some noble passion.

My well-trained steed followed the path without need of guidance, and
dropping the bridle upon his neck, I left him to go at will, and pursued
the train of my reflections.

I loved this young girl--passionately and devotedly I loved her.  She
loved me.  She had not declared it in words, but her looks; and now and
then a slight incident--scarce more than a fleeting glance or gesture--
had convinced me that it was so.

Love taught me its own language.  I needed no interpreter--no tongue to
tell I was beloved.

These reflections were pleasant, far more than pleasant; but others
followed them of a very different nature.

With whom was I in love?  A slave!  True, a beautiful slave--but still a
slave!  How the world would laugh! how Louisiana would laugh--nay, scorn
and persecute!  The very proposal to make her my wife would subject me
to derision and abuse.  "What! marry a slave!  'Tis contrary to the laws
of the land!"  Dared I to marry her--even were she free?--she, a
_quadroon_!--I should be hunted from the land, or shut up in one of its
prisons!

All this I knew, but not one straw cared I for it.  The world's obloquy
in one scale, my love for Aurore in the other--the former weighed but a
feather.

True, I had deep regret that Aurore was a slave, but it sprang not from
that consideration.  Far different was the reason of my regret.  _How
was I to obtain her freedom_?  That was the question that troubled me.

Up to this time I had made light of the matter.  Before I knew that I
was beloved it seemed a sequence very remote.  But it was now brought
nearer, and all the faculties of my mind became concentrated on that one
thought--"How was I to obtain her freedom?"  Had she been an ordinary
slave, the answer would have been easy enough; for though not rich, my
fortune was still equal to the _price of a human being_!

In my eyes Aurore was priceless.  Would she also appear so in the eyes
of her young mistress?  Was my bride for sale on any terms?  But even if
money should be deemed an equivalent, would Mademoiselle _sell_ her to
_me_?  An odd proposal, that of buying _her_ slave for my wife!  What
would Eugenie Besancon think of it?

The very idea of this proposal awed me; but the time to make it had not
yet arrived.

I must first have an interview with Aurore, demand a confession of her
love, and then, if she consent to become mine,--_my wife_,--the rest may
be arranged.  I see not clearly the way, but a love like mine will
triumph over everything.  My passion nerves me with power, with courage,
with energy.  Obstacles must yield; opposing wills be coaxed or crushed;
everything must give way that stands between myself and my love!
"Aurore!  I come!  I come!"



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

A SURPRISE.

My reflections were interrupted by the neighing of my horse.  I glanced
forward to ascertain the cause.  I was opposite the plantation Besancon.
A carriage was just wheeling out from the gate.  The horses were headed
down the Levee road, and going off at a trot, were soon lost behind the
cloud of dust raised by the hoofs and wheels.

I recognised the carriage.  It was the barouche of Mademoiselle
Besancon.  I could not tell who were its occupants, though, from the
slight glimpse I had got of them, I saw there were ladies in it.

"Mademoiselle herself, accompanied by Aurore, no doubt."

I believed that they had not observed me, as the high fence concealed
all but my head, and the carriage had turned abruptly on passing out of
the gate.

I felt disappointed.  I had had my ride for nothing, and might now ride
back again to Bringiers.

I had drawn bridle with this intent, when it occurred to me I could
still overtake the carriage and change words with its occupants.  With
_her_, even the interchange of a glance was worth such a gallop.

I laid the spur to the ribs of my horse and sprang him forward.

As I came opposite the house I saw Scipio by the gate.  He was just
closing it after the carriage.

"Oh!" thought I, "I may as well be sure as to whom I am galloping
after."

With this idea I inclined my horse's head a little, and drew up in front
of Scipio.

"Gollies! how young mass'r ride!  Ef he don't do daat business jes up to
de hub!  Daat 'im do.  Wugh!"

Without taking notice of his complimentary speech, I inquired hastily if
Mademoiselle was at home.

"No, mass'r, she jes dis moment gone out--she drive to Mass'r Marigny."

"Alone?"

"Ye, mass'r."

"Of course Aurore is with her?"

"No, mass'r; she gone out by harseff.  'Rore, she 'tay at home."

If the <DW64> had been observant he might have noticed the effect of this
announcement upon me, for I am sure it must have been sufficiently
apparent.  I felt it in the instant upheaving of my heart, and the
flushing that suddenly fevered my cheeks.

"Aurore at home, and alone!"

It was the first time during all the course of my wooing that such a
"chance" had offered; and I almost gave expression to my agreeable
surprise.

Fortunately I did not; for even the faithful Scipio was not to be
trusted with such a secret.

With an effort I collected myself, and tamed down my horse, now chafing
to continue his gallop.  In doing so his head was turned in the
direction of the village.  Scipio thought I was going to ride back.

"Sure mass'r not go till he rest a bit?  Missa 'Genie not home, but dar
am 'Rore.  'Rore get mass'r glass ob claret; Ole Zip make um sangaree.
Day berry, berry hot.  Wugh!"

"You are about right, Scipio," I replied, pretending to yield to his
persuasion.  "Take my horse round to the stable.  I shall rest a few
minutes."

I dismounted, and, passing the bridle to Scipio, stepped inside the
gate.

It was about a hundred paces to the house, by the direct walk that led
from the gate to the front door.  But there were two other paths, that
wound around the sides of the shrubbery, through copses of low trees--
laurels, myrtles, and oranges.  A person approaching by either of these
could not be seen from the house until close to the very windows.  From
each of these paths the low verandah could be reached without going by
the front.  There were steps leading into it--into the interior of the
house as well--for the windows that fronted upon the verandah were,
after the Creole fashion, glass folding-doors, that opened to the
bottom, so that the floors of the rooms and verandah-platform were upon
the same level.

On passing through the gate, I turned into one of these side-paths (for
certain reasons giving it the preference), and walked silently on
towards the house.

I had taken the longer way, and advanced slowly for the purpose of
composing myself.  I could hear the beating of my own heart, and feel
its quick nervous throbs, quicker than my steps, as I approached the
long-desired interview.  I believe I should have been more collected in
going up to the muzzle of an antagonist's pistol!

The long yearning for such an opportunity--the well-known difficulty of
obtaining it--the anticipation of that sweetest pleasure on earth--the
pleasure of being alone with her I loved--all blended in my thoughts.
No wonder they were wild and somewhat bewildered.

I should now meet Aurore face to face alone, with but Love's god as a
witness.  I should speak unrestrainedly and free.  I should hear _her_
voice, listen to the soft confession that she loved me.  I should fold
her in my arms--against my bosom!  I should drink love from her swimming
eyes, taste it on her crimson cheek, her coral lips!  Oh, I should speak
love, and hear it spoken!  I should listen to its delirious ravings!

A heaven of happiness was before me.  No wonder my thoughts were wild--
no wonder I vainly strove to calm them.

I reached the house, and mounted the two or three steps that led up into
the verandah.  The latter was carpeted with a mat of sea-grass, and my
_chaussure_ was light, so that my tread was as silent as that of a girl.
It could scarce have been heard within the chamber whose windows I was
passing.

I proceeded on toward the drawing-room, which opened to the front by two
of the large door-windows already mentioned.  I turned the angle, and
the next moment would have passed the first of these windows, had a
sound not reached me that caused me to arrest my steps.  The sound was a
voice that came from the drawing-room, whose windows stood open.  I
listened--it was the voice of Aurore!

"In conversation with some one! with whom?  Perhaps little Chloe? her
mother? some one of the domestics?"

I listened.

"By Heaven! it is the voice of a man!  Who can he be?  Scipio?  No;
Scipio cannot yet have left the stable.  It cannot be he.  Some other of
the plantation people?  Jules, the wood-chopper? the errand-boy,
Baptiste?  Ha! it is not a <DW64>'s voice.  No, it is the voice of a
white man! the overseer?"

As this idea came into my head, a pang at the same time shot through my
heart--a pang, not of jealousy, but something like it.  I was angry at
_him_ rather than jealous with _her_.  As yet I had heard nothing to
make me jealous.  His being present with her, and in conversation, was
no cause.

"So, my bold <DW65>-driver," thought I, "you have got over your
predilection for the little Chloe.  Not to be wondered at!  Who would
waste time gazing at stars when there is such a moon in the sky?  Brute
that you are, you are not blind.  I see you, too, have an eye to
opportunities, and know when to enter the drawing-room."

"Hush!"

Again I listened.  When I had first halted, it was through motives of
delicacy.  I did not wish to appear too suddenly before the open window,
which would have given me a full view of the interior of the apartment.
I had paused, intending to herald my approach by some noise--a feigned
cough, or a stroke of my foot against the floor.  My motives had
undergone a change.  I now listened with a design.  I could not help it.

Aurore was speaking.

I bent my ear close to the window.  The voice was at too great a
distance, or uttered too low, for me to hear what was said.  I could
hear the silvery tones, but could not distinguish the words.  She must
be at the further end of the room, thought I.  _Perhaps, upon the sofa_.
This conjecture led me to painful imaginings, till the throbbings of my
heart drowned the murmur that was causing them.

At length Aurore's speech was ended.  I waited for the reply.  Perhaps I
might gather from that what _she_ had said.  The tones of the male voice
would be loud enough to enable me--

Hush! hark!

I listened--I caught the sound of a voice, but not the words.  The sound
was enough.  It caused me to start as if stung by an adder.  _It was the
voice of Monsieur Dominique Gayarre_!



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

A RIVAL.

I cannot describe the effect produced upon me by this discovery.  It was
like a shock of paralysis.  It nailed me to the spot, and for some
moments I felt as rigid as a statue, and almost as senseless.  Even had
the words uttered by Gayarre been loud enough to reach me, I should
scarce have heard them.  My surprise for the moment had rendered me
deaf.

The antagonism I had conceived towards the speaker, so long as I
believed it to be the brute Larkin, was of a gentle character compared
with that which agitated me now.  Larkin might be young and handsome; by
Scipio's account, the latter he certainly was _not_: but even so, I had
little fear of _his_ rivalry.  I felt confident that I held the heart of
Aurore, and I knew that the overseer had no power over _her person_.  He
was overseer of the field-hands, and other slaves of the plantation--
their master, with full licence of tongue and lash; but with all that, I
knew that he had no authority over Aurore.  For reasons I could not
fathom, the treatment of the quadroon was, and had always been,
different from the other slaves of the plantation.  It was not the
whiteness of her skin--her beauty neither--that had gained her this
distinction.  These, it is true, often modify the hard lot of the female
slave, sometimes detailing upon her a still more cruel fate; but in the
case of Aurore, there was some very different reason for the kindness
shown her, though _I_ could only _guess_ at it.  She had been tenderly
reared alongside her young mistress, had received almost as good an
education, and, in fact, was treated rather as a _sister_ than a
_slave_.  Except from Mademoiselle, she received no commands.  The
"<DW65>-driver" had nothing to do with her.  I had therefore no dread of
any unlawful influence on his part.

Far different were my suspicions when I found the voice belonged to
Gayarre.  _He_ had power not only over the slave, but the mistress as
well.  Though suitor,--as I still believed him,--of Mademoiselle, he
could not be blind to the superior charms of Aurore.  Hideous wretch as
I thought him, he might for all be sensible to love.  The plainest may
have a passion for the fairest.  The Beast loved Beauty.

The hour he had chosen for his visit, too! that was suspicious of
itself.  Just as Mademoiselle had driven out!  Had he been there before
she went out and been left by her in the house?  Not likely.  Scipio
know nothing of his being there, else he would have told me.  The black
was aware of my antipathy to Gayarre, and that I did not desire to meet
him.  He would certainly have told me.

"No doubt," thought I, "the visit is a stolen one--the lawyer has come
the back way from his own plantation, has watched till the carriage
drove off, and then skulked in for the very purpose of finding the
quadroon alone!"

All this flashed upon my mind with the force of conviction, I no longer
doubted that his presence there was the result of design, and not a mere
accident.  He was _after_ Aurore.  My thoughts took this homely shape.

When the first shock of my surprise had passed away, my senses returned,
fuller and more vigorous than ever.  My nerves seemed freshly strung,
and my ears new set.  I placed them as close to the open window as
prudence would allow, and listened.  It was not _honourable_, I own, but
in dealing with this wretch I seemed to lose all sense of honour.  By
the peculiar circumstances of that moment I was tempted from the strict
path, but it was the "eavesdropping" of a jealous lover, and I cry you
mercy for the act.

I listened.  With an effort I stifled the feverish throbbings of my
heart, and listened.

And I heard every word that from that moment was said.  The voices had
become louder, or rather the speakers had approached nearer.  They were
but a few feet from the window!  Gayarre was speaking.

"And does this young fellow dare to make love to your mistress?"

"Monsieur Dominique, how should I know?  I am sure I never saw aught of
the kind.  He is very modest, and so Mademoiselle thinks him.  I never
knew him to speak one word of love,--not he."

I fancied I heard a sigh.

"If he dare," rejoined Gayarre in a tone of bravado; "if he dare hint at
such a thing to Mademoiselle--ay, or _even to you_, Aurore--I shall make
the place too hot for him.  He shall visit here no more, the naked
adventurer!  On that I am resolved."

"Oh, Monsieur Gayarre!  I'm sure that would vex Mademoiselle very much.
Remember! he saved her life.  She is full of gratitude to him.  She
continually talks of it, and it would grieve her if Monsieur Edouard was
to come no more.  I am sure it would grieve her."

There was an earnestness, a half-entreaty, in the tone of the speaker
that sounded pleasant to my ears.  It suggested the idea that _she, too,
might be grieved_ if Monsieur Edouard were to come no more.

A like thought seemed to occur to Gayarre, upon whom, however, it made a
very different sort of impression.  There was irony mixed with anger in
his reply, which was half interrogative.

"Perhaps it would grieve _some one else_?  Perhaps you?  All, indeed!
Is it so?  You love him?  _Sacr-r-r-r_!"

There was a hissing emphasis upon the concluding word, that expressed
anger and pain,--the pain of bitter jealousy.

"Oh monsieur!" replied the quadroon, "how can you speak thus?  _I_ love!
I,--a poor slave!  Alas! alas!"

Neither the tone nor substance of this speech exactly pleased me.  I
felt a hope, however, that it was but one of the little stratagems of
love: a species of deceit I could easily pardon.  It seemed to produce a
pleasant effect on Gayarre, for all at once his voice changed to a
lighter and gayer tone.

"You a _slave_, beautiful Aurore!  No, in my eyes you are a _queen_,
Aurore.  Slave!  It is your fault if you remain so.  You know who has
the power to make you free: ay, and the will too,--the will,--Aurore!"

"Please not to talk thus, Monsieur Dominique!  I have said before I
cannot listen to such speech.  I repeat I cannot, and _will_ not!"

The firm tone was grateful to my ears.

"Nay, lovely Aurore!" replied Gayarre, entreatingly, "don't be angry
with me!  I cannot help it.  I cannot help thinking of your welfare.
You _shall_ be free;--no longer the slave of a capricious mistress--"

"Monsieur Gayarre!" exclaimed the quadroon, interrupting him, "speak not
so of Mademoiselle!  You wrong her, Monsieur.  She is not capricious.
What if she heard--"

"_Peste_!" cried Gayarre, interrupting in his turn, and again assuming
his tone of bravado.  "What care I if she did?  Think you I trouble my
head about her?  The world thinks so! ha! ha! ha!  Let them!--the fools!
ha! ha!  One day they may find it different! ha! ha!  They think my
visits here are on _her_ account! ha! ha! ha!  No, Aurore,--lovely
Aurore! it is not Mademoiselle I come to see, but _you_,--you, Aurore,--
whom I _love_,--ay, love with all--"

"Monsieur Dominique!  I repeat--"

"Dearest Aurore! say you will but love me; say but the word!  Oh, speak
it! you shall be no longer a slave,--you shall be free as your mistress
is;--you shall have everything,--every pleasure,--dresses, jewels, at
will; my house shall be under your control,--you shall command in it,
_as if you were my wife_."

"Enough, Monsieur! enough!  Your insult--I hear no more!"

The voice was firm and indignant.  Hurrah!

"Nay, dearest, loveliest Aurore! do not go yet,--hear me--"

"I hear no more, Sir,--Mademoiselle shall know--"

"A word, a word! one kiss, Aurore! on my knees, I beg--"

I heard the knocking of a pair of knees on the floor, followed by a
struggling sound, and loud angry exclamations on the part of Aurore.

This I considered to be my cue, and three steps brought me within the
room, and within as many feet of the kneeling gallant.  The wretch was
actually on his "marrow-bones," holding the girl by the wrist, and
endeavouring to draw her towards him.  She, on the contrary, was
exerting all her women's strength to get away; which, not being so
inconsiderable, resulted in the ludicrous spectacle of the kneeling
suitor being dragged somewhat rapidly across the carpet!

His back was toward me as I entered, and the first intimation he had of
my presence was a boisterous laugh, which for the life of me I could not
restrain.  It lasted until long after he had released his captive, and
gathered his limbs into an upright position; and, indeed, so loud did it
sound in my own ears, that I did not hear the threats of vengeance he
was muttering in return.

"What business have _you_ here, Sir?" was his first intelligible
question.

"I need not ask the same of you, Monsieur Dominique Gayarre.  _Your_
business I can tell well enough ha! ha! ha!"

"I ask you, Sir," he repeated, in a still angrier tone, "what's your
business here?"

"I did not come here on _business_, Monsieur," said I, still keeping up
the tone of levity.  "I did not come here on business, _any more than
yourself_."

The emphasis on the last words seemed to render him furious.

"The sooner you go the better, then," he shouted, with a bullying frown.

"For whom?"  I inquired.

"For yourself, Sir," was the reply.

I had now also lost temper, though not altogether command of myself.

"Monsieur," said I, advancing and confronting him, "I have yet to learn
that the house of Mademoiselle Besancon is the property of Monsieur
Dominique Gayarre.  If it were so, I would be less disposed to respect
the sanctity of its roof.  You, Sir, have not respected it.  You have
acted infamously towards this young girl--this young _lady_, for she
merits the title as much as the best blood in your land.  I have
witnessed your dastardly conduct, and heard your insulting proposals--"

Here Gayarre started, but said nothing.  I continued--

"You are not a gentleman, Sir; and therefore not worthy to stand before
my pistol.  The owner of this house is not at home.  At present it is as
much mine as yours; and I promise you, that if you are not out of it in
ten seconds you shall have my whip laid with severity upon your
shoulders."

I said all this in a tone sufficiently moderate, and in cool blood.
Gayarre must have seen that I meant it, for I _did_ mean it.

"You shall pay dearly for this," he hissed out.  "You shall find that
this is not the country for a _spy_."

"Go, Sir!"

"And you, my fine pattern of quadroon virtue," he added, bending a
malicious glance upon Aurore, "there may come a day when you'll be less
prudish: a day when you'll not find such a gallant protector."

"Another word, and--"

The uplifted whip would have fallen on his shoulders.  He did not wait
for that, but gliding through the door, shuffled off over the verandah.

I stopped outside to make sure that he was gone.  Advancing to the end
of the platform I looked over the paling.  The chattering of the birds
told me that some one was passing through the shrubbery.

I watched till I saw the gate open.  I could just distinguish a head
above the palings moving along the road.  I easily recognised it as that
of the disappointed seducer.

As I turned back, towards the drawing-room I forgot that such a creature
existed!



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

AN HOUR OF BLISS.

Sweet is gratitude under any circumstances; how much sweeter when
expressed in the eyes and uttered by the lips of those we love!

I re-entered the room, my heart swelling with delightful emotions.
Gratitude was poured forth in, lavish yet graceful expressions.  Before
I could utter a word, or stretch out a hand to hinder, the beautiful
girl had glided across the room, and fallen into a kneeling posture at
my feet!  Her thanks came from her heart.

"Rise, lovely Aurore!" said I, taking her unresisting hand, and leading
her to a seat.  "What I have done is scarce worth thanks like thine.
Who would have acted otherwise?"

"Ah, Monsieur!--many, many.  You know not this land.  There are few to
protect the poor slave.  The chivalry, so much boasted here, extends not
to _us_.  We, in whose veins runs the accursed blood, are beyond the
pale both of honour and protection.  Ah me, noble stranger! you know not
for how much I am your debtor!"

"Call me not _stranger_, Aurore.  It is true we have had but slight
opportunity of conversing, but our acquaintance is old enough to render
that title no longer applicable.  I would you would speak to me by one
more _endearing_."

"Endearing!  Monsieur, I do not understand you!"

Her large brown eyes were fixed upon me in a gaze of wonder, but they
also interrogated me.

"Yes, endearing--I mean, Aurore--that you will not shun me--that you
will give me your confidence--that you will regard me as a friend--a--
a--brother."

"You, Monsieur! you as my brother--a white--a gentleman, high-born and
educated!  I--I--oh Heavens! what am I?  A slave--a slave--whom men love
only to _ruin_.  O God!--why is my destiny so hard?  O God!"

"Aurore!"  I cried, gathering courage from her agony, "Aurore, listen to
me! to me, your friend, your--"

She removed her hands that had been clasped across her face, and looked
up.  Her swimming eyes were bent steadfastly upon mine, and regarded me
with a look of interrogation.

At that moment a train of thought crossed my mind.  In words it was
thus: "How long may we be alone?  We may be interrupted?  So fair an
opportunity may not offer again.  There is no time to waste in idle
converse.  I must at once to the object of my visit."

"Aurore!"  I said, "it is the first time we have met alone.  I have
longed for this interview.  I have a word that can only be spoken to you
alone."

"To me alone, Monsieur!  What is it?"

"_Aurore, I love you_!"

"Love _me_!  Oh, Monsieur, it is not possible!"

"Ah! more than possible--it is _true_.  Listen, Aurore!  From the first
hour I beheld you--I might almost say before that hour, for you were in
my heart before I was conscious of having seen you--from, that first
hour I loved you--not with a villain's love, such as you have this
moment spurned, but with a pure and honest passion.  And passion I may
well call it, for it absorbs every other feeling of my soul.  Morning
and night, Aurore, I think but of you.  You are in my dreams, and
equally the companion of my waking hours.  Do not fancy my love so calm,
because I am now speaking so calmly about it.  Circumstances render me
so.  I have approached you with a determined purpose--one long resolved
upon--and that, perhaps, gives me this firmness in declaring my love.  I
have said, Aurore, that I love you.  I repeat it again--_with my heart
and soul, I love you_!"

"Love _me_! poor girl!"

There was something so ambiguous in the utterance of the last phrase,
that I paused a moment in my reply.  It seemed as though the sympathetic
interjection had been meant for some third person rather than herself!

"Aurore," I continued, after a pause, "I have told you all.  I have been
candid.  I only ask equal candour in return.  _Do you love me_?"

I should have put this question less calmly, but that I felt already
half-assured of the answer.

We were seated on the sofa, and near each other.  Before I had finished
speaking, I felt her soft fingers touch mine--close upon them, and press
them gently together.  When the question was delivered, her head fell
forward on my breast, and I heard murmuring from her lips the simple
words--"_I too from the first hour_!"

My arms, hitherto restrained, were now twined around the yielding form,
and for some moments neither uttered a word.  Love's paroxysm is best
enjoyed in silence.  The wild intoxicating kiss, the deep mutual glance,
the pressure of hands and arms and burning lips, all these need no
tongue to make them intelligible.  For long moments ejaculations of
delight, phrases of tender endearment, were the only words that escaped
us.  We were too happy to converse.  Our lips paid respect to the
solemnity of our hearts.

It was neither the place nor time for Love to go blind, and prudence
soon recalled me to myself.  There was still much to be said, and many
plans to be discussed before our new-sprung happiness should be secured
to us.  Both were aware of the abyss that still yawned between us.  Both
were aware that a thorny path must be trodden before we could reach the
elysium of our hopes.  Notwithstanding our present bliss, the future was
dark and dangerous; and the thought of this soon startled us from our
short sweet dream.

Aurora had no longer any _fear_ of my love.  She did not even wrong me
with suspicion.  She doubted not my purpose to make her my _wife_.  Love
and gratitude stifled every doubt, and we now conversed with a mutual
confidence which years of friendship could scarce have established.

But we talked with hurried words.  We knew not the moment we might be
interrupted.  We knew not when again we might meet alone.  We had need
to be brief.

I explained to her my circumstances--that in a few days I expected a sum
of money--enough, I believed, for the purpose.  What purpose?  _The
purchase of my bride_!

"Then," added I, "nothing remains but to get married, Aurore!"

"Alas!" replied she with a sigh, "even were I free, we could not be
married _here_.  Is it not a wicked law that persecutes us even when
pretending to give us freedom?"

I assented.

"We could not get married," she continued, evidently suffering under
painful emotion, "we could not unless you could swear there was African
blood in your veins!  Only think of such a law in a Christian land!"

"Think _not_ of it, Aurore," said I, wishing to cheer her.  "There shall
be no difficulty about swearing that.  I shall take this gold pin from
your hair, open this beautiful blue vein in your arm, drink from it, and
take the oath!"

The quadroon smiled, but the moment after her look of sadness returned.

"Come, dearest Aurore! chase away such thoughts!  What care we to be
married here?  We shall go elsewhere.  There are lands as fair as
Louisiana, and churches as fine as Saint Gabriel to be married in.  We
shall go northward--to England--to France--anywhere.  Let not that
grieve you!"

"It is not that which grieves me."

"What then, dearest?"

"Oh!  It is--I fear--"

"Tear not to tell me."

"That you will not be able--"

"Declare it, Aurore."

"To become _my master_--_to_--_to buy me_!"

Here the poor girl hung her head, as if ashamed to speak of such
conditions.  I saw the hot tears springing from her eyes.

"And why do you fear."  I inquired.

"Others have tried.  Large sums they offered--larger even than that you
have named, and they could not.  They failed in their intentions, and
oh! how grateful was I to Mademoiselle!  That was my only protection.
She would not part with me.  How glad was I then! but now--now how
different!--the very opposite!"

"But I shall give more--my whole fortune.  Surely that will suffice.
The offers you speak of were infamous proposals, like that of Monsieur
Gayarre.  Mademoiselle knew it; she was too good to accept them."

"That is true, but she will equally refuse yours.  I fear it, alas!
alas!"

"Nay, I shall confess all to Mademoiselle.  I shall declare to her my
honourable design.  I shall implore her consent.  Surely she will not
refuse.  Surely she feels gratitude--"

"Oh, Monsieur!" cried Aurore, interrupting me, "she _is_ grateful--you
know not how grateful; but never, never will she--You know not all--
alas! alas!"

With a fresh burst of tears filling her eyes, the beautiful girl sank
down on the sofa, hiding her face under the folds of her luxuriant hair.

I was puzzled by these expressions, and about to ask for an explanation,
when the noise of carriage-wheels fell upon my ear.  I sprang forward to
the open window, and looked over the tops of the orange-trees.  I could
just see the head of a man, whom I recognised as the coachman of
Mademoiselle Besancon.  The carriage was approaching the gate.

In the then tumult of my feelings I could not trust myself to meet the
lady, and, bidding a hurried adieu to Aurore, I rushed from the
apartment.

When outside I saw that, if I went by the front gate I should risk an
encounter.  I knew there was a small side-wicket that led to the
stables, and a road ran thence to the woods.  This would carry me to
Bringiers by a back way, and stepping off from the verandah, I passed
through the wicket, and directed myself towards the stables in the rear.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

THE "<DW65> QUARTER."

I soon reached the stables, where I was welcomed by a low whimper from
my horse.  Scipio was not there.

"He is gone upon some other business," thought I; "perhaps to meet the
carriage.  No matter, I shall not summon him.  The saddle is on, and I
can bridle the steed myself--only poor Scipio loses his quarter-dollar."

I soon had my steed bitted and bridled; and, leading the animal outside,
I sprang into the saddle, and rode off.

The path I was taking led past the "<DW64> quarters," and then through
some fields to the dark cypress and tupelo woods in the rear.  From
these led a cross-way that would bring me out again upon the Levee road.
I had travelled this path many a time, and knew it well enough.

The "<DW65> quarter" was distant some two hundred yards from the "grande
maison," or "big house," of the plantation.  It consisted of some fifty
or sixty little "cabins," neatly built, and standing in a double row,
with a broad way between.  Each cabin was a facsimile of its neighbour,
and in front of each grew a magnolia or a beautiful China-tree, under
the shade of whose green leaves and sweet-scented flowers little <DW64>s
might be seen all the livelong day, disporting their bodies in the dust.
These, of all sizes, from the "piccaninny" to the "good-sized chunk of
a boy," and of every shade of slave-colour, from the fair-skinned
quadroon to the black Bambarra, on whom, by an American witticism of
doubtful truthfulness; "charcoal would make a white mark!"  Divesting
them of dust, you would have no difficulty in determining their
complexion.  Their little plump bodies were nude, from the top of their
woolly heads to their long projecting heels.  There roll they, black and
yellow urchins, all the day, playing with pieces of sugar-cane, or
melon-rind, or corn-cobs--cheerful and happy as any little lords could
be in their well-carpeted nurseries in the midst of the costliest toys
of the German bazaar!

On entering the <DW64> quarter, you cannot fail to observe tall papaw
poles or cane-reeds stuck up in front of many of the cabins, and
carrying upon their tops large, yellow gourd-shells, each perforated
with a hole in the side.  These are the dwellings of the purple martin,
(_Hirundo purpurea_)--the most beautiful of American swallows, and a
great favourite among the simple <DW64>s, as it had been, long before
their time, among the red aborigines of the soil.  You will notice, too,
hanging in festoons along the walls of the cabins, strings of red and
green pepper-pods (species of capsicum); and here and there a bunch of
some dried herb of medicinal virtue, belonging to the <DW64>
_pharmacopoeia_.  All these are the property of "aunt Phoebe," or "aunty
Cleopatra," or "ole aunt Phillis;" and the delicious "pepper pot" that
any one of those "aunts" can make out of the aforesaid green and red
capsicums, assisted by a few other ingredients from the little garden
"patch" in the rear of the cabin, would bring water to the teeth of an
epicure.

Perhaps on the cabin walls you will see suspended representatives of the
animal kingdom--perhaps the skin of a rabbit, a raccoon, an opossum, or
the grey fox--perhaps also that of the musk-rat (_Fiber zibethicus_),
or, rarer still, the swamp wild-cat (bay lynx--_Lynx rufus_).  The owner
of the cabin upon which hangs the lynx-skin will be the Nimrod of the
hour, for the cat is among the rarest and noblest game of the
Mississippi _fauna_.  The skin of the panther (_cougar_) or deer you
will not see, for although both inhabit the neighbouring forest, they
are too high game for the <DW64> hunter, who is not permitted the use of
a gun.  The smaller "varmints" already enumerated can be captured
without such aid, and the pelts you see hanging upon the cabins are the
produce of many a moonlight hunt undertaken by "Caesar," or "Scipio," or
"Hannibal," or "Pompey."  Judging by the nomenclature of the <DW64>
quarter, you might fancy yourself in ancient Rome or Carthage!

The great men above-named, however, are never trusted with such a
dangerous weapon as a rifle.  To their _skill_ alone do they owe their
success in the chase; and their weapons are only a stick, an axe, and a
"'<DW53>-dog" of mongrel race.  Several of these last you may see rolling
about in the dust among the "piccaninnies," and apparently as happy as
they.  But the hunting trophies that adorn the walls do not hang there
as mere ornaments.  No, they are spread out to dry, and will soon give
place to others--for there is a constant export going on.  When uncle
Ceez, or Zip, or Hanny, or Pomp, get on their Sunday finery, and repair
to the village, each carries with him his stock of small pelts.  There
the storekeeper has a talk with them, and a "pic" (picayune) for the
"mussrat," a "bit" (Spanish real) for the "'<DW53>," and a "quarter" for
the fox or "cat," enable these four avuncular hunters to lay in a great
variety of small luxuries for the four "aunties" at home; which little
comforts are most likely excluded from the regular rice-and-pork rations
of the plantation.

So much is a little bit of the domestic economy of the <DW64> quarter.

On entering the little village,--for the <DW64> quarter of a grand
plantation merits the title,--you cannot fail to observe all of these
little matters.  They are the salient points of the picture.

You will observe, too, the house of the "overseer" standing apart; or,
as in the case of the plantation Besancon, at the end of the double row,
and fronting the main avenue.  This, of course, is of a more pretentious
style of architecture; can boast of Venetian blinds to the windows, two
stories of height, and a "porch."  It is enclosed with a paling to keep
off the intrusion of the children, but the dread of the painted cowhide
renders the paling almost superfluous.

As I approached the "quarter," I was struck with the peculiar character
of the picture it presented,--the overseer's house towering above the
humbler cabins, seeming to protect and watch over them, suggesting the
similarity of a hen with her brood of chickens.

Here and there the great purple swallows boldly cleft the air, or,
poised on wing by the entrance of their gourd-shell dwellings, uttered
their cheerful "tweet--tweet--tweet;" while the fragrant odour of the
China-trees and magnolias scented the atmosphere to a long distance
around.

When nearer still, I could distinguish the hum of human voices--of men,
women, and children--in that peculiar tone which characterises the voice
of the African.  I fancied the little community as I had before seen
it--the men and women engaged in various occupations--some resting from
their labour, (for it was now after field hours,) seated in front of
their tent-like cabins, under the shade-tree, or standing in little
groups gaily chatting with each other--some by the door mending their
fishing-nets and tackle, by which they intended to capture the great
"cat" and "buffalo fish" of the bayous--some "chopping" firewood at the
common "wood-pile," which half-grown urchins were "toating," to the
cabins, so that "aunty" might prepare the evening-meal.

I was musing on the patriarchal character of such a picture,
half-inclined towards the "one-man power"--if not in the shape of a
slaveholder, yet something after the style of Rapp and his "social
economists."

"What a saving of state machinery," soliloquised I, "in this patriarchal
form!  How charmingly simple! and yet how complete and efficient!"

Just so, but I had overlooked one thing, and that was the imperfectness
of human nature--the possibility--the probability--nay, the almost
certainty, that the _patriarch_ will pass into the _tyrant_.

Hark! a voice louder than common!  It is a cry!

Of cheerful import?  No--on the contrary, it sounds like the utterance
of some one in pain.  It is a cry of agony!  The murmur of other voices,
too, heard at short intervals, carries to my ear that deep portentous
sound which accompanies some unnatural occurrence.

Again I hear the cry of agony--deeper and louder than before!  It comes
from the direction of the <DW64> quarter.  What is causing it?

I gave the spur to my horse, and galloped in the direction of the
cabins.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

THE DEVIL'S DOUCHE.

In a few seconds I entered the wide avenue between the cabins, and
drawing bridle, sat glancing around me.

My patriarchal dreams vanished at the sight that met my eyes.  Before me
was a scene of tyranny, of torture--a scene from the tragedy of
slave-life!

At the upper end of the quarter, and on one side of the overseer's
house, was an enclosure.  It was the enclosure of the sugar-mill--a
large building which stood a little further back.  Inside the fence was
a tall pump, rising full ten feet in height, with the spout near its
top.  The purpose of this pump was to yield a stream of water, which was
conducted to the sugar-house by means of a slender trough, that served
as an aqueduct.

A platform was raised a few feet above the ground, so as to enable the
person working the pump to reach its handle.

To this spot my attention was directed by seeing that the <DW64>s of the
quarter were grouped around it, while the women and children, clinging
along the fence, had their eyes bent in the same direction.

The faces of all--men, women, and children--wore an ominous and gloomy
expression; and the attitudes in which they stood betokened terror and
alarm.  Murmurs I could hear--now and then ejaculations--and sobs that
bespoke sympathy with some one who suffered.  I saw scowling brows, as
if knit by thoughts of vengeance.  But these last were few--the more
general expression was one of terror and submission.

It was not difficult to tell that the cry I had heard proceeded from the
neighbourhood of the pump, and a glance unfolded the cause.  Some poor
slave was undergoing punishment!

A group of <DW64>s hid the unfortunate from my view, but over their
heads I could see the slave Gabriel, his body naked to the breech,
mounted upon the platform and working the pump with all his might.

This Gabriel was a Bambarra <DW64>, of huge size and strength, branded on
both shoulders with the _fleur-de-lis_.  He was a man of fierce aspect,
and, as I had heard, of fierce and brutal habit--feared not only by the
other <DW64>s, but by the whites with whom he came in contact.  It was
not he that was undergoing punishment.  On the contrary, he was the
instrument of torture.

And torture it was--I knew the punishment well.

The trough or aqueduct had been removed; and the victim was placed at
the bottom of the pump, directly under the spout.  He was fast bound in
a species of stocks; and in such a position that he could not move his
head, which _received the continuous jet in the very centre of the
crown_!

Torture?  No doubt, you are incredulous?  You fancy there can be no
great torture in that.  A simple shock--a shower-bath--nothing more!

You are right.  For the first half-minute or so it is but a shock, a
shower-bath, but then--

Believe me when I declare to you--that a stream of molten lead--an axe
continually crashing through the skull--would not be more painful than
the falling of this cold-water jet!  It is torture beyond endurance--
agony indescribable.  Well may it be called the "devil's douche."

Again the agonised cry came from the pump, almost curdling my blood.

As I have said, I could not see the sufferer at first.  A row of bodies
was interposed between him and me.  The <DW64>s, however, seeing me ride
up, eagerly opened their ranks and fell back a pace, as if desiring I
should be a witness to what was going forward.  They all knew me, and
all had some impression that I _sympathised_ with their unfortunate
race.

This opening gave me a full view of the horrid spectacle, disclosing a
group that made me start in the saddle.  Under the torture was the
victim--a man of sable hue.  Close by him, a large mulatto woman and a
young girl of the same complexion--mother and daughter--stood folded in
each other's arms, both weeping bitterly.  I could hear their sobs and
ejaculations, even at the distance of a score of yards, and above the
plashing sound of the falling water.  I recognised at a glance who these
were--they were the little Chloe and her mother!

Quick as lightning my eyes were directed towards the sufferer.  The
water, as it bounded from his crown, spread into a glassy sheet, that
completely concealed his head, but the huge, fin-like, projecting ears
told me who was the victim.  It was Scipio!

Again his cry of agony pealed upon my ears, deep and prolonged, as
though it issued from the innermost recesses of his soul!

I did not wait till that cry was ended.  A fence of six rails separated
me from the sufferer; but what of that?  I did not hesitate a moment,
but winding my horse round to give him the run, I headed him at the
leap, and with a touch of the spur lifted him into the inclosure.  I did
not even stay to dismount, but galloping up to the platform, laid my
whip across the naked shoulders of the Bambarra with all the force that
lay in my arm.  The astonished savage dropped the pump-handle as if it
had been iron at a white heat; and leaping from the platform, ran off
howling to his cabin!

Exclamations and loud murmurings of applause followed; but my horse,
brought so suddenly to this exciting work, snorted and plunged, and it
was some time before I could quiet him.  While thus engaged, I observed
that the exclamations were suddenly discontinued; and the murmurs of
applause were succeeded by a dead, ominous silence!  I could hear
several of the <DW64>s nearest me muttering some words of caution, as
though meant for me; among others the cry of--

"De oberseer! de oberseer!  Look out, mass'r!  Dar he kum!"

At that moment an abominable oath, uttered in a loud voice, reached my
ears.  I looked in the direction whence it came.  As I anticipated, it
was the overseer.

He was just issuing from the back-door of his house, from a window of
which he had been all the while a spectator of Scipio's torture!

I had not come in contact with this person before; and I now saw
approaching a man of fierce and brutal aspect, somewhat flashily
dressed, and carrying in his hand a thick waggon-whip.  I could see that
his face was livid with rage, and that he was directing himself to
attack me.  I had no weapon but my riding-whip, and with this I prepared
to receive his assault.

He came on at a run, all the while venting the most diabolical curses.

When he had got nearly up to my horse's head, he stopped a moment, and
thundered out--

"Who the Hell are you, meddling with my affairs?  Who the damn are--"

He suddenly paused in his speech, and stood staring in astonishment.  I
reciprocated that astonishment, for I had now recognised in the brutal
overseer my antagonist of the boat! the hero of the bowie-knife!  At the
same instant he recognised me.

The pause which was the result of our mutual surprise, lasted but a
moment.

"Hell and furies!" cried the ruffian, changing his former tone only into
one more horribly furious--

"It's _you_, is it?  Whip be damned!  I've something else for _you_."

And as he said this he drew a pistol from his coat, and hastily cocking
it, aimed it at my breast.

I was still on horseback and in motion, else he would no doubt have
delivered his fire at once; but my horse reared up at the gleam of the
pistol, and his body was thus interposed between mine and its muzzle.

As I have said, I had no weapon but the whip.  Fortunately it was a
stout hunting-whip, with loaded butt.  I hastily turned it in my hand,
and just as the hoofs of my horse came back to the earth, I drove the
spur so deeply into his ribs that he sprang forward more than his own
length.  This placed me in the very spot I wanted to be--alongside my
ruffian antagonist, who, taken aback by my sudden change of position,
hesitated a moment before taking fresh aim.  Before he could pull
trigger, the butt of my whip descended upon his skull, and doubled him
up in the dust!  His pistol went off as he fell, and the bullet ploughed
up the ground between my horse's hoofs, but fortunately hit no one.  The
weapon itself new out of his hand, and lay beside him where he had
fallen.

It was a mere lucky hit--all owing to the spur being touched, and my
horse having sprung forward in good time.  Had I missed the blow, I
should not likely have had a second chance.  The pistol was
double-barrelled, and on examination I found he carried another of a
similar kind.

He was now lying as still as if asleep, and I began to fear I had killed
him.  This would have been a serious matter.  Although perfectly
justifiable in me to have done so, who was to show that?  The evidence
of those around me--the whole of them together--was not worth the
asseveration of one white man; and under the circumstances not worth a
straw.  Indeed, considering what had immediately led to the rencontre,
such testimony would have been more likely to _damage_ my case than
otherwise!  I felt myself in an awkward situation.

I now dismounted, and approached the prostrate form, around which the
blacks were congregating.  They made way for me.

I knelt down and examined the head.  It was cut and bleeding, but the
skull was still sound!

The knowledge of this fact set my mind at rest, and before I rose to my
feet I had the satisfaction to see that the fellow was coming to his
senses, under the influence of a douche of cold-water.  The butt of the
second pistol came under my eye, as it stuck out from the breast of his
coat.  I drew it forth, and along with its fellow took them into my own
keeping.

"Tell him," said I, "as soon as he comes to himself, that when he next
attacks me, I shall have pistols as well as he!"

Having ordered him to be carried into the house, I now turned my
attention to his victim.  Poor Scipio! he had been most cruelly
tortured, and it was some time before he recovered his faculties, so as
to be able to tell me why he had been thus punished.

The relation he at length gave, and it made the blood boil afresh within
my veins.  He had surprised the overseer in some of the outbuildings
with little Chloe in his arms, the child crying out and struggling to
get free.  Natural indignation on the part of the father led to a blow--
an offence for which Scipio might have lost an arm; but the white
wretch, knowing that he dare not, for his own sake, expose the motive,
had commuted Scipio's legal punishment to a little private torture under
the pump!

My first impulse on hearing this sad story was to return to the house,
report what had occurred to Mademoiselle, and urge upon her the
necessity of getting rid of this savage overseer at all risk.

After a little reflection I changed my mind.  I purposed to return upon
the morrow, on business of--to me--much greater importance.  To-morrow
it was my intention to _bid for Aurore_!

"I can then," thought I, "introduce the case of poor Scipio.  Perhaps it
may be an introduction to the `graver theme?'"

Having promised this much to my old attendant, I mounted my horse, and
rode off, amidst a shower of blessings.

As I passed through the avenue at a walk, women and half-grown girls
hurried from their doors, and kissed my feet as they hung in the
stirrups!

The burning love which so late filled my heart was for a moment unfelt.
Its place was occupied by a calm, sweet happiness--the happiness that
springs from benefaction!



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

GAYARRE AND "BULLY BILL."

On riding out from the quarter I changed my intention of taking the back
road.  My visit would no doubt become known to Mademoiselle, and it
differed not if I should now be seen from the house.  My blood was up--
so was that of my horse.  A rail-fence was nothing to either of us now;
so heading round, I cleared a couple of palings; and then striking
across a cotton-field arrived once more on the Levee road.

After a while, as soon as I had cooled down my horse, I rode slowly,
reflecting upon what had just happened.

It was evident that this ruffian had been put upon the plantation by
Gayarre for some secret purpose.  Whether he and the lawyer had had
previous acquaintance I could not guess; but such men have a sort of
instinctive knowledge of one another, and he might be only a waif that
the latter had picked up since the night of the wreck.  On the boat I
had supposed him to be some rough gambler, by the propensity he
exhibited for betting; and possibly he might have been playing that
_role_ of late.  It was evident, however, that "<DW64>-driving" was his
trade; at all events it was not new to him.

Strange that he had been all this time on the plantation without knowing
of me!  But that could be easily accounted for.  He had never seen me
during my stay at the house.  Moreover, he may have been ignorant that
Mademoiselle was the lady with whom he intended to have shared the
life-preserver.  This last hypothesis was probable enough, for there
were other ladies who escaped by means of rafts, and sofas, and
life-preservers.  I fancied he had not seen Mademoiselle until she was
springing over the guards, and would therefore scarce recognise her
again.

The cause of my being an invalid was only known to Mademoiselle, Aurore,
and Scipio; and the latter had been charged not to carry this knowledge
to the <DW64> quarter.  Then the fellow was but new on the plantation,
and had but little intercourse with its mistress, as he received most of
his orders from Gayarre; besides, he was but a dull brute after all.

It was just like enough that, up to the moment of our late encounter, he
had no suspicion either that I was his former antagonist on the boat, or
Eugenie Besancon the lady who had escaped him.  He must have known of my
presence on the plantation, but only as one of the survivors of the
wreck, badly wounded,--scalded, perhaps,--but there had been a number of
others, picked up,--scarce a house for some distance along the coast but
had given shelter to some wounded or half-drowned unfortunate.  He had
been busy with his own affairs; or rather, perhaps, those of Gayarre:
for I had no doubt there was some conspiracy between them in which this
fellow was to play a part.  Dull as he was, he had something which his
employer might regard of more value than intellect; something, too,
which the latter himself lacked,--brute strength and brute courage.
Gayarre no doubt had a use for him, else he would not have been there.

He knew me now, and was not likely soon to forget me.  Would he seek
revenge?  Beyond doubt he would, but I fancied it would be by some base
underhand means.  I had no fear that he would again attack me openly, at
least by himself.  I felt quite sure that I had conquered, and
encowardiced him.  I had encountered his like before.  I know that his
courage was not of that character to outlive defeat.  It was the courage
of the bravo.

I had no fear of an open attack.  All I had to apprehend was some,
secret revenge, or perhaps the law!

You will wonder that any thought or dread of the latter should have
occurred to me: but it did; and I had my reasons.

The knowledge of Gayarre's designs, the detection of his villainous
purpose with Aurore, and my rencontre with Larkin, had brought matters
to a crisis.  I was filled with anxiety, and convinced of the necessity
of a speedy interview with Mademoiselle, in relation to what was nearest
to my heart, _the purchase of the quadroon_.  There was no reason why a
single hour should be wasted, now that Aurore and I understood each
other, and had, in fact, _betrothed_ ourselves.

I even thought of riding back at once, and had turned my horse for the
purpose.  I hesitated.  My resolution wavered.  I wheeled round again,
and kept on to Bringiers, with the determination to return to the
plantation at an early hour in the morning.

I entered the village and proceeded straight to the hotel.  On my table
I found a letter containing a cheque for two hundred pounds on the
Bringiers bank.  It was from my banking agent in New Orleans, who had
received it from England.  The letter also contained the information
that five hundred more would reach me in a few days.  The sum received
was a pleasant relief, and would enable me to discharge my pecuniary
obligations to Reigart; which in the next hour I had the pleasure of
doing.

I passed a night of great anxiety,--almost a sleepless night.  No
wonder.  To-morrow was to be a crisis.  For me, happiness or misery was
in the womb of to-morrow.  A thousand hopes and fears hung suspended on
the result of my interview with Eugenie Besancon.  I actually looked
forward to this interview with more anxiety than I had done but a few
hours ago to that with Aurore!  Perhaps, because I had less confidence
in a favourable result.

As early as etiquette would allow of a morning visit, I was in the
saddle, and heading towards the plantation Besancon.

As I rode out of the village I noticed that men regarded me with glances
that bespoke an unusual interest.

"My affair with the overseer is already known," thought I.  "No doubt
the <DW64>s have spread the report of it.  Such matters soon become
public."

I was unpleasantly impressed with an idea that the expression on
people's faces was anything but a friendly one.  Had I committed an
unpopular act in protecting myself?  Usually the conqueror in such an
encounter is rather popular than otherwise, in the chivalric land of
Louisiana.  Why, then, did men look scowling upon me?  What had I done
to merit reproach?  I had "whipped" a rude fellow, whom men esteemed a
"bully;" and in self-defence had I acted.  The act should have gained me
applause, according to the code of the country.  Why then,--ha! stay!  I
had interfered between _white_ and _black_.  I had _protected a slave
from punishment_.  Perhaps that might account for the disagreeable
expression I had observed!

I could just guess at another cause, of a very different and somewhat
ludicrous character.  It had got rumoured abroad that I "was upon good
terms with Mademoiselle Besancon," and that it was not unlikely that one
of these fine days the adventurer, whom nobody knew anything about,
would carry off the rich plantress!

There is no part of the world where such a _bonne fortune_ is not
regarded with envy.  The United States is no exception to the rule; and
I had reason to know that on account of this absurd rumour I was not
very favourably regarded by some of the young planters and dandy
storekeepers who loitered about the streets of Bringiers.

I rode on without heeding the "black looks" that were cast upon me, and
indeed soon ceased thinking of them.  My mind was too full of anxiety
about the approaching interview to be impressed with minor cares.

Of course Eugenie would have heard all about the affair of yesterday.
What would be her feelings in relation to it?  I felt certain that this
ruffian was forced upon, her by Gayarre.  She would have no sympathy
with _him_.  The question was, would she have the courage--nay, the
_power_ to discharge him from her service?  Even on hearing _who_ he
was?  It was doubtful enough!

I was overwhelmed with sympathy for this poor girl.  I felt satisfied
that Gayarre must be her creditor to a large amount, and in that way had
her in his power.  What he had said to Aurore convinced me that such was
the case.  Indeed, Reigart had heard some whisper that his debt had
already been proved before the courts in New Orleans; that no opposition
had been made; that he had obtained a verdict, and could seize upon her
property, or as much of it as would satisfy his demands, at any moment!
It was only the night before Reigart had told me this, and the
information had rendered me all the more anxious to hasten my business
in relation to Aurore.

I spurred into a gallop, and soon came in sight of the plantation.
Having arrived at the gate, I dismounted.  There was no one to hold my
horse, but that is a slight matter in America, where a gate-post or a
branch of a tree often serves as a groom.

Bethinking me of this ready expedient I tossed my rein over one of the
palings, and walked toward the house.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

"ELLE T'AIME!"

It was natural I should have thoughts about my yesterday's antagonist.
Would I encounter him?  Not likely.  The butt of my whip had no doubt
given him a headache that would confine him for some days to his
quarters.  But I was prepared for any event.  Under my waistcoat were
his own double-barrelled pistols, which I intended to use, if attacked.
It was my first essay at carrying "concealed weapons," but it was the
fashion of the country at the time--a fashion followed by nineteen out
of every twenty persons you met--by planters, merchants, lawyers,
doctors, and even divines!  So prepared, I had no fear of an encounter
with "Bully Bill."  If my pulse beat quick and my step was nervous, it
was on account of the anticipated interview with his mistress.

With all the coolness I could command, I entered the house.

I found Mademoiselle in the drawing-room.  She received me without
reserve or embarrassment.  To my surprise as well as gratification she
appeared more cheerful than usual.  I could even detect a significant
smile!  I fancied she was pleased at what had occurred; for of course
she was aware of it all.  I could understand this well enough.

Aurore was not present.  I was glad she was not.  I hoped she would not
come into the room--_at least for a time_.  I was embarrassed.  I scarce
knew how to open the conversation, much less to break to Mademoiselle
the matter that was nearest my heart.  A few ordinary phrases passed
between us, and then our conversation turned upon the affair of
yesterday.  I told her all--everything--except the scene with Aurore.
That was omitted.

I hesitated for some time whether I should let her know _who_ her
overseer was.  When she should ascertain that he was the fellow who had
wounded me on the boat, and who but for me would have taken away her
chances of safety, I felt certain she would insist upon getting rid of
him at all risks.

For a moment I reflected upon the consequences.  "She will never be
safe," thought I, "with such a ruffian at her side.  Better for her to
make stand at once."  Under this belief I boldly came out with the
information.

She seemed astounded, and clasping her hands, remained for some moments
in an attitude of mute agony.  At length she cried out--

"Gayarre--Gayarre! it is you, Monsieur Gayarre!  Oh! _mon Dieu! mon
Dieu_!  Where is my father? where is Antoine?  God have mercy upon me!"

The expression of grief upon her lovely countenance went to my heart.
She looked an angel of sorrow, sad but beautiful.

I interrupted her with consolatory phrases of the ordinary kind.  Though
I could only guess the nature of her sorrow, she listened to me
patiently, and I fancied that what I said gave her pleasure.

Taking courage from this, I proceeded to inquire more particularly the
cause of her grief.  "Mademoiselle," said I, "you will pardon the
liberty I am taking; but for some time I have observed, or fancied, that
you have a cause of--of--unhappiness--"

She fixed her eyes upon me in a gaze of silent wonder.  I hesitated a
moment under this strange regard, and then continued--

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle, if I speak too boldly; I assure you my
motive--"

"Speak on, Monsieur!" she said, in a calm sad voice.

"I noticed this the more, because when I first had the pleasure of
seeing you, your manner was so very different--in fact, quite the
reverse--"

A sigh and a sad smile were the only reply.  These interrupted me for
but a moment, and I proceeded:--

"When first observing this change, Mademoiselle, I attributed it to
grief for the loss of your faithful servitor and friend."

Another melancholy smile.

"But the period of sorrowing for such a cause is surely past, and yet--"

"And yet you observe that I am still sad?"

"Just so, Mademoiselle."

"True, Monsieur; it is even so."

"I have ceased therefore to regard that as the cause of your melancholy;
and have been forced to think of some other--"

The gaze of half surprise, half interrogation, that now met mine, caused
me for a moment to suspend my speech.  After a pause, I resumed it,
determined to come at once to the point, "You will pardon me,
Mademoiselle, for this free interest in your affairs--you will pardon me
for asking.  Do I not recognise in Monsieur Gayarre the cause of your
unhappiness?"

She started at the question, and turned visibly paler.  In a moment,
however, she seemed to recover herself, and replied calmly, but with a
look of strange significance:--

"Helas!  Monsieur, your suspicions are but _partially_ correct.  Helas!
Oh!  God, support me!" she added, in a tone that sounded like despair.
Then, as if by an effort, her manner seemed to undergo a sudden
alteration, and she continued:--

"Please, Monsieur, let us change the subject?  I owe you life and
gratitude.  Would I knew how to repay you for your generous gallantry--
your--your--_friendship_.  Perhaps some day you may know all.  I would
tell you now, but--but--Monsieur--there are--I cannot--"

"Mademoiselle Besancon, I entreat you, do not for a moment let the
questions I have asked have any consideration.  They were not put from
idle curiosity.  I need not tell you, Mademoiselle, that my motive was
of a higher kind--"

"I know it, Monsieur--I know it; but no more of it now, I pray you--let
us speak on some other subject."

Some other subject!  I had no longer the choice of one.  I had no longer
control of my tongue.  The subject which was nearest my heart sprang
spontaneously to my lips; and in hurried words I declared my love for
Aurore.

I detailed the whole course of my passion, from the hour of my dreamlike
vision up to that when we had plighted our mutual troth.

My listener was seated upon the low ottoman directly before me; but from
motives of bashfulness I had kept my eyes averted during the time I was
speaking.  She heard me without interruption, and I augured well from
this silence.

I concluded at length, and with trembling heart was awaiting her reply;
when a deep sigh, followed by a rustling sound, caused me suddenly to
turn.  _Eugenie had fallen upon the floor_!

With a glance I saw she had fainted.  I flung my arms around her, and
carried her to the sofa.

I was about to call for assistance when the door opened, and a form
glided into the room.  _It was Aurore_!

"_Mon Dieu_!" exclaimed the latter; "_vous l'avez faire mourir!  Elle
t'aime--Elle t'aime_!"



CHAPTER THIRTY.

THOUGHTS.

That night I passed without repose.  How was it with Eugenie?  How with
Aurore?

Mine was a night of reflections, in which pleasure and pain were
singularly blended.  The love of the quadroon was my source of pleasure;
but, alas! pain predominated as my thoughts dwelt upon the Creole!  That
the latter loved me I no longer doubted; and this assurance, so far from
giving me joy, filled me with keen regret.  Accursed vanity, that can
enjoy such a triumph,--vile heart, that can revel in a love it is unable
to return!  Mine did not: it grieved instead.

In thought I reviewed the short hours of intercourse that had passed
between us--Eugenie Besancon and myself.  I communed with my conscience,
asking myself the question, Was I innocent?  Had I done aught, either by
word, or look, or gesture, to occasion this love?--to produce the first
delicate impression, that upon a heart susceptible as hers soon becomes
a fixed and vivid picture?  Upon the boat?  Or afterwards?  I remembered
that at first sight I had gazed upon her with admiring eyes.  I
remembered that in hers I had beheld that strange expression of interest
which I had attributed to curiosity or some other cause--I knew not
what.  Vanity, of which no doubt I possess my share, had not interpreted
those tender glances aright--had not even whispered me they were the
flowers of love, easily ripened to its fruits.  Had I been instrumental
in nurturing those flowers of the heart?--had I done aught to beguile
them to their fatal blooming?

I examined the whole course of my conduct, and pondered over all that
had passed between us.  I thought of all that had occurred during our
passage upon the boat--during the tragic scene that followed.  I could
not remember aught, either of word, look, or gesture, by which I might
condemn myself.  I gave full play to my conscience, and it declared me
innocent.

Afterwards--after that terrible night--after those burning eyes and that
strange face had passed dreamlike before my disordered senses--after
that moment I could not have been guilty of aught that was trivial.
During the hours of my convalescence--during the whole period of my stay
upon the plantation--I could remember nothing in my intercourse with
Eugenie Besancon to give me cause for regret.  Towards her I had
observed a studied respect--nothing more.  Secretly I felt friendship
and sympathy; more especially after I had noted the change in her
manner, and feared that some cloud was shadowing her fortune.  Alas,
poor Eugenie!  Little did I guess the nature of that cloud!  Little did
I dream how dark it was!

Notwithstanding my self-exculpation, I still felt pain.  Had Eugenie
Besancon been a woman of ordinary character I might have borne my
reflections more lightly.  But to a heart so highly attuned, so noble,
so passionate, what would be the shock of an unrequited love?  Terrible
it must be; perhaps the more so at thus finding her rival in her own
slave!

Strange confidante had I chosen for my secret!  Strange ear into which I
had poured the tale of my love!  Oh that I had not made my confession!
What suffering had I caused this fair, this unfortunate lady!

Such painful reflections coursed through my mind; but there were others
equally bitter, and with bitterness springing from a far different
source.  What would be the effect of the disclosure?  How would it
affect our future--the future of myself and Aurore?  How would Eugenie
act?  Towards me? towards Aurore--_her slave_?

My confession had received no response.  The mute lips murmured neither
reply nor adieu.  I had gazed but a moment on the insensible form.
Aurore had beckoned me away, and I had left the room in a state of
embarrassment and confusion--I scarce remembered how.

What would be the result?  I trembled to think.  Bitterness, hostility,
revenge?

Surely a soul so pure, so noble, could not harbour such passions as
these?

"No," thought I; "Eugenie Besancon is too gentle, too womanly, to give
way to them.  Is there a hope that she may have pity on _me_, as I pity
_her_?  Or is there not?  She is a Creole--she inherits the fiery
passions of her race.  Should these be aroused to jealousy, to revenge,
her gratitude will soon pass away--her love be changed to scorn.  _Her
own slave_!"

Ah!  I well understood the meaning of this relationship, though I cannot
make it plain to you.  You can ill comprehend the horrid feeling.  Talk
of a _mesalliance_ of the aristocratic lord with the daughter of his
peasant retainer, of the high-born dame with her plebeian groom--talk of
the scandal and scorn to which such rare events give rise!  All this is
little--is mild, when compared with the positive disgust and horror felt
for the "white" who would ally himself _in marriage_ with a _slave_!  No
matter how white _she_ be, no matter how beautiful--even lovely as
Aurore--he who would make her his _wife_ must bear her away from her
native land, far from the scenes where she has hitherto been known!  His
_mistress_--all! that is another affair.  An alliance of this nature is
pardonable.  The "society" of the South is satisfied with the
_slave-mistress_; but the _slave-wife_--that is an impossibility, an
incongruity not to be borne!

I knew that the gifted Eugenie was above the common prejudices of her
class; but I should have expected too much to suppose that she was above
this one.  No; noble, indeed, must be the soul that could have thrown
off this chain, coiled around it by education, by habit, by example, by
every form of social life.  Notwithstanding all--notwithstanding the
relations that existed between herself and Aurore, I could not expect
this much.  Aurore was her companion, her friend; but still Aurore was
_her slave_!

I trembled for the result.  I trembled for our next interview.  In the
future I saw darkness and danger.  I had but one hope, one joy--the love
of Aurore!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I rose from my sleepless couch.  I dressed and ate my breakfast
hurriedly, mechanically.

That finished, I was at a loss what to do next.  Should I return to the
plantation, and seek another interview with Eugenie.  No--not then.  I
had not the courage.  It would be better, I reflected, to permit some
time to pass--a day or two--before going back.  Perhaps Mademoiselle
would send for me?

Perhaps--At all events, it would be better to allow some days to elapse.
Long days they would be to me!

I could not bear the society of any one.  I shunned conversation;
although I observed, as on the preceding day, that I was the object of
scrutiny--the subject of comment among the loungers of the "bar," and my
acquaintances of the billiard-room.  To avoid them, I remained inside my
room, and endeavoured to kill time by reading.

I soon grew tired of this chamber-life; and upon the third morning I
seized my gun, and plunged into the depth of the forest.

I moved amidst the huge pyramidal trunks of the cypresses, whose thick
umbellated foliage, meeting overhead, shut out both sun and sky.  The
very gloom occasioned by their shade was congenial to my thoughts; and I
wandered on, my steps guided rather by accident than design.

I did not search for game.  I was not thinking of sport.  My gun rested
idly in the hollow of my arm.  The raccoon, which in the more open woods
is nocturnal, is here abroad by day.  I saw the creature plunging his
food into the waters of the bayou, and skulking around the trunks of the
cypresses.  I saw the opossum gliding along the fallen log, and the red
squirrel, like a stream of fire, brushing up the bark of the tall
tulip-tree.  I saw the large "swamp-hare" leap from her form by the
selvage of the cane-brake; and, still more tempting game, the
fallow-deer twice bounded before me, roused from its covert in the shady
thickets of the pawpaw-trees.  The wild turkey, too, in all the glitter
of his metallic plumage, crossed my path; and upon the bayou, whose bank
I for some time followed, I had ample opportunity of discharging my
piece at the blue heron or the egret, the summer duck or the snake-bird,
the slender ibis or the stately crane.  Even the king of winged
creatures, the white-headed eagle, was more than once within range of my
gun, screaming his maniac note among the tops of the tall taxodiums.

And still the brown tubes rested idly across my arm; nor did I once
think of casting my eye along their sights.  No ordinary game could have
tempted me to interrupt the current, of my thoughts, that were dwelling
upon a theme to me the most interesting in the world--Aurore the
quadroon!



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

DREAMS.

Yielding up my soul to its sweet love-dream, I wandered on--where and
how long I cannot tell, for I had taken no note either of distance or
direction.

I was roused from my reverie by observing a brighter light gleaming
before me; and soon after I emerged from the darker shadow of the
forest.  My steps, chance-directed, had guided me into a pretty glade,
where the sun shone warmly, and the ground was gay with flowers.  It was
a little wild garden, enamelled by blossoms of many colours, among
which, bignonias and the showy corollas of the cotton-rose were
conspicuous.  Even the forest that bordered and enclosed this little
parterre was a forest of flowering-trees.  They were magnolias of
several kinds; on some of which the large liliaceous blossoms had given
place to the scarcely less conspicuous seed-cones of glowing red, whose
powerful but pleasant odour filled the atmosphere around.  Other
beautiful trees grew alongside, mingling their perfume with that of the
magnolias.  Scarce less interesting were the "honey-locusts"
(_gleditschias_), with their pretty pinnate leaves, and long
purple-brown legumes; the Virginian lotus, with its oval amber-
drupes, and the singular bow-wood tree (_madura_), with its large
orange-like pericarps, reminding one of the _flora_ of the tropics.  The
Autumn was just beginning to paint the forest, and already some touches
from his glowing palette appeared among the leaves of the sassafras
laurel, the sumach (_rhus_), the persimmon (_diospyros_), the
nymph-named tupelo, and those other species of the American _sylva_ that
love to array themselves so gorgeously before parting with their
deciduous foliage.  Yellow, orange, scarlet, crimson, with many an
intermediate tint, met the eye; and all these colours, flashing under
the brilliant beams of a noonday sun, produced an indescribable
_coup-d'oeil_.  The scene resembled the gaudy picture-work of a theatre,
more than the sober reality of a natural landscape.

I stood for some minutes wrapt in admiration.  The dream of love in
which I had been indulging became heightened in its effect; and I could
not help thinking that if Aurore were but present to enjoy that lovely
scene--to wander with me over that flowery glade--to sit by my side
under the shade of the magnolia laurel--then, indeed, would my happiness
be complete.  Earth itself had no fairer scene than this.  A very
love-bower it appeared!

Nor was it unoccupied by lovers; for two pretty doves--birds emblematic
of the tender passion--sat side by side upon the bough of a tulip-tree,
their bronzed throats swelling at intervals with soft amorous notes.

Oh, how I envied those little creatures!  How I should have rejoiced in
a destiny like theirs!  Thus mated and happy--amidst bright flowers and
sweet perfumes, loving the livelong day--loving through all their lives!

They deemed me an intruder, and rose on whirring wing at my approach.
Perchance they feared my glittering gun.  They had not need.  I had no
intention of harming them.  Far was it from my heart to spoil their
perfect bliss.

But no--they feared me not--else their flight would have been more
distant.  They only flitted to the next tree; and there again, seated
side by side, resumed their love-converse.  Absorbed in mutual fondness,
they had already forgotten my presence!

I followed to watch these pretty creatures--the types of gentleness and
love.  I flung me on the grass, and gazed upon thorn, tenderly kissing
and cooing.  I envied their delight.

My nerves, that for days had been dancing with more than ordinary
excitement, were now experiencing the natural reaction, and I felt
weary.  There was a drowsiness in the air--a narcotic influence produced
by the combined action of the sun's rays and the perfume of the flowers.
It acted upon my spirit, and I fell asleep.

I slept only about an hour, but it was a sleep of dreams; and during
that short period I passed through many scenes.  Many a visionary
tableau appeared before the eye of my slumbering soul, and then melted
away.  There were more or less characters in each; but in all of them
two were constant, both well defined in form and features.  They were
Eugenie and Aurore.

Gayarre, too, was in my dreams; and the ruffian overseer, and Scipio,
and the mild face of Reigart, and what I could remember of the good
Antoine.  Even the unfortunate Captain of the boat, the boat herself,
the Magnolia, and the scene of the wreck--all were reproduced with a
painful distinctness!

But my visions were not all of a painful character.  Some were the very
opposite--scenes of bliss.  In company with Aurore, I was wandering
through flowery glades, and exchanging the sweet converse of mutual
love.  The very spot where I lay--the scene around me--was pictured in
the dream.

Strangest of all, I thought that Eugenie was with us, and that she, too,
was happy; that she had consented to my marrying Aurore, and had even
assisted us in bringing about this happy consummation!

In this vision Gayarre was the fiend; and I thought that after a while
he endeavoured to drag Aurore from me.  A struggle followed, and then
the scene ended with confused abruptness.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

A new tableau arose--a new vision.  In this _Eugenie_ played the part of
the evil genius.  I thought she had refused my requests--refused to
_sell Aurore_.  I fancied her jealous, hostile, vengeful.  I thought she
was loading me with imprecations, my betrothed with threats.  Aurore was
weeping.  It was a painful vision.

The scene changed again.  Aurore and I were happy--she was free--she was
now mine, and we were married.  But there was a cloud upon our
happiness.  _Eugenie was dead_.

Yes, dead.  I thought I was bending over her, and had taken her hand.
Suddenly her fingers closed upon mine, and held them with a firm
pressure.  I thought that the contact was disagreeable; and I
endeavoured to withdraw my hand, but could not.  My fingers remained
bound within that cold clammy grasp; and with all my strength I was
unable to release them!  Suddenly I was stung; and at the same instant
the chill hand relaxed its grasp, and set me free.

The stinging sensation, however, awoke me; and my eyes mechanically
turned towards the hand, where I still felt pain.

Sure enough my wrist was punctured and bleeding!

A feeling of horror ran through my veins, as the "sker-r-rr" of the
_crotalus_ sounded in my ear; and, looking around, I saw the glittering
body of the reptile extended along the grass, and gliding rapidly away!



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

STUNG BY A SNAKE.

The pain was not a dream; the blood upon my wrist was no illusion.  Both
were real.  I was bitten by a _rattlesnake_!

Terror-stricken I sprang to my feet; and, with an action altogether
mechanical, passed my hand over the wound, and wiped away the blood.  It
was but a trifling puncture, such as might have been made by the point
of a lancet, and only a few drops of blood oozed from it.

Such a wound need not have terrified a child, so far as appearance went;
but I, a man, _was_ terrified, for I knew that that little incision had
been made by a dread instrument--by the envenomed fang of a serpent--and
_in one hour I might be dead_!

My first impulse was to pursue the snake and destroy it; but before I
could act upon that impulse the reptile had escaped beyond my reach.  A
hollow log lay near--the trunk of a large tulip-tree, with the
heart-wood decayed and gone.  The snake had made for this--no doubt its
haunt--and before I could come up with it, I saw the long slimy body,
with its rhomboid spots, disappear within the dark cavity.  Another
"sker-r-rr" reached my ears as it glided out of sight.  It seemed a note
of triumph, as if uttered to tantalise me!

The reptile was now beyond my reach, but its destruction would not have
availed me.  Its death could not counteract the effect of its poison
already in my veins.  I knew that well enough, but for all I would have
killed it, had it been in my power to do so.  I felt angry and vengeful.

This was but my first impulse.  It suddenly became changed to a feeling
of terror.  There was something so weird in the look of the reptile,
something so strange in the manner of its attack and subsequent escape,
that, on losing sight of it, I became suddenly impressed with a sort of
supernatural awe--a belief that the creature was possessed of a fiendish
intelligence!

Under this impression I remained for some moments in a state of
bewilderment.

The sight of the blood, and the stinging sensation of the wound, soon
brought me to my senses again, and admonished me of the necessity of
taking immediate steps to procure an antidote to the poison.  But what
antidote?

What knew I of such things?  I was but a classical scholar.  True, I had
lately given some attention to botanical studies; but my new knowledge
extended only to the _trees_ of the forest, and none of these with which
I was acquainted possessed alexipharmic virtues.  I knew nothing of the
herbaceous plants, the milk-worts, and _aristolochias_, that would now
have served me.  The woods might have been filled with antidotal
remedies, and I have died in their midst.  Yes, I might have lain down
upon a bed of Seneca root, and, amidst terrible convulsions, have
breathed my last breath, without knowing that the rhizome of the humble
plant crushed beneath my body would, in a few short hours, have expelled
the venom from my veins, and given me life and health.

I lost no time in speculating upon such a means of safety.  I had but
one thought--and that was to reach Bringiers at the earliest possible
moment.  My hopes rested upon Reigart.

I hastily took up my gun; and, plunging once more under the dark shadows
of the cypress-trees, I hurried on with nervous strides.  I ran as fast
as my limbs would carry me; but the shock of terror I had experienced
seemed to have enfeebled my whole frame, and my knees knocked against
each other as I went.

On I struggled, regardless of my weakness, regardless of everything but
the thought of reaching Bringiers and Reigart.  Over fallen trees,
through dense cane-brakes, through clumps of palmettoes and pawpaw
thickets, I passed, dashing the branches from my path, and lacerating my
skin at every step.  Onward, through sluggish rivulets of water, through
tough miry mud, through slimy pools, filled with horrid newts, and the
spawn of the huge _rana pipiens_, whose hoarse loud croak at every step
sounded ominous in my ear.  Onward!

"Ho! whither am I going?  Where is the path? where the tracks of my
former footsteps?  Not here--not there.  Good God!  I have lost them!--
lost! lost!"

Quick as lightning came these thoughts.  I looked around with eager
glances.  On every side I scanned the ground.  I saw no path, no tracks,
but those I had just made.  I saw no marks that I could remember.  I had
lost my way.  Beyond a doubt I was lost!

A thrill of despair ran through me--the blood curdled cold in my veins
at the thought of my peril.

No wonder.  If lost in the forest, then was I lost indeed.  A single
hour might be enough.  In that time the poison would do its work.  I
should be found only by the wolves and vultures.  O God!

As if to make my horrid fate appear more certain, I now remembered to
have heard that it was the very season of the year--the hot autumn--when
the venom of the _crotalus_ is most virulent, and does its work in the
shortest period of time.  Cases are recorded where in a single hour its
bite has proved fatal.

"Merciful heaven!" thought I, "in another hour I shall be no more!" and
the thought was followed by a groan.

The danger nerved me to renewed efforts.  I turned back on my tracks.
It seemed the best thing I could do; for in the gloomy circle around,
there was no point that indicated my approach to the open ground of the
plantations.  Not a bit of sky could I discover,--that welcome beacon to
the wood-ranger, denoting the proximity of the clearings.  Even the
heaven above was curtained from my view; and when I appealed to it in
prayer, my eyes rested only upon the thick black foliage of the
cypress-trees, with their mournful drapery of _tillandsia_.

I had no choice but to go back, and endeavour to find the path I had
lost, or wander on trusting to mere chance.

I chose the former alternative.  Again I broke through the cane-brakes
and palmetto-thickets--again I forded sluggish bayous, and waded across
muddy pools.

I had not proceeded more than a hundred yards on the back track, when
that also became doubtful.  I had passed over a reach of ground higher
and drier than the rest.  Here no footprints appeared, and I knew not
which way I had taken.  I tried in several directions, but could not
discover my way.  I became confused, and at length completely
bewildered.  Again was I lost!

To have been lost in the forest under ordinary circumstances would have
mattered little,--an hour or two of wandering--perhaps a night spent
under the shade of some tree, with the slight inconvenience of a hungry
stomach.  But how very different was my prospect then, with the fearful
thoughts that were pressing upon me!  The poison was fast inoculating my
blood.  I fancied I already felt it crawling through my veins!

One more struggle to find the clearings!

I rushed on, now guided by chance.  I endeavoured to keep in a straight
line, but to no purpose.  The huge pyramidal buttresses of the trees, so
characteristic of these _coniferae_, barred my way; and, in passing
around them, I soon lost all knowledge of my direction.

I wandered on, now dragging wearily across the dull ditches, now
floundering through tracts of swamp, or climbing over huge prostrate
logs.  In my passage I startled the thousand denizens of the dank
forest, who greeted me with their cries.  The qua-bird screamed; the
swamp-owl hooted; the bullfrog uttered his trumpet-note; and the hideous
alligator, horribly bellowing from his gaunt jaws, crawled sulkily out
of my way, at times appearing as if he would turn and assail me!

"Ho! yonder is light!--the sky!"

It was but a small patch of the blue heaven--a disc, not larger than a
dining-plate.  But, oh! you cannot understand with what joy I greeted
that bright spot.  It was the lighthouse to the lost mariner.

It must be the clearings?  Yes, I could see the sun shining through the
trees, and the horizon open as I advanced.  No doubt the plantations
were before me.  Once there I should soon cross the fields, and reach
the town.  I should yet be safe.  Reigart would surely know how to
extract the poison, or apply some antidote?

I kept on with bounding heart and straining eyes--on, for the bright
meteor before me.

The blue spot grew larger--other pieces of sky appeared--the forest grew
thinner as I advanced--I was drawing nearer to its verge.

The ground became firmer and drier at every step, and the timber of a
lighter growth.  The shapeless cypress "knees" no longer impeded my
progress.  I now passed among tulip-trees, dogwoods, and magnolias.
Less densely grew the trunks, lighter and less shadowy became the
foliage above; until at length I pushed through the last selvage of the
underwood, and stood in the open sunshine.

A cry of agony rose upon my lips.  It was wrung from me by despair.  I
had arrived at my point of starting--I was once more within the glade!

I sought not to go farther.  Fatigue, disappointment, and chagrin, had
for the moment paralysed my strength.  I staggered forward to a
prostrate trunk,--the very one which sheltered my reptile assassin!--and
sat down in a state of irresolution and bewilderment.

It seemed as though I were destined to die in that lovely glade--amidst
those bright flowers--in the midst of that scene I had so lately
admired, and upon the very spot where I had received my fatal wound!



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

THE RUNAWAY.

Man rarely yields up his life without an extreme effort to preserve it.
Despair is a strong feeling, but there are those whose spirit it cannot
prostrate.  In later life mine own would not have given way to such
circumstances as surrounded me at that time; but I was then young, and
little experienced in peril.

The paralysis of my thoughts did not continue long.  My senses returned
again; and I resolved to make a new effort for the salvation of my life.

I had conceived no plan, further than to endeavour once more to escape
out of the labyrinth of woods and morass in which I had become
entangled, and make as before for the village.  I thought I knew the
direction in which it lay, by observing the side at which I had first
entered the glade.  But, after all, there was no certainty in this.  It
was mere conjecture.  I had entered the glade with negligent steps.  I
had strayed all around it before lying down to sleep.  Perhaps I had
gone around its sides before entering it--for I had been wandering all
the morning.

While these reflections were passing rapidly through my mind, and
despair once more taking possession of my spirits, I all at once
remembered having heard that tobacco is a powerful antidote to
snake-poison.  Strange the idea had not occurred to me before.  But,
indeed, there was nothing wonderful that it did not, as up to that
moment I had only thought of making my way to Bringiers.  With no
reliance upon my own knowledge, I had thought only of a doctor.  It was
only when I became apprehensive of not being able to get to _him_, that
I began to think of what resources lay within my reach.  I now
remembered the tobacco.

Quick as the thought my cigar-case was in my fingers.  To my joy one
cigar still remained, and drawing it out I proceeded to macerate the
tobacco by chewing.  This I had heard was the mode of applying it to the
snakebite.

Dry as was my mouth at first, the bitter weed soon supplied me with
saliva, and in a few moments I had reduced the leaves to a pulp, though
nauseated--almost poisoned by the powerful _nicotine_.

I laid the moistened mass upon my wrist, and at the same time rubbed it
forcibly into the wound.  I now perceived that my arm was sensibly
swollen--even up to the elbow--and a singular pain began to be felt
throughout its whole length!  O God! the poison was spreading, surely
and rapidly spreading!  I fancied I could feel it like liquid fire
crawling and filtering through my veins!

Though I had made application of the nicotine, I had but little faith in
it.  I had only heard it casually talked of as a remedy.  It might,
thought I, be one of the thousand fancies that people love to indulge
in; and I had only used it as a "forlorn hope."

I bound the mass to my wrist--a torn sleeve serving for lint; and then,
turning my face in the direction I intended to take, I started off
afresh.

I had scarce made three strides when my steps were suddenly arrested.  I
stopped on observing a man on the edge of the glade, and directly in
front of me.

He had just come out of the underwood, towards which I was advancing,
and, on perceiving me, had suddenly halted--perhaps surprised at the
sight of one of his own kind in such a wild place.

I hailed his appearance with a shout of joy.  "A guide!--a deliverer!"
thought I.

What was my astonishment--my chagrin--my indignation--when the man
suddenly turned his back upon me; and, plunging into the bushes,
disappeared from my sight!

I was astounded at this strange conduct.  I had just caught a glimpse of
the man's face as he turned away.  I had seen that he was a <DW64>, and I
had noticed that he appeared to be frightened.  But what was there about
me to terrify him?

I called out to him to stop--to come back.  I shouted in tones of
entreaty--of command--of menace.  In vain.  He made neither stop nor
stay.  I heard the branches crackle as he broke through the thicket--
each moment the noise appearing more distant.

It was my only chance for a guide.  I must not lose it; and, bracing
myself for a run, I started after him.

If I possess any physical accomplishment in which I have confidence it
is my fleetness of foot.  At that time an Indian runner could not have
escaped me, much less a clumsy, long-heeled <DW64>.  I knew that if I
could once more got my eyes upon the black, I would soon overhaul him;
but therein lay the difficulty.  In my hesitation I had given him a long
start; and he was now out of sight in the depth of the thicket.

But I could hear him breaking through the bushes like a hog; and,
guiding myself by the sound, I kept up the pursuit.

I was already somewhat jaded by my previous exertions; but the
conviction that _my life depended on overtaking the negro_ kindled my
energies afresh, and I ran like a greyhound.  Unfortunately it was not a
question of simple speed, else the chase would soon have been brought to
an end.  It was in getting through the bushes, and dodging round the
trunks of the trees, that the hindrance lay; and I had many a struggle
among the branches, and many a zigzag turn to make, before I could get
my eyes upon the object I was in pursuit of.

However, I at length succeeded in doing so.  The underwood came to an
end.  The misshapen cypress trunks alone stood up out of the miry, black
soil; and far off, down one of their dark aisles, I caught sight of the
<DW64>, still running at the top of his speed.  Fortunately his garments
were light-, else under the sombre shadow I could not have made
him out.  As it was, I had only a glimpse of him, and at a good distance
off.

But I had cleared the thicket, and could run freely.  Swiftness had now
everything to do with the race; and in less than five minutes after I
was close upon the heels of the black, and calling to him to halt.

"Stop!"  I shouted.  "For God's sake, stop!"

No notice was taken of my appeals.  The <DW64> did not even turn his
head, but ran on, floundering through the mud.

"Stop!"  I repeated, as loudly as my exhausted breath would permit.
"Stop, man! why do you run from me?  I mean you no harm."

Neither did this speech produce any effect.  No reply was given.  If
anything, I fancied that he increased his speed; or rather, perhaps, he
had got through the quagmire, and was running upon firm ground while I
was just entering upon the former.

I fancied that the distance between us was again widening; and began to
fear he might still elude me.  I felt that my life was on the result.
Without him to guide me from the forest, I would miserably perish.  He
_must_ guide me.  Willing or unwilling, I should force him to the
office.

"Stop," I again cried out; "halt, or I fire!"

I had raised my gun.  Both barrels were loaded.  I had spoken in all
seriousness.  I should in reality have fired--not to kill, but to detain
him.  The shot might injure him, but I could not help it.  I had no
choice--no other means of saving my own life.

I repeated the awful summons:--

"Stop--or I fire!"

This time my tone was earnest.  It left no doubt of my intention; and
this seemed to be the impression it produced upon the black; for,
suddenly halting in his tracks, he wheeled about, and stood facing me.

"Fire! and be dam!" cried he; "have a care, white man--don't you miss.
By Gor-amighty! if ya do, your life's mine.  See dis knife! fire now and
be dam!"

As he spoke he stood full fronting me, his broad chest thrown out as if
courageously to receive the shot, and in his uplifted hand I saw the
shining blade of a knife!

A few steps brought me close up; and in the man that stood before me I
recognised the form, and ferocious aspect of _Gabriel the Bambarra_!



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

GABRIEL THE BAMBARRA.

The huge stature of the black--his determined attitude--the sullen glare
of his lurid bloodshot eyes, set in a look of desperate resolve--the
white gleaming file-pointed teeth--rendered him a terrible object to
behold.  Under other circumstances I might have dreaded an encounter
with such a hideous-looking adversary--for an _adversary_ I deemed him.
I remembered the flogging I had given him with my whip, and I had no
doubt that _he_ remembered it too.  I had no doubt that he was now upon
his errand of revenge instigated partly by the insult I had put upon
him, and partly set on by his cowardly master.  He had been dogging me
through the forest--all the day, perhaps--waiting for an opportunity to
execute his purpose.

But why had he run away from me?  Was it because he feared to attack me
openly.  Certainly it was--he feared my double-barrelled gun!

But I had been asleep.  He might have approached me then--he might
have--Ha!

This ejaculation escaped my lips, as a singular thought flashed into my
mind.  The Bambarra was a "snake-charmer"--I had heard so--could handle
the most venomous serpents at rail--could guide and direct them!  Was it
not he who had guided the _crotalus_ to where I lay--who had caused me
to be bitten?

Strange as it may appear, this supposition at that moment crossed my
mind, and seemed probable; nay, more--I actually _believed it_.  I
remembered that I had been struck with a peculiarity about the reptile--
its weird look--the superior cunning exhibited in its mode of escape--
and not less peculiar the fact of its having stung me unprovoked--a rare
thing for the rattlesnake to do!  All these points rushing
simultaneously into my mind, produced the conviction that for the fatal
wound on my wrist I was indebted, not to chance, but to Gabriel the
snake-charmer!

Not half the time I have been telling you of it--not the tenth nor the
hundredth part of the time, was I in forming this horrid conviction.  It
was done with the rapidity of thought--the more rapid that every
circumstance guiding to such a conclusion was fresh in my memory.  In
fact the black had not changed his attitude of menace, nor I mine of
surprise at recognising him, until all these thoughts had passed through
my mind!

Almost with equal rapidity was I disabused of the singular delusion.  In
another minute I became aware that my suspicions were unjust.  I had
been wronging the man who stood before me.

All at once his attitude changed.  His uplifted arm fell by his side;
the expression of fierce menace disappeared; and in as mild a tone as
his rough voice was capable of giving utterance to, he said--

"Oh! you mass'--brack man's friend!  Dam! thought 'twar da cussed Yankee
driber!"

"And was that why you ran from me?"

"Ye, mass'; ob course it war."

"Then you are--"

"Am runaway; ye, mass', jes so--runaway.  Don't mind tell you.  Gabr'el
truss you--He know you am poor nigga's friend.  Look-ee-dar."

As he uttered this last phrase, he pulled off the scanty copper-
rag of a shirt that covered his shoulders, and bared his back before my
eyes!

A horrid sight it was.  Besides the _fleur-de-lis_ and many other old
brands, there were sears of more recent date.  Long wales, purple-red
and swollen, traversed the brown skin in every direction, forming
perfect network.  Here they were traceable by the darker colour of the
extravasatod blood, while there the flesh itself lay bare, where it had
been exposed to some prominent fold of the spirally-twisted cowskin.
The old shirt itself was stained with black blotches that had once been
red--the blood that had oozed out during the infliction!  The sight
sickened me, and called forth the involuntary utterance--

"Poor fellow!"

This expression of sympathy evidently touched the rude heart of the
Bambarra.

"Ah, mass'!" he continued, "you flog me with hoss-whip--dat nuff'n!
Gabr'l bress you for dat.  He pump water on ole Zip _'gainst him will_--
glad when young mass' druv im way from de pump."

"Ha! you were forced to it, then?"

"Ye, mass', forced by da Yankee driber.  Try make me do so odder time.
I 'fuse punish Zip odder time--dat's why you see dis yeer--dam!"

"You were flogged for refusing to punish Scipio?"

"Jes so, mass' Edwad; 'bused, as you see; but--" here the speaker
hesitated, while his face resumed its fierce expression; "but,"
continued he, "I'se had rebenge on de Yankee--dam!"

"What?--revenge?  What have you done to him?"

"Oh, not much, mass'.  Knock im down; he drop like a beef to de axe.
Dat's some rebenge to poor nigga.  Beside, I'se a runaway, _an' dat's
rebenge_!  Ha! ha!  Dey lose good nigga--good hand in de cotton-feel--
good hand among de cane.  Ha! ha!"

The hoarse laugh with which the "runaway" expressed his satisfaction
sounded strangely on my ear.

"And you have run away from the plantation?"

"Jes so, mass' Edward--nebber go back."  After a pause, he added, with
increased emphasis, "_Nebber go back 'live_!"

As he uttered these words he raised his hand to his broad chest, at the
same time throwing his body into an attitude of earnest determination.

I saw at once that I had mistaken the character of this man.  I had had
it from his enemies, the whites, who feared him.  With all the ferocity
of expression that characterised his features, there was evidently
something noble in his heart.  He had been flogged for refusing to flog
a fellow-slave.  He had resented the punishment, and struck down his
brutal oppressor.  By so doing he had risked a far more terrible
punishment--even life itself!

It required courage to do all this.  A spirit of liberty alone could
have inspired him with that courage--the same spirit which impelled the
Swiss patriot to strike down the cap of Gessler.

As the <DW64> stood with his thick muscular fingers spread over his
brawny chest, with form erect, with head thrown back, and eyes fixed in
stern resolve, I was impressed with an air of grandeur about him, and
could not help thinking that in the black form before me, scantily clad
in coarse cotton, there was the soul and spirit of a man!



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

THE SNAKE-DOCTOR.

With admiring eyes I looked for some moments on this bold black man--
this slave-hero.  I might have gazed longer, but the burning sensation
in my arm reminded me of my perilous situation.

"You will guide me to Bringiers?" was my hurried interrogatory.

"Daren't, mass'."

"Daren't!  Why?"

"Mass' forgot I'se a runaway.  White folk cotch Gabr'l--cut off him
arm."

"What?  Cut off your arm?"

"Saten sure, mass'--dats da law of Loozyaney.  White man strike nigga,
folk laugh, folk cry out, `Lap de dam nigga! lap him!'  Nigga strike
white man, cut off nigga's arm.  Like berry much to 'bleege mass' Edwad,
but daren't go to de clearins.  White men after Gabr'l last two days.
Cuss'd blood-dogs and nigga-hunters out on im track.  Thought young
mass' war one o' dem folks; dat's why um run."

"If you do not guide me, then I must die."

"Die!--die! why for mass' say dat?"

"Because I am lost.  I cannot find my way out of the forest.  If I do
not reach the doctor in less than twenty minutes, there is no hope.  O
God!"

"Doctor!--mass' Edwad sick?  What ail um?  Tell Gabr'l.  If dat's da
case, him guide de brack man's friend at risk ob life.  What young mass'
ail?"

"See!  I have been bitten by a rattlesnake."

I bared my arm, and showed the wound and the swelling.

"Ho! dat indeed! sure 'nuff--it are da bite ob de rattlesnake.  Doctor
no good for dat.  Tobacc'-juice no good.  Gabr'l best doctor for de
rattlesnake.  Come 'long, young mass'!"

"What! you are going to guide me, then?"

"I'se a gwine to _cure_ you, mass'."

"You?"

"Ye, mass'! tell you doctor no good--know nuffin' 't all 'bout it--he
kill you--truss Ole Gabe--he cure you.  Come 'long, mass', no time t' be
loss."

I had for the moment forgotten the peculiar reputation which the black
enjoyed--that of a snake-charmer and snake-doctor as well, although I
had so late been thinking of it.  The remembrance of this fact now
returned, accompanied by a very different train of reflections.

"No doubt," thought I, "he possesses the requisite knowledge--knows the
antidote, and how to apply it.  No doubt he is the very man.  The
doctor, as he says, may not understand how to treat me."

I had no very great confidence that the doctor could cure me.  I was
only running to him as a sort of _dernier ressort_.

"This Gabriel--this snake-charmer, is the very man.  How fortunate I
should have met with him!"

After a moment's hesitation--during the time these reflections were
passing through my mind--I called out to the black--

"Lead on!  I follow you!"

Whither did he intend to guide me?  What was he going to do?  Where was
_he_ to find an antidote?  How was he to cure me?

To these questions, hurriedly put, I received no reply.

"You truss me, mass' Edward; you foller me!" were all the words the
black would utter as he strode off among the trees.

I had no choice but to follow him.

After proceeding several hundred yards through the cypress swamp, I saw
some spots of sky in front of us.  This indicated an opening in the
woods, and for that I saw my guide was heading.  I was not surprised on
reaching this opening to find that it was the glade--again the fatal
glade!

To my eyes how changed its aspect!  I could not bear the bright sun that
gleamed into it.  The sheen of its flowers wearied my sight--their
perfume made me sick!

Maybe I only fancied this.  I was sick, but from a very different cause.
The poison was mingling with my blood.  It was setting my veins on
fire.  I was tortured by a choking sensation of thirst, and already felt
that spasmodic compression of the chest, and difficulty of breathing--
the well-known symptoms experienced by the victims of snake-poison.

It may be that I only fancied most of this.  I knew that a venomous
serpent had bitten me; and that knowledge may have excited my
imagination to an extreme susceptibility.  Whether the symptoms did in
reality exist, I suffered them all the same.  My fancy had all the
painfulness of reality!

My companion directed me to be seated.  Moving about, he said, was not
good.  He desired me to be calm and patient, once more begging me to
"truss Gabr'l."

I resolved to be quiet, though patient I could not be.  My peril was too
great.

Physically I obeyed him.  I sat down upon a log--that same log of the
liriodendron--and under the shade of a spreading dogwood-tree.  With all
the patience I could command, I sat awaiting the orders of the
snake-doctor.  He had gone off a little way, and was now wandering
around the glade with eyes bent upon the ground.  He appeared to be
searching for something.

"Some plant," thought I, "he expects to find growing there."

I watched his movements with more than ordinary interest.  I need hardly
have said this.  It would have been sufficient to say that I felt my
life depended on the result of his search.  His success or his failure
were life or death to me.

How my heart leaped when I saw him bend forward, and then stoop still
lower, as if clutching something upon the ground!  An exclamation of joy
that escaped his lips was echoed in a louder key from my own; and,
forgetting his directions to remain quiet, I sprang up from the log, and
ran towards him.

As I approached he was upon his knees, and with his knife-blade was
digging around a plant, as if to raise it by the roots.  It was a small
herbaceous plant, with erect simple stem, oblong lanceolate leaves, and
a terminal spike of not very conspicuous white flowers.  Though I knew
it not then, it was the famed "snake-root" (_Polygala senega_).

In a few moments he had removed the earth, and then, drawing out the
plant, shook its roots free of the mould.  I noticed that a mass of
woody contorted rhizomes, somewhat thicker than those of the
sarsaparilla briar, adhered to the stem.  They were covered with
ash- bark, and quite inodorous.  Amid the fibres of these roots
lay the antidote to the snake-poison--in their sap was the saviour of my
rife!

Not a moment was lost in preparing them.  There were no hieroglyphics
nor Latinic phraseology employed in the prescription of the
snake-charmer.  It was comprised in the phrase, "_Chaw it_!" and, along
with this simple direction, a piece of the root scraped clear of the
bark was put into my hand.  I did as I was desired, and in a moment I
had reduced the root to a pulp, and was swallowing its sanitary juices.

The taste was at first rather sweetish, and engendered a slight feeling
of nausea; but, as I continued to chew, it became hot and pungent,
producing a peculiar tingling sensation in the fauces and throat.

The black now ran to the nearest brook, filled one of his "brogans" with
water, and, returning, washed my wrist until the tobacco juice was all
removed from the wound.  Having himself chewed a number of the leaves of
the plant into a pulpy mass, he placed it directly upon the bitten part,
and then bound up the wound as before.

Everything was now done that could be done.  I was instructed to abide
the result patiently and without fear.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

In a very short time a profuse perspiration broke out over my whole
body, and I began to expectorate freely.  I felt, moreover, a strong
inclination to vomit--which I should have done had I swallowed any more
of the juice, for, taken in large doses, the seneca root is a powerful
emetic.

But of the feelings I experienced at that moment, the most agreeable was
the belief that _I was cured_!

Strange to say, this belief almost at once impressed my mind with the
force of a conviction.  I no longer doubted the skill of the
snake-doctor.



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

CHARMING THE CROTALUS.

I was destined to witness still further proofs of the wonderful
capabilities of my new acquaintance.

I felt the natural joy of one whose life has been, saved from
destruction--singularly, almost miraculously saved.  Like one who has
escaped from drowning, from the field of slaughter, from the very jaws
of death.  The reaction was delightful.  I felt gratitude, too, for him
who had saved me.  I could have embraced my sable companion, black and
fierce as he was, like a brother.

We sat side by side upon the log, and chatted gaily;--gaily as men may
whose future is dark and unsettled.  Alas! it was so with both of us.
Mine had been dark for days past; and his--what was his, poor helot?

But even in the gloom of sadness the mind has its moments of joy.
Nature has not allowed that grief may be continuous, and at intervals
the spirit must soar above its sorrows.  Such an interval was upon me
then.  Joy and gratitude were in my heart.  I had grown fond of this
slave,--this runaway slave,--and was for the moment happy in his
companionship.

It was natural our conversation should be of snakes and snake-roots, and
many a strange fact he imparted to me relating to reptile life.  A
herpetologist might have envied me the hour I spent upon that log in the
company of Gabriel the Bambarra.

In the midst of our conversation my companion abruptly asked the
question, whether I had killed the snake that had bitten me.

"No," I replied.  "It escaped."

"'Scaped, mass'! whar did um go?"

"It took shelter in a hollow log,--the very one on which we are seated."

The eyes of the <DW64> sparkled with delight.

"Dam!" exclaimed he, starting to his feet; "mass' say snake in dis yeer
log?  Dam!" he repeated, "if do varmint yeer in dis log, Gabr'l soon
fetch 'im out."

"What! you have no axe?"

"Dis nigga axe no want for dat."

"How, then, can you get at the snake?  Do you intend to set fire to the
log?"

"Ho! fire no good.  Dat log burn whole month.  Fire no good: smoke white
men see,--b'lieve 'im runaway,--den come de blood-dogs.  Dis nigga
daren't make no fire."

"How, then?"

"Wait a bit, mass' Edwad, you see.  Dis nigga fetch de rattlesnake right
out ob 'im boots.  Please, young mass', keep still; don't speak 'bove de
breff: ole varmint, he hear ebbery word."

The black now talked in whispers, as he glided stealthily around the
log.  I followed his directions, and remained perfectly "still,"
watching every movement of my singular companion.

Some young reeds of the American bamboo (_Arundo gigantea_) were growing
near.  A number of these he cut down with his knife; and then,
sharpening their lower ends, stuck them into the ground, near the end of
the log.  He arranged the reeds in such a manner that they stood side by
side, like the strings of a harp, only closer together.  He next chose a
small sapling from the thicket, and trimmed it so that nothing remained
but a straight wand with a forked end.  With this in one hand, and a
piece of split cane in the other, he placed himself flat along the log,
in such a position that his face was directly over the entrance to the
cavity.  He was also close to the row of canes, so that with his
outstretched hand he could conveniently reach them.  His arrangements
were now completed, and the "charm" commenced.

Laying aside the forked sapling ready to his hand, he took the piece of
split reed, and drew it backward and forward across the row of upright
canes.  This produced a sound which was an exact imitation of the
"skerr" of the rattlesnake; go like, that a person hearing it, without
knowing what caused it, would undoubtedly have mistaken it for the
latter; so like, that the black knew the reptile itself would be
deceived by it!  He did not, however, trust to this alone to allure his
victim.  Aided by an instrument which he had hastily constructed out of
the lanceolate leaves of the cane, he at the same time imitated the
scream and chatter of the red cardinal (_Loxia cardinalis_), just as
when that bird is engaged in battle, either with a serpent, an opossum,
or some other of its habitual enemies.

The sounds produced were exactly similar to those often heard in the
depths of the American forest, when the dread _crotalus_ plunders the
nest of the Virginian nightingale.

The stratagem proved successful.  In a few moments the lozenge-shaped
head of the reptile appeared outside the cavity.  Its forking tongue was
protruded at short intervals, and its small dark eyes glittered with
rage.  Its rattle could be heard, announcing its determination to take
part in the fray--which it supposed was going on outside.

It had glided out nearly the full length of its body, and seemed to have
discovered the deception, for it was turning round to retreat.  But the
_crotalus_ is one of the most sluggish of snakes; and, before it could
get back within the log, the forked sapling descended upon its neck, and
pinned it fast to the ground!

Its body now writhed over the grass in helpless contortions--a
formidable creature to behold.  It was a snake of the largest size for
its species, being nearly eight feet in length, and as thick as the
wrist of the Bambarra himself.  Even he was astonished at its
proportions; and assured me it was the largest of its kind he had ever
encountered.

I expected to see the black put an end to its struggles at once by
killing it; and I essayed to help him with my gun.

"No, mass'," cried he, in a tone of entreaty, "for luv ob de Ormighty!
don't fire de gun.  Mass' forget dat dis poor nigga am runaway."

I understood his meaning, and lowered the piece.

"B'side," continued he, "I'se got somethin' show mass' yet--he like see
curious thing--he like see de big snake trick?"

I replied in the affirmative.

"Well, den, please, mass', hold dis stick.  I for something go.  Jes now
berry curious plant I see--berry curious--berry scace dat plant.  I seed
it in de cane-brake.  Catch 'old, mass', while I go get um."

I took hold of the sapling, and held it as desired, though not without
some apprehension of the hideous reptile that curled and writhed at my
feet.  I had no need to fear, however.  The fork was exactly across the
small of the creature's neck, and it could not raise its head to strike
me.  Large as it was, there was no danger from anything but its fangs;
for the _crotalus_, unlike serpents of the genus _constrictor_,
possesses but a very feeble power of compression.

Gabriel had gone off among the bushes, and in a few minutes I saw him
returning.  He carried in his hand a plant which, as before, he had
pulled up by the roots.  Like the former, it was a herbaceous plant, but
of a very different appearance.  The leaves of this one were
heart-shaped and acuminate, its stem sinuous, and its flowers of a dark
purple colour.

As the black approached, I saw that he was chewing some parts both of
the leaves and root.  What did he mean to do?

I was not left long in suspense.  As soon as he had arrived upon the
ground, he stooped down, and spat a quantity of the juice over the head
of the snake.  Then, taking the sapling out of my hand, he plucked it up
and flung it away.

To my dismay, the snake was now set free; and I lost no time in
springing backward, and mounting upon the log.

Not so my companion, who once more stooped down, caught hold of the
hideous reptile, fearlessly raised it from the ground, and flung it
around his neck as coolly as if it had been a piece of rope!

The snake made no effort to bite him.  Neither did it seem desirous of
escaping from his grasp.  It appeared rather to be stupefied, and
without the power of doing injury!

After playing with it for some moments, the Bambarra threw it back to
the ground.  Even there it made no effort to escape!

The charmer now turned to me, and said, in a tone of triumph, "Now,
mass' Edward, you shall hab rebenge.  Look at dis!"

As he spoke he pressed his thumb against the fauces of the serpent,
until its mouth stood wide open.  I could plainly see its terrible fangs
and poison glands.  Then, holding its head close up to his lips, he
injected the dark saliva into its throat, and once more flung it to the
ground.  Up to this time he had used no violence--nothing that would
have killed a creature so retentive of life as a snake; and I still
expected to see the reptile make its escape.  Not so, however.  It made
no effort to move from the spot, but lay stretched out in loose
irregular folds, without any perceptible motion beyond a slight
quivering of the body.  In less than two minutes after, this motion
ceased and the snake had all the appearance of being dead!

"It am dead, mass'," replied the black to my inquiring glance, "dead as
Julium Caesar."

"And what is this plant, Gabriel?"

"Ah, dat is a great yerb, mass'; dat is a scace plant--a berry scace
plant.  Eat some ob dat--no snake bite you, as you jes seed.  Dat is de
plant ob de _snake-charmer_."

The botanical knowledge of my sable companion went no farther.  In after
years, however, I was enabled to classify his "charm," which was no
other than the _Aristolochia serpentaria_--a species closely allied to
the "bejuco de guaco," that alexipharmic rendered so celebrated by the
pens of Mutis and Humboldt.

My companion now desired me to chew some of the roots; for though he had
every confidence in the other remedy, he deemed it no harm to make
assurance doubly sure.  He extolled the virtues of the new-found plant,
and told me he should have administered it instead of the seneca root,
but he had despaired of finding it--as it was of much more rare
occurrence in that part of the country.

I eagerly complied with his request, and swallowed some of the juice.
Like the seneca root, it tasted hot and pungent, with something of the
flavour of spirits of camphor.  But the polygala is quite inodorous,
while the guaco gives forth a strong aromatic smell, resembling
valerian.

I had already experienced relief--this would have given it to me almost
instantaneously.  In a very short time time the swelling completely
subsided; and had it not been for the binding around my wrist, I should
have forgotten that I had been wounded.



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

KILLING A TRAIL.

An hour or more we had spent since entering the glade--now no longer
terrible.  Once more its flowers looked bright, and their perfume had
recovered its sweetness.  Once more the singing of the birds and the hum
of the insect-world fell soothingly upon my ears; and there, as before,
sat the pretty doves, still repeating their soft "co-co-a"--the
endearing expression of their loves.

I could have lingered long in the midst of this fair scene--long have
enjoyed its sylvan beauty; but the intellectual must over yield to the
physical.  I felt sensations of hunger, and soon the appetite began to
distress me.  Where was I to obtain relief from this pain--where obtain
food?  I could not ask my companion to guide me to the plantations, now
that I knew the risk he would run in so doing.  I knew that it really
was as he had stated--_the loss of an arm, perhaps of life, should he be
caught_.  There was but little hope of mercy for him--the less so as he
had no master with power to protect him, and who might be _interested_
in his not being thus crippled!

By approaching the open country on the edge of the clearings, he would
not only run the hazard of being seen, but, what he feared still more,
being _tracked by hounds_!  This mode of searching for "runaways" was
not uncommon, and there were even white men base enough to follow it as
a calling!  So learnt I from my companion.  His information was
afterwards confirmed _by my own experience_!

I was hungry--what was to be done?  I could not find my way alone.  I
might again get lost, and have to spend the night in the swamp.  What
had I best do?

I appealed to my companion.  He had been silent for some time--busy with
his thoughts.  They were running on the same subject as my own.  The
brave fellow had not forgotten me.

"Jes what dis nigga am thinkin' 'bout," replied he.  "Well, mass'," he
continued, "when sun go down, den I guide you safe--no fear den.  Gabr'l
take you close to de Lebee road.  Mass' must wait till sun go down."

"But--"

"Mass' hungry?" inquired he, interrupting me.

I assented.

"Jes thot so.  Dar's nuffin' yeer to eat 'cept dis ole snake.  Mass' no
care to eat snake: dis nigga eat 'im.  Cook 'im at night, when smoke ob
de fire not seen ober de woods.  Got place to cook 'im, mass' see.
Gabr'l truss mass' Edwad.  He take him to caboose ob de runaway."

He had already cut off the head of the reptile while he was talking; and
having pinned neck and tail together with a sharp stick, he lifted the
glittering body, and flinging it over his shoulders, stood ready to
depart.

"Come, now, mass'," continued he, "come 'long wi' Ole Gabe; he find you
somethin' to eat."

So saying, he turned round and walked off into the bushes.

I took up my gun and followed.  I could not do better.  To have
attempted to find my own way back to the clearings might again have
resulted in failure, since I had twice failed.  I had nothing to hurry
me back.  It would be quite as well if I returned to the village after
night--the more prudent course, in fact--as then my mud-bedaubed and
blood-stained habiliments would be less likely to attract attention; and
this I desired to avoid.  I was contented, therefore, to follow the
runaway to his "lair," and share it with him till after sunset.

For some hundred yards he led on in silence.  His eyes wandered around
the forest, as though he was seeking for something.  They were not
directed upon the ground, but upward to the trees; and, therefore, I
know it was not the path he was in search of.

A slight exclamation escaped him, and, suddenly turning in his tracks,
he struck off in a direction different to that we had been following.  I
walked after; and now saw that he had halted by a tall tree, and was
looking up among its branches.

The tree was the frankincense, or loblolly pine (_Pinus toeda_).  That
much of botany I knew.  I could tell the species by the large spinous
cones and light-green needles.  Why had he stopped there?

"Mass' Edwad soon see," he said, in answer to my interrogatory.
"Please, mass'," he continued, "hold de snake a bit--don't let um touch
de groun'--dam dogs dey smell um!"

I relieved him of his burden; and, holding it as he desired, stood
watching him in silence.

The loblolly pine grows with a straight, naked shaft and pyramidal head,
often without branches, to the height of fifty feet.  In this case,
however, several fronds stood out from the trunk, at less than twenty
feet from the ground.  These were loaded with large green cones, full
five inches in length; and it appeared to be these that my companion
desired to obtain--though for what purpose I had not the remotest idea.

After a while he procured a long pole; and with the end of this knocked
down several of the cones, along with pieces of the branchlets to which
they adhered.

As soon as he believed he had a sufficient quantity for his purpose, he
desisted, and flung the pole away.

What next?  I watched with increasing interest.

He now gathered up both the cones and the adhering spray; but to my
surprise he flung the former away.  It was not the cones, then, he
wanted, but the young shoots that grew on the very tops of the branches.
These were of a brownish-red colour, and thickly coated with resin--for
the _Pinus taeda_ is more resinous than any tree of its kind--emitting a
strong aromatic odour, which has given to it one of its trivial names.

Having collected the shoots until he had both hands full, my guide now
bent down, and rubbed the resin over both the soles and upper surface of
his coarse brogans.  He then advanced to where I stood, stooped down
again, and treated my boots to a similar polishing!

"Now, mass', all right--de dam, blood-dogs no scent Ole Gabe now--dat
_hill de trail_.  Come, mass' Edwad, come 'long."

Saying this, he again shouldered the snake and started off, leaving me
to follow in his tracks.



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

THE PIROGUE.

We soon after entered the _cypriere_.  There the surface was mostly
without underwood.  The black taxodiums, standing thickly, usurped the
ground, their umbellated crowns covered with hoary epiphytes, whose
pendulous drapery shut out the sun, that would otherwise have nourished
on that rich soil a luxuriant herbaceous vegetation.  But we were now
within the limits of the annual inundation; and but few plants can
thrive there.

After a while I could see we were approaching a stagnant water.  There
was no perceptible descent, but the dank damp odour of the swamp, the
noise of the piping frogs, the occasional scream of some wading bird, or
the bellowing of the alligator, admonished me that some constant water--
some lake or pond--was near.

We were soon upon its margin.  It was a large pond, though only a small
portion of it came under the eye; for, as far as I could see, the
cypress-trees grew up out of the water, their huge buttresses spreading
out so as almost to touch each other!  Here and there the black "knees"
protruded above the surface, their fantastic shapes suggesting the idea
of horrid water-demons, and lending a supernatural character to the
scene.  Thus canopied over, the water looked black as ink, and the
atmosphere felt heavy and oppressive.  The picture was one from which
Dante might have drawn ideas for his "Inferno."

On arriving near this gloomy pond, my guide came to a stop.  A huge tree
that had once stood near the edge had fallen, and in such a position
that its top extended far out into the water.  Its branches were yet
undecayed, and the parasites still clung to them in thick tufts, giving
the whole the appearance of a mass of hay loosely thrown together.  Part
of this was under water, but a still larger portion remained above the
surface, high and dry.  It was at the root of this fallen tree that my
guide had halted.

He remained but a moment, waiting only till I came up.

As soon as I had reached the spot, he mounted upon the trunk; and,
beckoning me to follow him, walked along the log in the direction of its
top.  I climbed up, and balancing myself as well as I could, followed
him out into the water.

On reaching the head of the tree, we entered among the thick limbs; and,
winding around these, kept still farther towards the top branches.  I
expected that there we should reach our resting-place.

At length my companion came to a stop, and I now saw, to my
astonishment, a small "pirogue" resting upon the water, and hidden under
the moss!  So completely was it concealed, that it was not possible to
have seen it from any point except that where we now stood.

"This, then," thought I, "is the object for which we have crawled out
upon the tree."

The sight of the pirogue led me to conjecture that we had farther to go.
The black now loosed the canoe from its moorings, and beckoned me to
get in.

I stepped into the frail craft and sat down.  My companion followed,
and, laying hold of the branches, impelled the vessel outward till it
was clear of the tops of the tree.  Then, seizing the paddle, under its
repeated strokes we passed silently over the gloomy surface of the
water.

For the first two or three hundred yards our progress was but slow.  The
cypress knees, and huge "buttocks" of the trees, stood thickly in the
way, and it was necessary to observe some caution in working the pirogue
through among them.  But I saw that my companion well understood the
_manege_ of his craft, and wielded a "paddle" with the skill of a
Chippewa.  He had the reputation of being a great "'<DW53>-hunter" and
"bayou fisherman;" and in these pursuits no doubt he had picked up his
canoe-craft.

It was the most singular voyage I had ever made.  The pirogue floated in
an element that more resembled ink than water.  Not a ray of sun glanced
across our path.  The darkness of twilight was above and around us.

We glided along shadowy aisles, and amidst huge black trunks that rose
like columns supporting a canopy of close-woven fronds.  From this
vegetable root hung the mournful _bromelia_, sometimes drooping down to
the very surface of the water, so as to sweep our faces and shoulders as
we passed under it.

We were not the only living things.  Even this hideous place had its
denizens.  It was the haunt and secure abode of the great _saurian_,
whose horrid form could be distinguished in the gloom, now crawling
along some prostrate trunk, now half mounted upon the protruding knees
of the cypresses, or swimming with slow and stealthy stroke through the
black liquid.  Huge water-snakes could be seen, causing a tiny ripple as
they passed from tree to tree, or lying coiled upon the projecting
buttocks.  The swamp-owl hovered on silent wing, and large brown bats
pursued their insect prey.  Sometimes these came near, fluttering in our
very faces, so that we could perceive the mephitic odour of their
bodies, while their horny jaws gave forth a noise like the clinking of
castanets.

The novelty of the scene interested me; but I could not help being
impressed with a slight feeling of awe.  Classic memories, too, stirred
within me.  The fancies of the Roman poet were here realised.  I was
upon the Styx, and in my rower I recognised the redoubtable Charon.

Suddenly a light broke through the gloom.  A few more strokes of the
paddle, and the pirogue shot out into the bright sunlight.  What a
relief!

I now beheld a space of open water,--a sort of circular lake.  It was in
reality the lake, for what we had been passing over was but the
inundation; and at certain seasons this portion covered with forest
became almost dry.  The open water, on the contrary, was constant, and
too deep even for the swamp-loving cypress to grow in it.

The space thus clear of timber was not of very large extent,--a surface
of half-a-mile or so.  On all sides it was enclosed by the moss-draped
forest that rose around it, like a grey wall; and in the very centre
grew a clump of the same character, that in the distance appeared to be
an island.

This solitary tarn was far from being silent.  On the contrary, it was a
scene of stirring life.  It seemed the rendezvous for the many species
of wild winged creatures that people the great _marais_ of Louisiana.
There were the egrets, the ibises--both white and scarlet--the various
species of _Ardeidae_, the cranes, and the red flamingoes.  There, too,
was the singular and rare darter, swimming with body immersed, and
snake-like head just appearing above the water; and there were the white
unwieldy forms of the tyrant pelicans standing on the watch for their
finny prey.  Swimming birds speckled the surface; various species of
_Anatidae_--swans, geese, and ducks,--while the air was filled with
flights of gulls and curlews, or was cut by the strong whistling wings
of the mallards.

Other than waterfowl had chosen this secluded spot for their favourite
dwelling-place.  The osprey could be seen wheeling about in the air, now
shooting down like a star upon the unfortunate fish that had approached
too near the surface, and anon yielding up his prey to the tyrant
_Haliaetus_.  Such were the varied forms of feathered creatures that
presented themselves to my eye on entering this lonely lake of the
woods.

I looked with interest upon the scene.  It was a true scene of nature,
and made a vivid impression upon me at the moment.  Not so with my
companion, to whom it was neither novel nor interesting.  It was an old
picture to his eyes, and he saw it from a different point of view.  He
did not stay to look at it, but, lightly dipping his paddle, pressed the
pirogue on in the direction of the island.

A few strokes carried us across the open water, and the canoe once more
entered under the shadow of trees.  But to my surprise, _there was no
island_!  What I had taken for an island was but a single cypress-tree,
that grew upon a spot where the lake was shallow.  Its branches
extending on every side were loaded with the hoary parasites that
drooped down to the very surface of the water, and shadowed a space of
half an acre in extent.  Its trunk rested upon a base of enormous
dimensions.  Huge buttresses flanked it on every side, slanting out into
the water and rising along its stem to a height of many yards, the whole
mass appearing as large as an ordinary cabin.  Its sides were indented
with deep bays; and, as we approached under the screen, I could perceive
a dark cavity which showed that this singular "buttock" was hollow
within.

The bow of the pirogue was directed into one of the bays, and soon
struck against the tree.  I saw several steps cut into the wood, and
leading to the cavity above.  My companion pointed to these steps.  The
screaming of the startled birds prevented me from hearing what he said,
but I saw that it was a sign for me to mount upward.  I hastened to obey
his direction; and, climbing out of the canoe, sprawled up the sloping
ridge.

At the top was the entrance, just large enough to admit the body of a
man; and, pressing through this, I stood inside the hollow tree.

We had reached our destination--I was in the _lair of the runaway_!



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

THE TREE-CAVERN.

The interior was dark, and it was some time before I could distinguish
any object.  Presently my eyes became accustomed to the sombre light,
and I was enabled to trace the outlines of this singular tree-cavern.

Its dimensions somewhat astonished me.  A dozen men could have been
accommodated in it, and there was ample room for that number either
sitting or standing.  In fact, the whole pyramidal mass which supported
the tree was nothing more than a thin shell, all the heart having
perished by decay.  The floor, by the falling of this _debris_ of rotten
wood, was raised above the level of the water, and felt firm and dry
underfoot.  Near its centre I could perceive the ashes and half-burnt
embers of an extinct fire; and along one side was strewed a thick
covering of dry _tillandsia_, that had evidently been used as a bed.  An
old blanket lying upon the moss gave further testimony that this was its
purpose.

There was no furniture.  A rude block,--a cypress knee that had been
carried there--formed, the only substitute for a chair, and there was
nothing to serve for a table.  He who had made this singular cave his
residence required no luxuries to sustain him.  Necessaries, however, he
had provided.  As my eyes grew more accustomed to the light, I could
make out a number of objects I had not at first seen.  An earthen
cooking-pot, a large water gourd, a tin cup, an old axe, some
fishing-tackle, and one or two coarse rags of clothing.  What interested
me more than all these was the sight of several articles that were
_eatable_.  There was a good-sized "chunk" of cooked pork, a gigantic
"pone" of corn-bread, several boiled ears of maize, and the better half
of a roast fowl.  All these lay together upon a large wooden dish,
rudely carved from the wood of the tulip-tree--of such a fashion as I
had often observed about the cabins of the <DW64> quarter.  Beside this
dish lay several immense egg-shaped bodies of dark-green colour, with
other smaller ones of a yellow hue.  These were water and musk melons,--
not a bad prospect for a dessert.

I had made this reconnoissance while my companion was engaged in
fastening his pirogue to the tree.  I had finished my survey as he
entered.

"Now, mass'," said he, "dis am ole Gabe's nest; de dam man-hunter no
found 'im yeer."

"Why, you are quite at home here, Gabriel!  How did you ever find such a
place?"

"Lor', mass', knowd it long time.  He not de fust darkie who hid in dis
old cypress,--nor de fust time for Gabr'l neider.  He runaway afore,--
dat war when he libbed with Mass' Hicks, 'fore ole mass' bought him.  He
nebber had 'casion to run away from old Mass 'Sancon.  He good to de
brack folks, and so war Mass Antoine--he good too, but now de poor nigga
can't stan no longer; de new oberseer, he flog hard,--he flog till do
blood come,--he use de cobbin board, an dat pump, an de red cowhide, an
de wagon whip,--ebberything he use,--dam!  I nebber go back,--nebber!"

"But how do you intend to live? you can't always exist in this way.
Where will you get your provisions?"

"Nebber fear, mass' Edwad, always get nuff to eat; no fear for dat.  Da
poor runaway hab some friend on de plantations.  Beside he steal nuff to
keep 'im 'live--hya! hya!"

"Oh!"

"Gabr'l no need steal now, 'ceptin' de roasting yeers and de millyuns.
See! what Zip fetch im!  Zip come las night to de edge ob de woods an'
fetch all dat plunder.  But, mass', you 'skoose me.  Forgot you am
hungry.  Hab some pork some chicken.  Chloe cook 'em--is good--you eat."

So saying he set the wooden platter with its contents before me; and the
conversation was now interrupted, as both myself and my companion
attacked the viands with right good-will.

The "millyuns" constituted a delicious dessert, and for a full half-hour
we continued to fight against the appetite of hunger.  We conquered it
at length, but not until the store of the runaway had been greatly
reduced in bulk.

After dinner we sat conversing for a long time.  We were not without the
soothing nicotian weed.  My companion had several bunches of dry
tobacco-leaf among his stores; and a corn-cob with a piece of cane-joint
served for a pipe, through which the smoke was inhaled with all the
aromatic fragrance of the costliest Havanna.

Partly from gratitude for the saving of my life, I had grown to feel a
strong interest in the runaway, and his future prospects became the
subject of our converse.  He had formed no plan of escape--though some
thoughts of an attempt to reach Canada or Mexico, or to get off in a
ship by New Orleans, had passed through his mind.

A plan occurred to me, though I did not communicate it to him, as I
might never be able to carry it out.  I begged of him, however, not to
leave his present abode until I could see him again, promising that I
should do what I could to find him a kinder master.

He readily agreed to my proposal; and as it was now sunset, I made
preparations for my departure from the lake.

A signal was agreed upon, so that when I should return to visit him, he
could bring the pirogue to ferry me across; and this being arranged, we
once more entered the canoe, and set out for the plantations.

We soon recrossed the lake; and, leaving the little boat safely moored
by the fallen tree, started off through the woods.  The path, with
Gabriel for my guide, was now easy; and at intervals, as we went along,
he directed my attention to certain blazes upon the trees, and other
marks by which I should know it again.

In less than an hour after, we parted on the edge of the clearings--he
going to some rendezvous already appointed--whilst I kept on to the
village, the road to which now ran between parallel fences that rendered
it impossible for me to go astray.



CHAPTER FORTY.

HOTEL GOSSIP.

It was yet early when I entered the village.  I glided stealthily
through the streets, desirous to avoid observation.  Unfortunately I had
to pass through the bar of the hotel in order to reach my room.  It was
just before the hour of supper, and the guests had assembled in the bar
saloon and around the porch.

My tattered habiliments, in places stained with blood, and profusely
soiled with mud, could not escape notice; nor did they.  Men turned and
gazed after me.  Loiterers looked with eyes that expressed their
astonishment.  Some in the portico, and others in the bar, hailed me as
I passed, asking me where I had been to.  One cried out: "Hillow,
mister! you've had a tussle with the cats: hain't you?"

I did not make reply.  I pushed on up-stairs, and found relief in the
privacy of my chamber.

I had been badly torn by the bushes.  My wounds needed dressing.  I
despatched a messenger for Reigart.  Fortunately he was at home, and in
a few minutes followed my messenger to the hotel.  He entered my room,
and stood staring at me with a look of surprise.

"My dear R--, where have you been?" he inquired at length.

"To the swamp."

"And those wounds--your clothes torn--blood?"

"Thorn-scratches--that's all."

"But where have you been?"

"In the swamp."

"In the swamp! but how came you to get such a mauling?"

"I have been bitten by a rattlesnake."

"What! bitten by a rattlesnake?  Do you speak seriously?"

"Quite true it is--but I have taken the antidote.  I am cured."

"Antidote!  Cured!  And what cure? who gave you an antidote?"

"A friend whom I met in the swamp!"

"A friend in the swamp!" exclaimed Reigart, his astonishment increasing.

I had almost forgotten the necessity of keeping my secret.  I saw that I
had spoken imprudently.  Inquisitive eyes were peeping in at the door.
Ears were listening to catch every sound.

Although the inhabitant of the Mississippi is by no means of a curious
disposition--_malgre_ the statements of gossiping tourists--the
unexplained and forlorn appearance I presented on my return was enough
to excite a degree of interest even among the most apathetic people; and
a number of the guests of the hotel had gathered in the lobby around the
door of my chamber, and were eagerly asking each other what had happened
to me.  I could overhear their conversation, though they did not know
it.

"He's been fightin' a painter?" said one, interrogatively.

"A painter or a bar," answered another.

"'Twur some desprit varmint anyhow--it hez left its mark on him,--that
it hez."

"It's the same fellow that laid out Bully Bill: ain't it?"

"The same," replied some one.

"English, ain't he?"

"Don't know.  He's a Britisher, I believe.  English, Irish, or Scotch,
he's a hull team an' a cross dog under the wagon.  By God! he laid out
Bully Bill straight as a fence-rail, wi' nothin' but a bit o' a whup,
and then tuk Bill's pistols away from him!  Ha! ha! ha!"

"Jehosophat!"

"He's jest a feller to whip his weight in wild-cats.  He's killed the
catamount, I reckon."

"No doubt he's done that."

I had supposed that my encounter with Bully Bill had made me enemies
among his class.  It was evident from the tone and tenor of their
conversation that such was not the case.  Though, perhaps, a little
piqued that a stranger--a mere youth as I then was--should have
conquered one of their bullies, these backwoodsmen are not intensely
clannish, and Bully Bill was no favourite.  Had I "whipped" him on any
other grounds, I should have gained a positive popularity by the act.
But in defence of a slave--and I a foreigner--a Britisher, too--that was
a presumption not to be pardoned.  That was the drawback on my victory,
and henceforth I was likely to be a "marked man" in the neighbourhood.

These observations had served to amuse me while I was awaiting the
arrival of Reigart, though, up to a certain point, I took but little
interest in them.  A remark that now reached my ears, however, suddenly
changed the nature of my thoughts.  It was this:--

"_He's after Miss Besancon, they say_."

I was now interested.  I stepped to the door, and, placing my ear close
to the keyhole, listened.

"I guess he's arter _the plantation_," said another; and the remark was
followed by a significant laugh.

"Well, then," rejoined a voice, in a more solemn and emphatic tone,
"he's after what he won't get."

"How? how?" demanded several.

"He may get _thee_ lady, preehaps," continued the same voice, in the
same measured tones; "but not _thee_ plantation."

"How?  What do you mean, Mr Moxley?" again demanded the chorus of
voices.

"I mean what I say, gentlemen," replied the solemn speaker; and then
repeated again his former words in a like measured drawl.  "He may get
the lady, _pree_haps, but not _thee_ plantation."

"Oh! the report's true, then?" said another voice, interrogatively.
"Insolvent?  Eh?  Old Gayarre--"

"Owns _thee_ plantation."

"And <DW65>s?"

"Every skin o' them; the sheriff will take possession to-morrow."

A murmur of astonishment reached my ears.  It was mingled with
expressions of disapprobation or sympathy.

"Poor girl! it's a pity o' _her_!"

"Well, it's no wonder.  She made the money fly since the old 'un died."

"Some say he didn't leave so much after all.  'Twar most part mortgaged
before--"

The entrance of the doctor interrupted this conversation, and relieved
me for the moment from the torture which it was inflicting upon me.

"A friend in the swamp, did you say?" again interrogated Reigart.

I had hesitated to reply, thinking of the crowd by the door.  I said to
the doctor in a low earnest voice--

"My dear friend, I have met with an adventure; am badly scratched, as
you see.  Dress my wounds, but do not press me for details.  I have my
reasons for being silent.  You will one day learn all, but not now.
Therefore--"

"Enough, enough!" said the doctor, interrupting me; "do not be uneasy.
Let me look at your scratches."

The good doctor became silent, and proceeded to the dressing of my
wounds.

Under other circumstances the manipulation of my wounds, for they now
felt painful, might have caused me annoyance.  It did not then.  What I
had just heard had produced a feeling within that neutralised the
external pain, and I felt it not.

I was really in mental agony.

I burned with impatience to question Reigart about the affairs of the
plantation,--about Eugenie and Aurore.  I could not,--we were not alone.
The landlord of the hotel and a <DW64> attendant had entered the room,
and were assisting the doctor in his operations.  I could not trust
myself to speak on such a subject in their presence.  I was forced to
nurse my impatience until all was over, and both landlord and servant
had left us.

"Now, doctor, this news of Mademoiselle Besancon?"

"Do _you_ not know all?"

"Only what I have heard this moment from those gossips outside the
room."

I detailed to Reigart the remarks that had been made.

"Really I thought you must have been acquainted with the whole matter.
I had fancied that to be the cause of your long absence to-day; though I
did not even conjecture how you might be engaged in the matter."

"I know nothing more than what I have thus accidentally overheard.  For
heaven's sake tell me all!  Is it true?"

"Substantially true, I grieve to say."

"Poor Eugenie!"

"The estate was heavily mortgaged to Gayarre.  I have long suspected
this, and fear there has been some foul play.  Gayarre has foreclosed
the mortgage, and, indeed, it is said, is already in possession.
Everything is now his."

"Everything?"

"Everything upon the plantation."

"The slaves?"

"Certainly."

"All--all--and--and--Aurore?"

I hesitated as I put the interrogatory, Reigart had no knowledge of my
attachment to Aurore.

"The quadroon girl, you mean?--of course, she with the others.  She is
but a slave like the rest.  She will be sold."

"_But a slave! sold with the rest_!"

This reflection was not uttered aloud.

I cannot describe the tumult of my feelings as I listened.  The blood
was boiling within my veins, and I could scarce restrain myself from
some wild expression.  I strove to the utmost to hide my thoughts, but
scarce succeeded; for I noticed that the usually cold eye of Reigart was
kindled in surprise at my manner.  If he divined my secret he was
generous, for he asked no explanation.

"The slaves are all to be sold then?"  I faltered out.

"No doubt,--everything will be sold,--that is the law in such cases.  It
is likely Gayarre will buy in the whole estate, as the plantation lies
contiguous to his own."

"Gayarre! villain! oh!  And Mademoiselle Besancon, what will become of
her?  Has she no friends?"

"I have heard something of an aunt who has some, though not much,
property.  She lives in the city.  It is likely that Mademoiselle will
live with her in future.  I believe the aunt has no children of her own,
and Eugenie will inherit.  This, however, I cannot vouch for.  I know it
only as a rumour."

Reigart spoke these words in a cautious and reserved manner.  I noticed
something peculiar in the tone in which he uttered them; but I knew his
reason for being cautious.  He was under a mistaken impression as to the
feelings with which I regarded Eugenie!  I did not undeceive him.

"Poor Eugenie! a double sorrow,--no wonder at the change I had observed
of late,--no wonder she appeared sad!"

All this was but my own silent reflections.

"Doctor!" said I, elevating my voice; "I must go to the plantation."

"Not to-night!"

"To-night,--now!"

"My dear Mr E., you must not."

"Why?"

"It is impossible,--I cannot permit it,--you will have a fever; it may
cost you your life!"

"But--"

"I cannot hear you.  I assure you, you are now on the verge of a fever.
You must remain in your room--at least, until to-morrow.  Perhaps then
you may go out with safety.  Now it is impossible."

I was compelled to acquiesce, though I am not certain but that had I
taken my own way it would have been better for my "fever."  Within me
was a _cause of fever_ much stronger than any exposure to the night air.
My throbbing heart and wildly-coursing blood soon acted upon my brain.

"Aurore the slave of Gayarre!  Ha! ha! ha!  His slave!  Gayarre!
Aurore! ha! ha! ha!  Is it his throat I clutch? ha, no!  It is the
serpent! here--help--help!  Water! water!  I am choking.  No, Gayarre
is!  I have him now!  Again it is the serpent!  O God! it coils around
my throat--it strangles me!  Help!  Aurore! lovely Aurore! do not yield
to him!"

"I will die rather than yield!"

"I thought so, noble girl!  I come to release you!  How she struggles in
his grasp!  Fiend! off--off, fiend!  Aurore, you are free--free!  Angels
of heaven!"

Such was my dream,--the dream of a fevered brain.



CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

THE LETTER.

During all the night my sleep was broken at intervals, and the hours
divided between dreaming and half delirium.

I awoke in the morning not much refreshed with my night's rest.  I lay
for some time passing over in my mind the occurrences of yesterday, and
considering what course I should pursue.

After a time I determined upon going direct to the plantation, and
learning for myself how matters stood there.

I arose with this intention.  As I was dressing, my eye fell upon a
letter that lay upon the table.  It bore no postmark, but the writing
was in a female hand, and I guessed whence it came.

I tore open the seal, and read:--

"_Monsieur_!

"_To-day, by the laws of Louisiana, I am a woman,--and none more unhappy
in all the land.  The same sun that has risen upon the natal day of my
majority looks down upon the ruin of my fortune_!

"_It was my design to have made_ you _happy: to have proved that I am
not ungrateful.  Alas! it is no longer in my power.  I am, no more the
proprietor of the plantation Besancon_,--_no more the mistress of
Aurore!  All is gone from me, and Eugenie Besancon is now a beggar.  Ah,
Monsieur! it is a sad tale, and I know not what will be its end_.

"_Alas! there are griefs harder to hear than the loss of fortune.  That
may in time be repaired, but the anguish of unrequited love_,--_love
strong, and single, and pure, as mine is_,--_must long endure, perchance
for ever_!

"_Know, Monsieur, that in the bitter cup it is my destiny to drink,
there is not one drop of jealousy or reproach.  I alone have made the
misery that is my portion_.

"_Adieu, Monsieur! adieu, and farewell!  It is better we should never
meet again.  O be happy! no plaint of mine shall ever reach your ear, to
cloud the sunshine of your happiness.  Henceforth the walls of_ Sacre
Coeur _shall alone witness the sorrows of the unfortunate but grateful_.

"Eugenie."

The letter was dated the day before.  I knew that that was the birthday
of the writer; in common parlance, the day on which she was "of age."

"Poor Eugenie!" reflected I.  "Her happiness has ended with her
girlhood.  Poor Eugenie!"

The tears ran fast over my cheeks as I finished reading.  I swept them
hastily away, and ringing the bell I ordered my horse to be saddled.  I
hurried through with my toilet; the horse was soon brought to the door;
and, mounting him, I rode rapidly for the plantation.

Shortly after leaving the village, I passed two men, who were also on
horseback--going in the same direction as myself, but riding at a slower
pace than I.  They were dressed in the customary style of planters, and
a casual observer might have taken them for such.  There was something
about them, however, that led me to think they were not planters, nor
merchants, nor men whose calling relates to any of the ordinary
industries of life.  It was not in their dress I saw this something, but
in a certain expression of countenance.  This expression I cannot well
describe, but I have ever noticed it in the faces and features of men
who have anything to do with the execution of the laws.  Even in
America, where distinctive costume and badge are absent, I have been
struck with this peculiarity,--so much so that I believe I could detect
a detective in the plainest clothes.

The two men in question had this expression strongly marked.  I had no
doubt they were in some way connected with the execution of the laws.  I
had no doubt they were constables or sheriff's officers.  With such a
slight glance as I gave to them in passing, I might not have troubled
myself with this conjecture, had it not been for other circumstances
then in my thoughts.

I had not saluted these men; but as I passed, I could perceive that my
presence was not without interest to them.  On glancing back, I saw that
one of them had ridden close up to the other, that they were conversing
earnestly; and from their gestures I could tell that I was the subject
of their talk.

I had soon ridden far ahead, and ceased to think any more about them.

I had hurried forward without any preconceived plan of action.  I had
acted altogether on the impulse of the moment, and thought only of
reaching the house, and ascertaining the state of affairs, either from
Eugenie or Aurore herself.

Thus _impromptu_ I had reached the borders of the plantation.

It now occurred to me to ride more slowly, in oder to gain a few moments
to manage my thoughts.  I even halted awhile.  There was a slight bend
in the river-bank, and the road crossed this like a chord to its arc.
The part cut off was a piece of waste--a common--and as there was no
fence I forsook the road, and walked my horse out on the river-bank.
There I drew up, but remained seated in my saddle.

I endeavoured to sketch out some plan of action.  What should I say to
Eugenie? what to Aurore?  Would the former see me after what she had
written?  In her note she had said "farewell," but it was not a time to
stand upon punctilious ceremony.  And if not, should I find an
opportunity to speak with Aurore?  I _must_ see _her_.  Who should
prevent me?  I had much to say to her; my heart was full.  Nothing but
an interview with my betrothed could relieve it.

Still without any definite plan, I once more turned my horse's head down
the river, used the spur, and galloped onward.

On arriving near the gate I was somewhat surprised to see two saddled
horses standing there.  I instantly recognised them as the horses I had
passed on the road.  They had overtaken me again while I was halted by
the bend of the river, and had arrived at the gate before me.  The
saddles were now empty.  The riders had gone into the house.

A black man was holding the horses.  It was my old friend "Zip."

I rode up, and without dismounting addressed myself to Scipio.  Who were
they who had gone in?

I was hardly surprised at the answer.  My conjecture was right.  They
were men of the law,--the deputy sheriff of the _parish_ and his
assistant.

It was scarce necessary to inquire their _business_.  I guessed that.

I only asked Scipio the details.

Briefly Scipio gave them; at least so far as I allowed him to proceed
without interruption.  A sheriff's officer was in charge of the house
and all its contents; Larkin still ruled the <DW64> quarter, but the
slaves were all to be sold; Gayarre was back and forward; and "_Missa
'Genie am gone away_."

"Gone away! and whither?"

"Don't know, mass'r.  B'lieve she gone to de city.  She leab last night
in de night-time."

"And--"

I hesitated a moment till my heart should still its heavy throbbings.

"Aurore?"  I interrogated with an effort.

"'Rore gone too, mass'r;--she gone long wi' Missa 'Genie."

"Aurore gone!"

"Yes, mass'r, she gone; daat's de troof."

I was astounded by the information, as well as puzzled by this
mysterious departure.  Eugenie gone and in the night!  Aurore gone with
her!  What could it mean?  Whither had they gone?

My reiterated appeal to the black threw no light upon the subject.  He
was ignorant of all their movements,--ignorant of everything but what
related to the <DW64> quarter.  He had heard that himself, his wife, his
daughter,--"the leetle Chloe,"--with all their fellow-slaves, were to be
carried down to the city, and to be sold in the slave-market by auction.
They were to be taken the following day.  They were already advertised.
That was all he knew.  No, not all,--one other piece of information he
had in store for me.  It was authentic: he had heard the "white folks"
talk of it to one another:--Larkin, Gayarre, and a "<DW64>-trader," who
was to be concerned in this sale.  It regarded the quadroon.  _She was
to be sold among the rest_!

The blood boiled in my veins as the black imparted this information.  It
was authentic.  Scipio's statement of what he had heard, minutely
detailed, bore the internal evidence of authenticity.  I could not doubt
the report.  I felt the conviction that it was true.

The plantation Besancon had no more attractions.  I had no longer any
business at Bringiers.  New Orleans was now the scene of action for me!

With a kind word to Scipio, I wheeled my horse and galloped away from
the gate.  The fiery animal caught my excitement, and sprang wildly
along the road.  It required all his buoyant spirit to keep pace with
the quick dancing of my nerves.

In a few minutes I had consigned him to his groom; and, climbing to my
chamber, commenced preparing for my departure.



CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

THE WHARF-BOAT.

I now only waited a boat to convey me to New Orleans.  I knew that I
should not have long to wait.  The annual epidemic was on the decline,
and the season of business and pleasure in the "Crescent City" was about
commencing.  Already the up-river steamers were afloat on all the
tributary streams of the mighty Mississippi, laden with the produce of
its almost limitless valley, and converging towards the great Southern
entrepot of American commerce.  I might expect a "down-boat" every day,
or rather indeed every hour.

I resolved to take the first boat that came along.

The hotel in which I dwelt, as well as the whole village, stood at a
considerable distance from the boat landing.  It had been built so from
precaution.  The banks of the Mississippi at this place, and for a
thousand miles above and below, are elevated but a few feet above the
surface level of its water; and, in consequence of the continuous
detrition, it is no uncommon occurrence for large slips to give way, and
be swept off in the red whirling current.  It might be supposed that in
time this never-ceasing action of the water would widen the stream to
unnatural dimensions.  But, no.  For every encroachment on one bank
there is a corresponding formation against the opposite,--a deposit
caused by the eddy which the new curve has produced, so that the river
thus preserves its original breadth.  This remarkable action may be
noted from the _embouchure_ of the Ohio to the mouth of the Mississippi
itself, though at certain points the extent of the encroachment and the
formation that neutralises it is much greater than at others.  In some
places the "wearing away" of the bank operates so rapidly that in a few
days the whole site of a village, or even a plantation, may disappear.
Not unfrequently, too, during the high spring-floods this eccentric
stream takes a "near cut" across the neck of one of its own "bends," and
in a few hours a channel is formed, through which pours the whole
current of the river.  Perhaps a plantation may have been established in
the concavity of this bend,--perhaps three or four of them,--and the
planter who has gone to sleep under the full belief that he had built
his house upon a _continent_, awakes in the morning to find himself the
inhabitant of an island!  With dismay he beholds the vast volume of
red-brown water rolling past, and cutting off his communication with the
mainland.  He can no longer ride to his neighbouring village without the
aid of an expensive ferry.  His wagons will no longer serve him to
"haul" to market his huge cotton-bales or hogsheads of sugar and
tobacco; and, prompted by a feeling of insecurity--lest the next wild
sweep of the current may carry himself, his house, and his several
hundred half-naked <DW64>s along with it--he flees from his home, and
retires to some other part of the stream, where he may deem the land in
less danger of such unwelcome intrusion.

In consequence of these eccentricities a safe site for a town is
extremely rare upon the Lower Mississippi.  There are but few points in
the last five hundred miles of its course where natural elevations offer
this advantage.  The artificial embankment, known as the "Levee," has in
some measure remedied the deficiency, and rendered the towns and
plantations _comparatively_ secure.

As already stated, my hotel was somewhat out of the way.  A boat might
touch at the landing and be off again without my being warned of it.  A
down-river-boat, already laden, and not caring to obtain further
freight, would not stop long; and in a "tavern" upon the Mississippi you
must not confide in the punctuality of "Boots," as you would in a London
hotel.  Your chances of being waked by <DW71>, ten times sleepier than
yourself, are scarcely one in a hundred.

I had ample experience of this; and, fearing that the boat might pass if
I remained at the hotel, I came to the resolve to settle my affairs in
that quarter and at once transport myself and my _impedimenta_ to the
landing.

I should not be entirely without shelter.  There was no house; but an
old steamboat, long since condemned as not "river-worthy," lay at the
landing.  This hulk, moored by strong cables to the bank, formed an
excellent floating wharf; while its spacious deck, cabins, and saloons,
served as a storehouse for all sorts of merchandise.  It was, in fact,
used both as a landing and warehouse, and was known as the "wharf-boat."

It was late,--nearly midnight,--as I stepped aboard the wharf-boat.
Stragglers from the town, who may have had business there, had all gone
away, and the owner of the store-boat was himself absent.  A drowsy
<DW64>, his _locum tenens_, was the only human thing that offered itself
to my eyes.  The lower deck of the boat was tenanted by this individual,
who sat behind a counter that enclosed one corner of the apartment.
Upon this counter stood a pair of scales, with weights, a large ball of
coarse twine, a rude knife, and such other implements as may be seen in
a country "store;" and upon shelves at the back were ranged bottles of
 liquors, glasses, boxes of hard biscuit, "Western reserve"
cheeses, kegs of rancid butter, plugs of tobacco, and bundles of
inferior cigars,--in short, all the etceteras of a regular "grocery."
The remaining portion of the ample room was littered with merchandise,
packed in various forms.  There were boxes, barrels, bags, and bales;
some on their way up-stream, that had come by New Orleans from distant
lands, while others were destined downward: the rich product of the
soil, to be borne thousands of miles over the wide Atlantic.  With these
various packages every part of the floor was occupied, and I looked in
vain for a spot on which to stretch myself.  A better light might have
enabled me to discover such a place; but the tallow candle, guttering
down the sides of an empty champagne-bottle, but dimly lit up the
confusion.  It just sufficed to guide me to the only occupant of the
place, upon whose sombre face the light faintly flickered.

"Asleep, uncle?"  I said, approaching him.

A gruff reply from an American <DW64> is indeed a rarity, and never given
to a question politely put.  The familiar style of my address touched a
sympathetic chord in the bosom of the "darkie," and a smile of
satisfaction gleamed upon his features as he made answer.  Of course he
was _not_ asleep.  But my idle question was only meant as the prelude to
further discourse.

"Ah, Gollys! it be massa Edward.  Uncle Sam know'd you, massa Edward.
You good to brack folk.  Wat can do uncle Sam for massa?"

"I am going down to the city, and have come here to wait for a boat.  Is
it likely one will pass to-night?"

"Sure, massa--sure be a boat dis night.  Bossy 'spect a boat from de Red
ribber dis berry night--either de Houma or de Choctuma."

"Good! and now, uncle Sam, if you will find me six feet of level plank,
and promise to rouse me when the boat comes in sight, I shall not grudge
you this half dollar."

The sudden enlargement of the whites of undo Sam's eyes showed the
satisfaction he experienced at the sight of the shining piece of metal.
Without more ado he seized the champagne-bottle that hold the candle;
and, gliding among the boxes and bales, conducted me to a stairway that
led to the second or cabin-deck of the boat.  We climbed up, and entered
the saloon.

"Dar, massa, plenty of room--uncle Sam he sorry dar's ne'er a bed, but
if massa could sleep on these yeer coffee-bags, he berry welcome--berry
welcome.  I leave dis light wi' massa.  I can get anoder for self b'low.
Good night, massa Edward--don't fear I wake you--no fear ob dat."

And so saying, the kind-hearted black set the bottle-candlestick upon
the floor; and, passing down the stair again, left me to my reflections.

With such poor light as the candle afforded, I took a careless survey of
my apartment.  There was plenty of room, as uncle Sam had said.  It was
the cabin of the old steamboat; and as the partition-doors had been
broken off and carried away, the ladies' cabin, main saloon, and front,
were now all in one.  Together they formed a hall of more than a hundred
feet in length, and from where I stood, near the centre, both ends were
lost to my view in the darkness.  The state-rooms on each side were
still there, with their green Venetian doors.  Some of these were shut,
while others stood ajar, or quite open.  The gilding and ornaments, dim
from age and use, adorned the sides and ceiling of the hall; and over
the arched entrance of the main saloon the word "Sultana," in gold
letters that still glittered brightly, informed me that I was now inside
the "carcase" of one of the most famous boats that ever cleft the waters
of the Mississippi.

Strange thoughts came into my mind as I stood regarding this desolate
saloon.  Silent and solitary it seemed--even more so I thought than
would some lonely spot in the midst of a forest.  The very absence of
those sounds that one is accustomed to hear in such a place--the
grinding of the machinery--the hoarse detonations of the 'scape-pipe--
the voices of men--the busy hum of conversation, or the ringing laugh--
the absence of the sights, too--the brilliant chandeliers--the long
tables sparkling with crystal--the absence of these, and yet the
presence of the scene associated with such sights and sounds--gave to
the place an air of indescribable desolation.  I felt as one within the
ruins of some old convent, or amidst the tombs of an antique cemetery.

No furniture of any kind relieved the monotony of the place.  The only
visible objects were the coarse gunny-bags strewed over the floor, and
upon which uncle Sam had made me welcome to repose myself.

After surveying my odd chamber, and giving way to some singular
reflections, I began to think of disposing of myself for sleep.  I was
wearied.  My health was not yet restored.  The clean bast of the
coffee-bags looked inviting.  I dragged half-a-dozen of them together,
placed them side by side, and then, throwing myself upon my back, drew
my cloak over me.  The coffee-berries yielded to the weight of my body,
giving me a comfortable position, and in less than five minutes I fell
asleep.



CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

THE NORWAY RAT.

I must have slept an hour or more.  I did not think of consulting my
watch before going to sleep, and I had little thought about such a thing
after I awoke.  But that I had slept at least an hour, I could tell by
the length of my candle.

A fearful hour that was, as any I can remember to have spent--an hour of
horrid dreaming.  But I am wrong to call it so.  It was no dream, though
at the time I thought it one.

Listen!

As I have said, I lay down upon my back, covering myself with my ample
cloak from the chin to the ankles.  My face and feet were alone free.  I
had placed one of the bags for a pillow, and thus raised my head in such
a position, that I had a full view of the rest of my person.  The light,
set just a little way beyond my heels, was right before my eyes; and I
could see the floor in that direction to the distance of several yards.
I have said that in five minutes I was asleep.  I thought that I was
asleep, and to this hour I think so, and yet my eyes were open, and I
plainly saw the candle before them and that portion of the floor
illumined by its rays.  I thought that I endeavoured to close my eyes,
but could not; nor could I change my position, but lay regarding the
light and the surface of the floor around it.  Presently a strange sight
was presented to me.  A number of small shining objects began to dance
and scintillate in the darkness beyond.  At first I took them for
"lightning-bugs," but although these were plenty enough without, it was
not usual to find them inside an enclosed apartment.  Moreover, those I
saw were low down upon the floor of the saloon, and not suspended in the
air, as they should have been.

Gradually the number of these shining objects increased.  There were now
some dozens of them, and, what was singular, they seemed to move in
pairs.  They were _not_ fire-flies!

I began to experience a sensation of alarm.  I began to feel that there
was danger in these fiery spots, that sparkled in such numbers along the
floor.  What on earth could they be?

I had scarce asked myself the question, when I was enabled to answer it
to the satisfaction of my senses, but not to the tranquillising of my
fears.  The horrid truth now flashed upon me--each pair of sparkling
points was a _pair of eyes_!

It was no relief to me to know they were the eyes of rats.  You may
smile at my fears; but I tell you in all seriousness that I would not
have been more frightened had I awaked and found a panther crouching to
spring upon me.  I had heard such tales of these Norway rats--had, in
fact, been witness to their bold and ferocious feats in New Orleans,
where at that time they swarmed in countless numbers--that the sight of
them filled me with disgust and horror.  But what was most horrible of
all--I saw that they were approaching me--that they were each moment
coming nearer and nearer, and that _I was unable to get out of their
way_!

Yes.  I could not move.  My arms and limbs felt like solid blocks of
stone, and my muscular power was quite gone!  I _now_ thought that I was
_dreaming_!

"Yes!" reflected I, for I still possessed the power of reflection.
"Yes--I am only dreaming!  A horrid dream though--horrid--would I could
wake myself--'tis nightmare!  I know it--if I could but move something--
my toes--my fingers--oh!"

These reflections actually passed through my mind.  They have done so at
other times when I have been under the influence of nightmare; and I now
no longer dread this incubus, since I have learnt how to throw it off.
_Then_ I could not.  I lay like one dead, whose eyelids have been left
unclosed; and I thought I was dreaming.

Dreaming or awake, my soul had not yet reached its climax of horror.  As
I continued to gaze, I perceived that the number of the hideous animals
increased every moment.  I could now see their brown hairy bodies--for
they had approached close to the candle, and were full under its light.
They were _thick upon the floor_.  It appeared to be alive with them,
and in motion like water under a gale.  Hideous sight to behold!

Still nearer they came.  I could distinguish their sharp teeth--the long
grey bristles upon their snouts--the spiteful expression in their small
penetrating eyes.

Nearer still!  They climb upon the coffee-bags--they crawl along my legs
and body--they chase each other over the folds of my cloak--they are
gnawing at my boots!--Horror! horror! they will devour me!

They are around me in myriads.  I cannot see on either side, but I know
that they are all around.  I can hear their shrill screaming, the air is
loaded with the odour of their filthy bodies.  I feel as though it will
suffocate me.  Horror! horror! oh! merciful God! arouse me from this
terrible dream!

Such were my thoughts--such my feelings at that moment.  I had a perfect
consciousness of all that was passing--so perfect that I believed it a
dream.

I made every effort to awake myself--to move hand and limb.  It was all
in vain.  I could not move a muscle.  Every nerve of my body was asleep.
My blood lay stagnant within my veins!

I lay suffering this monstrous pain for a long, long while.  I lay in
fear of being eaten up piecemeal!

The fierce animals had only attacked my boots and my cloak, but my
terror was complete.  I waited to feel them at my throat!

Was it my face and my eyes staring open that kept them off?  I am
certain my eyes were open all the while.  Was it that that deterred them
from attacking me?  No doubt it was.  They scrambled over all parts of
my body, even up to my breast, but they seemed to avoid my head and
face!

Whether they would have continued under the restraint of this salutary
fear, I know not, for a sudden termination was put to the horrid scene.

The candle had burnt to its end, and the remnant fell with a hissing
sound through the neck of the bottle, thus extinguishing the light.

Frightened by the sudden transition from light to darkness, the hideous
animals uttered their terrible squeaking, and broke off in every
direction.  I could hear the pattering of their feet upon the planks as
they scampered away.

The light seemed to have been the spell that bound me in the iron chain
of the nightmare.  The moment it went out, I found myself again in
possession of muscular strength; and, springing to my feet, I caught up
my cloak and swept it wildly around me, shouting at the top of my voice.

The cold perspiration was running from every pore in my skin, and my
hair felt as if on end.  I still believed I was dreaming; and it was not
until the astonished <DW64> appeared with a light, and I had evidence of
the presence of my hairy visitors in the condition of my cloak and
boots, that I was convinced the terrible episode was a reality.

I remained no longer in the "saloon," but, wrapping my cloak around me,
betook myself to the open air.



CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.

THE HOUMA.

I had not much longer to remain on the wharf-boat.  The hoarse barking
of a 'scape-pipe fell upon my ear and shortly after the fires of a
steamboat furnace appeared, glittering red upon the stream.  Then was
heard the crashing plunging sound of the paddle-wheels as they beat the
brown water, and then the ringing of the bell, and the shouts of command
passing from captain to mate, and from mate to "deck hands," and in five
minutes after, the "Houma"--Red River-boat,--lay side by side with the
old "Sultana."

I stepped aboard, threw my luggage over the guard, and, climbing
up-stairs, seated myself under the awning.

Ten minutes of apparent confusion--the quick trampling of feet over the
decks and staging--half-a-dozen passengers hastening ashore--others
hurrying in the opposite direction--the screeching of the steam--the
rattling of huge fire-logs thrust endways up the furnace--at intervals
the loud words of command--a peal of laughter at some rude jest, or the
murmur of voices in the sadder accents of adieu.  Ten minutes of these
sights and sounds, and again was heard the ringing of the large bell--
the signal that the boat was about to continue her course.

I had flung myself into a chair that stood beside one of the
awning-posts, and close to the guards.  From my position I commanded a
view of the gangway, the staging-plank, and the contiguous wharf-boat,
which I had just left.

I was looking listlessly on what was passing below, taking note of
nothing in particular.  If I had a special thought in my mind the
subject of it was not there, and the thought itself caused me to turn my
eyes away from the busy groups and bend them downward along the left
bank of the river.  Perhaps a sigh was the concomitant of these
occasional glances; but in the intervals between, my mind dwelt upon
nothing in particular, and the forms that hurried to and fro impressed
me only as shadows.

This apathy was suddenly interrupted.  My eyes, by pure accident, fell
upon two figures whose movements at once excited my attention.  They
stood upon the deck of the wharf-boat--not near the stage-plank, where
the torch cast its glare over the hurrying passengers, but in a remote
corner under the shadow of the awning.  I could see them only in an
obscure light,--in fact, could scarce make out their forms, shrouded as
they were in dark cloaks--but the attitudes in which they stood, the
fact of their keeping thus apart in the most obscure quarter of the
boat, the apparent earnestness with which they were conversing--all led
me to conjecture that they were lovers.  My heart, guided by the sweet
instinct of love, at once accepted this explanation, and looked for no
other.

"Yes--lovers! how happy!  No--perhaps not so happy--it is a _parting_!
Some youth who makes a trip down to the city--perhaps some young clerk
or merchant, who goes to spend his winter there.  What of that?  He will
return in spring, again to press those delicate fingers, again to fold
that fair form in his arms, again to speak those tender words that will
sound all the sweeter after the long interval of silence.

"Happy youth! happy girl!  Light is the misery of a parting like yours!
How easy to endure when compared with that violent separation which I
have experienced!  Aurore!--Aurore!--Would that you were free!  Would
that you were some high-born dame!  Not that I should love you the
more--impossible--but then might I boldly woo, and freely win.  Then I
might hope--but now, alas! this horrid gulf--this social abyss that
yawns between us.  Well! it cannot separate souls.  Our love shall
bridge it--Ha!"

"Hilloa, Mister!  What's gwine wrong?  Anybody fell overboard!"

I heeded not the rude interrogatory.  A deeper pang absorbed my soul,
forcing from me the wild exclamation that had given the speaker cause.

The two forms parted--with a mutual pressure of the hand, with a kiss
they parted!  The young man hastened across the staging.  I did not
observe his face, as he passed under the light.  I had taken no notice
of _him_, my eyes by some strange fascination remaining fixed upon
_her_.  I was curious to observe how _she_ would act in this final
moment of leave-taking.

The planks were drawn aboard.  The signal-bell sounded.  I could
perceive that we were moving away.

At this moment the shrouded form of the lady glided forward into the
light.  She was advancing to catch a farewell glance of her lover.  A
few steps brought her to the edge of the wharf-boat, where the torch was
glaring.  Her hood-like gun-bonnet was thrown back.  The light fell full
upon her face, glistened along the undulating masses of black hair that
shrouded her temples, and danced in her glorious eyes.  Good God! they
were the eyes of _Aurore_!

No wonder I uttered the wild ejaculation--

"It is she!"

"What?--a female! overboard, do you say?  Where?  Where?"

The man was evidently in earnest.  My soliloquy had been loud enough to
reach his ears.

He believed it to be a reply to his previous question, and my excited
manner confirmed him in the belief that a woman had actually fallen into
the river!

His questions and exclamations were overheard and repeated in the voices
of others who stood near.  Like wildfire an alarm ran through the boat.
Passengers rushed from the cabins, along the guards, and out to the
front awning, and mingled their hurried interrogatories, "Who?  What?
Where?"  A loud voice cried out--

"Some one overboard!  A woman! it's a woman!"

Knowing the cause of this ridiculous alarm, I gave no heed to it.  My
mind was occupied with a far different matter.  The first shock of a
hideous passion absorbed my whole soul, and I paid no attention to what
was going on around me.

I had scarce recognised the face, when the boat rounding up-stream
brought the angle of the cabin between it and me.  I rushed forward, as
far as the gangway.  I was too late:--the wheel-house obstructed the
view.  I did not halt, but ran on, directing myself towards the top of
the wheel-house.  Passengers in their excitement were rushing along the
guards.  They hindered my progress, and it was some time before I could
climb up the wheel-house, and stand upon its rounded roof.  I did so at
length, but too late.  The boat had forged several hundred yards into
the stream.  I could see the wharf-boat with its glaring lights.  I
could even see human forms standing along its deck, but I could no
longer distinguish that one that my eyes were in search of.

Disappointed I stepped on to the hurricane-deck, which was almost a
continuation of the roof of the wheel-house.  There I could be alone,
and commune with my now bitter thoughts.

I was not to have that luxury just then.  Shouts, the trampling of heavy
boots bounding over the planks, and the pattering of lighter feet,
sounded in my ears; and next moment a stream of passengers, male and
female, came pouring up the sides of the wheel-house.

"That's the gentleman--that's him!" cried a voice.

In another instant the excited throng was around me, several inquiring
at once--

"Who's overboard?  Who?  Where?"

Of course I saw that these interrogatories were meant for me.  I saw,
too, that an answer was necessary to allay their ludicrous alarm.

"Ladies and gentlemen!"  I said, "there is no one overboard that I am
aware of.  Why do you ask _me_?"

"Hilloa, Mister!" cried the cause of all this confusion, "didn't you
tell me--?"

"I told you nothing."

"But didn't I ask you if thar wan't some one overboard?"

"You did."

"And you said in reply--"

"I said nothing in reply."

"Darned if you didn't! you said `Thar she is!' or, `It was she!' or
something o' that sort."

I turned towards the speaker, who I perceived was rather losing credit
with his auditory.

"Mister!" said I, imitating his tone, "it is evident you have never
heard of the man who grew immensely rich by minding his own business."

My remark settled the affair.  It was received by a yell of laughter,
that completely discomfited my meddling antagonist, who, after some
little swaggering and loud talk, at length went below to the "bar" to
soothe his mortified spirit with a "gin-sling."

The others dropped away one by one, and dispersed themselves through the
various cabins and saloons; and I found myself once more the sole
occupant of the hurricane-deck.



CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

JEALOUSY.

Have you ever loved in humble life? some fair young girl, whose lot was
among the lowly, but whose brilliant beauty in your eyes annihilated all
social inequalities?  Love levels all distinctions, is an adage old as
the hills.  It brings down the proud heart, and teaches condescension to
the haughty spirit; but its tendency is to elevate, to ennoble.  It does
not make a peasant of the prince, but a prince of the peasant.

Behold the object of your adoration engaged in her ordinary duties!  She
fetches a jar of water from the well.  Barefoot she treads the
well-known path.  Those nude pellucid feet are fairer in their nakedness
than the most delicate _chaussure_ of silk and satin.  The wreaths and
pearl circlets, the pins of gold and drupes of coral, the costliest
_coiffures_ of the dress circle,--all seem plain and poor compared with
the glossy _neglige_ of those bright tresses.  The earthen jar sits upon
her head with the grace of a golden coronet--every attitude is the
_pose_ of a statue, a study for a sculptor; and the coarse garment that
drapes that form is in your eyes more becoming than a robe of richest
velvet.  You care not for that.  You are not thinking of the casket, but
of the pearl it conceals.

She disappears within the cottage--her humble home.  Humble?  In your
eyes no longer humble; that little kitchen, with its wooden chairs, and
scoured dresser, its deal shelf, with mugs, cups, and willow-pattern
plates, its lime-washed walls and cheap prints of the red soldier and
the blue sailor--that little museum of the _penates_ of the poor, is now
filled with a light that renders it more brilliant than the gilded
saloons of wealth and fashion.  That cottage with its low roof, and
woodbine trellis, has become a palace.  The light of love has
transformed it!  A paradise you are forbidden to enter.  Yes, with all
your wealth and power, your fine looks and your titles of distinction,
your superfine cloth and bright lacquered boots, mayhap you dare not
enter there.

And oh! how you envy those who dare!--how you envy the spruce
apprentice, and the lout in the smock who cracks his whip, and whistles
with as much _nonchalance_ as if he was between the handles of his
plough! as though the awe of that fair presence should not freeze his
lips to stone!  _Gauche_ that he is, how you envy him his
_opportunities_! how you could slaughter him for those sweet smiles that
appear to be lavished upon him!

There maybe no meaning in those smiles.  They may be the expressions of
good-nature of simple friendship, perhaps of a little coquetry.  For all
that, you cannot behold them without envy--without _suspicion_ If there
be a meaning--if they be the smiles of love--if the heart of that simple
girl has made its lodgement either upon the young apprentice or him of
the smock--then are you fated to the bitterest pang that human breast
can know.  It is not jealousy of the ordinary kind.  It is far more
painful.  Wounded vanity adds a poison to the sting.  Oh! it is hard to
bear!

A pang of this nature I suffered, as I paced that high platform.
Fortunately they had left me alone.  The feelings that worked within me
could not be concealed.  My looks and wild gestures must have betrayed
them.  I should have been a subject for satire and laughter.  But I was
alone.  The pilot in his glass-box did not notice me.  His back was
towards me, and his keen eye, bent steadily upon the water, was too busy
with logs and sand-bars, and snags and sawyers, to take note of my
delirium.

It _was_ Aurore!  Of that I had no doubt whatever.  Her face was not to
be mistaken for any other.  There was none like it--none so lovely--
alas! too fatally fair.

Who could _he_ be?  Some young spark of the town?  Some clerk in one of
the stores? a young planter? who?  Maybe--and with this thought came
that bitter pang--one of her own proscribed race--a young man of
"colour"--a mulatto--a quadroon--a slave!  Ha! to be rivalled by a
slave!--worse than rivalled.--Infamous coquette!  Why had I yielded to
her fascinations?  Why had I mistaken her craft for _naivete_?--her
falsehood for truth?

Who could _he_ be?  I should search the boat till I found him.
Unfortunately I had taken no marks, either of his face or his dress.  My
eyes had remained fixed upon her after their parting.  In the shadow I
had seen him only indistinctly; and as he passed under the lights I saw
him not.  How preposterous then to think of looking for him!  I could
not recognise him in such a crowd.

I went below, and wandered through the cabins, under the front awning,
and along the guard-ways.  I scanned every face with an eagerness that
to some must have appeared impertinence.  Wherever one was young and
handsome, he was an object of my scrutiny and jealousy.  There were
several such among the male passengers; and I endeavoured to distinguish
those who had come aboard at Bringiers.  There were some young men who
appeared as if they had lately shipped, themselves, but I had no clue to
guide me, and I failed to find my rival.

In the chagrin of disappointment I returned once more to the roof; but I
had hardly reached it, when a new thought came into my mind.  I
remembered that the slaves of the plantation were to be sent down to the
city by the first boat.  Were they not travelling by that very one?  I
had seen a crowd of blacks--men, women, and children--hastily driven
aboard.  I had paid but little heed to such a common spectacle--one that
may be witnessed daily, hourly.  I had not thought of it, that those
might be the slaves of the plantation Besancon!

If they were, then indeed there might still be hope; Aurore had not gone
with them--but what of that?  Though, like them, only a slave, it was
not probable she would have been forced to herd with them upon the deck.
But she had not come aboard!  The staging had been already taken in, as
I recognised her on the wharf-boat.  On the supposition that the slaves
of Besancon were aboard, my heart felt relieved.  I was filled with a
hope that all might yet be well.

Why? you may ask.  I answer--simply because the thought occurred to me,
that the youth, who so tenderly parted from Aurore, _might be a brother,
or some near relative_.  I had not heard of such relationship.  It might
be so, however; and my heart, reacting from its hour of keen anguish,
was eager to relieve itself by any hypothesis.

I could not endure doubt longer; and turning on my heel, I hastened
below.  Down the kleets of the wheel-house, along the guard-way, then
down the main stairs to the boiler-deck.  Threading my way among bags of
maize and hogsheads of sugar, now stooping under the great axle, now
climbing over huge cotton-bales, I reached the after-part of the lower
deck, usually appropriated to the "deck passengers"--the poor immigrants
of Ireland and Germany, who here huddle miscellaneously with the swarthy
bondsmen of the South.

As I had hoped, there were they,--those black but friendly faces,--every
one of them.  Old Zip, and Aunt Chloe, and the little Chloe; Hannibal,
the new coachman, and Caesar and Pompey, and all,--all on their way to
the dreaded mart.

I had halted a second or two before approaching them.  The light was in
my favour, and I saw them before discovering my presence.  There were no
signs of mirth in that sable group.  I heard no laughter, no light
revelry, as was their wont to indulge in in days gone by, among their
little cabins in the quarter.  A deep melancholy had taken possession of
the features of all.  Gloom was in every glance.  Even the children,
usually reckless of the unknown future, seemed impressed with the same
sentiment.  They rolled not about, tumbling over each other.  They
played not at all.  They sat without stirring, and silent.  Even they,
poor infant helots, knew enough to fear for their dark future,--to
shudder at the prospect of the slave-market.

All were downcast.  No wonder.  They had been used to kind treatment.
They might pass to a hard taskmaster.  Not one of them knew where in
another day should be his home--what sort of tyrant should be his lord.
But that was not all.  Still worse.  Friends, they were going to be
parted; relatives, they would be torn asunder--perhaps never to meet
more.  Husband looked upon wife, brother upon sister, father upon child,
mother upon infant, with dread in the heart and agony in the eye.

It was painful to gaze upon this sorrowing group, to contemplate the
suffering, the mental anguish that spoke plainly in every face; to think
of the wrongs which one man can legally put upon another--the deep
sinful wrongs, the outrage of every human principle.  Oh, it was
terribly painful to look on that picture!

It was some relief to me to know that my presence threw at least a
momentary light over its shade.  Smiles chased away the sombre shadows
as I appeared, and joyous exclamations hailed me.  Had I been their
saviour, I could not have met a more eager welcome.

Amidst their fervid ejaculations I could distinguish earnest appeals
that I would buy them--that I would become their master--mingled with
zealous protestations of service and devotion.  Alas! they knew not how
heavily at that moment the price of one of their number lay upon my
heart.

I strove to be gay, to cheer them with words of consolation.  I rather
needed to be myself consoled.

During this while my eyes were busy.  I scanned the faces of all.  There
was light enough glimmering from two oil-lamps to enable me to do so.
Several were young mulattoes.  Upon these my glance rested, one after
the other.  How my heart throbbed in this examination!  It triumphed at
length.  Surely there was no face there that _she_ could love?  Were
they all present?  Yes, all--so Scipio said; all but Aurore.

"And Aurore?"  I asked; "have you heard any more of her?"

"No, mass'; 'blieve 'Rore gone to de city.  She go by de road in a
carriage--not by de boat, some ob de folks say daat, I b'lieve."

This was strange enough.  Taking the black aside--

"Tell me, Scipio," I asked, "has Aurore any relative among you?--any
brother, or sister, or cousin?"

"No, mass', ne'er a one.  Golly, mass'!  'Rore she near white as missa
'Genie all de rest be black, or leas'wise yeller!  'Rore she quaderoom,
yeller folks all mulatto--no kin to 'Rore--no."

I was perplexed and puzzled.  My former doubts came crowding back upon
me.  My jealousy returned.

Scipio could not clear up the mystery.  His answer to other questions
which I put to him gave me no solution to it; and I returned up-stairs
with a heart that suffered under the pressure of disappointment.

The only reflection from which I drew comfort was, that I might have
been mistaken.  Perhaps, after all, it was _not_ Aurore!



CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

A SCIENTIFIC JULEP.

To drown care and sorrow men drink.  The spirit of wine freely quaffed
will master either bodily pain or mental suffering--for a time.  There
is no form of the one or phase of the other so difficult to subdue as
the pang of jealousy.  Wine must be deeply quaffed before that corroding
poison can be washed free from the heart.

But there is a partial relief in the wine-cup, and I sought it.  I knew
it to be only temporary, and that the sorrow would soon return.  But
even so--even a short respite was to be desired.  I could bear my
thoughts no longer.

I am not brave in bearing pain.  I have more than once intoxicated
myself to deaden the pitiful pain of a toothache.  By the same means I
resolved to relieve the dire aching of my heart.

The spirit of wine was nigh at hand, and might be imbibed in many forms.

In one corner of the "smoking-saloon" was the "bar," with its elegant
adornments--its rows of decanters and bottles, with silver stoppers and
labels its glasses, and lemons, and sugar-crushers--its bouquet of
aromatic mint and fragrant pines--its bunches of straw tubes for
"sucking" the "mint-julep," the "sherry-cobbler," or the "claret
sangaree."

In the midst of this _entourage_ stood the "bar-keeper," and in this
individual do not picture to yourself some seedy personage of the waiter
class, with bloodless cheeks and clammy skin, such as those
monstrosities of an English hotel who give you a very _degout_ for your
dinner.  On the contrary, behold an _elegant_ of latest fashion--that
is, the fashion of his country and class, the men of the river.  He
wears neither coat nor vest while in the exercise of his office, but his
shirt will merit an observation.  It is of the finest fabric of the
Irish loom--too fine to be worn by those who have woven it--and no Bond
Street furnishing-house could equal its "make up."

Gold buttons glance at the sleeves, and diamonds sparkle amid the
profuse ruffles on the bosom.  The collar is turned down over a black
silk riband, knotted _a la Byron_; but a tropic sun has more to do with
this fashion than any desire to imitate the sailor-poet.  Over this
shirt stretch silk braces elaborately needle-worked, and still further
adorned by buckles of pure gold.  A hat of the costly grass from the
shores of the South Sea crowns his well-oiled locks, and thus you have
the "bar-keeper of the boat."  His nether man need not be described.
That is the unseen portion of his person, which is below the level of
the bar.  No cringing, smirking, obsequious counter-jumper he, but a
dashing sprig, who, perhaps, _owns_ his bar and all its contents, and
who holds his head as high as either the clerk or captain.

As I approached this gentleman, he placed a glass upon the counter, and
threw into it some broken fragments of ice.  All this was done without a
word having passed between us.

I had no need to give an order.  He saw in my eye the determination to
drink.

"Cobbler?"

"No," said I; "a mint-julep."

"Very well, I'll mix you a julep that'll set your teeth for you."

"Thank you.  Just what I want."

The gentleman now placed side by side two glasses--tumblers of large
size.  Into one he put, first, a spoonful of crushed white sugar--then a
slice of lemon--ditto of orange--next a few sprigs of green mint--after
that a handful of broken ice, a gill of water, and, lastly, a large
glass measure of cognac.  This done, he lifted the glasses one in each
hand, and poured the contents from one to the other so rapidly that ice,
brandy, lemons, and all, seemed to be constantly suspended in the air,
and oscillating between the glasses.  The tumblers themselves at no time
approached nearer than two feet from each other!  This adroitness,
peculiar to his craft, and only obtained after long practice, was
evidently a source of professional pride.  After some half-score of
these revolutions the drink was permitted to rest in one glass, and was
then set down upon the counter.

There yet remained to be given the "finishing touch."  A thin slice of
pine-apple was cut freshly from the fruit.  This held between the finger
and thumb was doubled over the edge of the glass, and then passed with
an adroit sweep round the circumference.

"That's the latest Orleans touch," remarked the bar-keeper with a smile,
as he completed the manoeuvre.

There was a double purpose in this little operation.  The pine-apple not
only cleared the glass of the grains of sugar and broken leaves of mint,
but left its fragrant juice to mingle its aroma with the beverage.

"The latest Orleans touch," he repeated; "scientific style."

I nodded my assent.

The julep was now "mixed"--which fact was made known to me by the glass
being pushed a little nearer, across the marble surface of the counter.

"Have a straw?" was the laconic inquiry.

"Yes; thank you."

A joint of wheaten straw was plunged into the glass, and taking this
between my lips I drew in large draughts of perhaps the most delicious
of all intoxicating drinks--the mint-julep.

The aromatic liquid had scarce passed my lips when I began to feel its
effects.  My pulse ceased its wild throbbing.  My blood became cool, and
flowed in a more gentle current through my veins, and my heart seemed to
be bathing in the waters of Lethe.  The relief was almost instantaneous,
and I only wondered I had not thought of it before.  Though still far
from happy, I felt that I held in my hands what would soon make me so.
Transitory that happiness might be, yet the reaction was welcome at the
moment, and the prospect of it pleasant to my soul.  I eagerly swallowed
the inspiring beverage--swallowed it in large draughts, till the straw
tube, rattling among the fragments of ice at the bottom of the glass,
admonished me that the fluid was all gone.

"Another, if you please!"

"You liked it, I guess?"

"Most excellent!"

"Said so.  I reckon, stranger, we can get up a mint-julep on board this
here boat equal to either Saint Charles or Verandah, if not a leetle
superior to either."

"A superb drink!"

"We can mix a sherry-cobbler too, that ain't hard to take."

"I have no doubt of it, but I'm not fond of sherry.  I prefer this."

"You're right.  So do I.  The pine-apple's a new idea, but an
improvement, I think."

"I think so too."

"Have a fresh straw?"

"Thank you."

This young fellow was unusually civil.  I fancied that his civility
proceeded from my having eulogised his mint-juleps.  It was not that, as
I afterwards ascertained.  These Western people are little accessible to
cheap flattery.  I owed his good opinion of me to a far different
cause--_the discomfiture I had put on the meddling passenger_!  I
believe he had also learnt, that it was I who had chastised the Bully
Larkin!  Such "feats of arms" soon become known in the region of the
Mississippi Valley, where strength and courage are qualities of high
esteem.  Hence, in the bar-keeper's view, I was one who deserved a civil
word; and thus talking together on the best of terms, I swallowed my
second julep, and called upon him for a third, Aurore was for the moment
forgotten, or when remembered, it was with less of bitterness.  Now and
then that parting scene came uppermost in my thoughts; but the pang that
rose with it was each moment growing feebler, and easier to be endured.



CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.

A GAME OF WHIST.

In the centre of the smoking-saloon, there was a table, and around it
some half-dozen men were seated.  Other half-dozen stood behind these,
looking over their shoulders.  The attitudes of all, and their eager
glances, suggested the nature of their occupation.  The flouting of
pasteboard, the chink of dollars, and the oft-recurring words of "ace,"
"jack," and "trump," put it beyond a doubt that that occupation was
gaming.  "Euchre" was the game.

Curious to observe this popular American game, I stepped up and stood
watching the players.  My friend who had raised the false alarm was one
of them; but his back was towards me, and I remained for some time
unseen by him.

Some two or three of those who played were elegantly-dressed men.  Their
coats were of the finest cloth, their ruffles of the costliest cambric,
and jewels sparkled in their shirt bosoms and glittered upon their
fingers.  These fingers, however, told a tale.  They told plainly as
words, that they to whom they belonged had not always been accustomed to
such elegant adornment.  Toilet soap had failed to soften the corrugated
skin, and obliterate the abrasions--the souvenirs of toil.

This was nothing.  They might be gentlemen for all that.  Birth is of
slight consequence in the Far West.  The plough-boy may become the
President.

Still there was an air about these men--an air I cannot describe, but
which led me at the moment to doubt their _gentility_.  It was not from
any swagger or assumption on their part.  On the contrary, they appeared
the _most gentlemanly_ individuals around the table!

They were certainly the most sedate and quiet.  Perhaps it was this very
sedateness--this polished reserve--that formed the spring of my
suspicion.  True gentlemen, bloods from Tennessee or Kentucky, young
planters of the Mississippi coast, or French Creoles of Orleans, would
have offered different characteristics.  The cool complacency with which
these individuals spoke and acted--no symptoms of perturbation as the
trump was turned, no signs of ruffled temper when luck went against
them--told two things; first, that they were men of the world, and,
secondly, that they were not now playing their maiden game of "Euchre."
Beyond that I could form no judgment about them.  They might be doctors,
lawyers, or "gentlemen of elegant leisure"--a class by no means uncommon
in the work-a-day world of America.

At that time I was still too new to Far West society, to be able to
distinguish its features.  Besides, in the United States, and
particularly in the western portion of the country, those peculiarities
of dress and habit, which in the Old-World form, as it were, the
landmarks of the professions, do not exist.  You may meet the preacher
wearing a blue coat and bright buttons; the judge with a green one; the
doctor in a white linen jacket; and the baker in glossy black broadcloth
from top to toe!

Where every man assumes the right to be a gentleman, the costumes and
badges of trade are studiously avoided.  Even the tailor is
undistinguishable in the mass of his "fellow-citizens."  The land of
character-dresses lies farther to the south-west--Mexico is that land.

I stood for some time watching the gamesters and the game.  Had I not
known something of the banking peculiarities of the West, I should have
believed that they were gambling for enormous sums.  At each man's right
elbow lay a huge pile of bank-notes, flanked by a few pieces of silver--
dollars, halves, and quarters.  Accustomed as my eyes had been to
bank-notes of five pounds in value, the table would have presented to me
a rich appearance, had I not known that these showy parallelograms of
copper-plate and banking-paper, were mere "shin-plasters," representing
amounts that varied from the value of one dollar to that of six and a
quarter cents!  Notwithstanding, the bets were far from being low.
Twenty, fifty, and even a hundred dollars, frequently changed hands in a
single game.

I perceived that the hero of the false alarm was one of the players.
His back was towards me where I stood, and he was too much engrossed
with his game to look around.

In dress and general appearance he differed altogether from the rest.
He wore a white beaver hat with broad brim, and a coat of great "jeans,"
wide-sleeved and loose-bodied.  He had the look of a well-to-do
corn-farmer from Indiana or a pork-merchant from Cincinnati.  Yet there
was something in his manner that told you river-travelling was not new
to him.  It was not his first trip "down South."  Most probably the
second supposition was the correct one--he was a dealer in hog-meat.

One of the fine gentlemen I have described sat opposite to where I was
standing.  He appeared to be losing considerable sums, which the farmer
or pork-merchant was winning.  It proved that the luck of the cards was
not in favour of the smartest-looking players--an inducement to other
plain people to try a hand.

I began to feel sympathy for the elegant gentleman, his losses were so
severe.  I could not help admiring the composure with which he bore
them.

At length he looked up, and scanned the faces of those who stood around.
He seemed desirous of giving up the play.  His eye met mine.  He said,
in a careless way--

"Perhaps, stranger, _you_ wish to take a hand?  You may have my place if
you do.  I have no luck.  I could not win under any circumstances
to-night.  I shall give up playing."

This appeal caused the rest of the players to turn their faces towards
me, and among others the pork-dealer.  I expected an ebullition of anger
from this individual.  I was disappointed.  On the contrary, he hailed
me in a friendly tone.

"Hilloa, mister!" cried he, "I hope you an't miffed at me?"

"Not in the least," I replied.

"Fact, I meant no offence.  Did think thar war a some 'un overboard.
Dog-gone me, if I didn't!"

"Oh!  I have taken no offence," rejoined I; "to prove it, I ask you now
to drink with me."

The juleps and the late reaction from bitter thought had rendered me of
a jovial disposition.  The free apology at once won my forgiveness.

"Good as wheat!" assented the pork-dealer.  "I'm your man; but,
stranger, you must allow me to pay.  You see, I've won a trifle here.
_My_ right to pay for the drinks."

"Oh!  I have no objection."

"Well, then, let's all licker!  _I_ stand drinks all round.  What say
you, fellars?"  A murmur of assent answered the interrogatory.

"Good!" continued the speaker.  "Hyar, bar-keeper! drinks for the
crowd!"

And so saying, he of the white-hat and jeans coat stepped forward to the
bar, and placed a couple of dollars upon the counter.  All who were near
followed him, shouting each out the name of the beverage most to his
liking in the various calls of "gin-sling", "cocktail", "cobbler,"
"julep", "brandy-smash," and such-like interesting mixtures.

In America men do not sit and sip their liquor, but drink standing.
_Running_, one might say--for, be it hot or cold, mixed or "neat," it is
gone in a gulp, and then the drinkers retire to their chairs to smoke,
chew, and wait for the fresh invitation, "Let's all licker!"

In a few seconds we had all liquored, and the players once more took
their seats around the table.

The gentleman who had proposed to me to become his successor did not
return to his place.  He had no luck, he again said, and would not play
any more that night.

Who would accept his place and his partner?  I was appealed to.

I thanked my new acquaintances, but the thing was impossible, as I had
never played Euchre, and therefore knew nothing about the game, beyond
the few points I had picked up while watching them.

"That ar awkward," said the pork-dealer.  "Ain't we nohow able to get up
a set?  Come, Mr Chorley--I believe that's your name, sir?"  (This was
addressed to the gentleman who had risen.) "You ain't a-goin' to desart
us that away?  We can't make up a game if you do?"

"I should only lose if I played longer," reiterated Chorley.  "No,"
continued he, "I won't risk it."

"Perhaps this gentleman plays `whist,'" suggested another, alluding to
me.  "You're an Englishman, sir, I believe.  I never knew one of your
countrymen who was not a good whist-player."

"True, I can play whist," I replied carelessly.

"Well, then, what say you all to a game of whist?" inquired the last
speaker, glancing around the table.

"Don't know much about the game," bluntly answered the pork-dealer.
"Mout play it on a pinch rayther than spoil sport; but whoever hez me
for a partner 'll have to keep a sharp look-out for himself, I reckon."

"I guess you know the game as well as I do," replied the one who had
proposed it.

"I hain't played a rubber o' whist for many a year, but if we can't make
up the set at Euchre, let's try one."

"Oh! if you're goin' to play whist," interposed the gentleman who had
seceded from the game of Euchre--"if you're going to play whist, I don't
mind taking a hand at _that_--it may change my luck--and if this
gentleman has no objection, I'd like him for my partner.  As you say,
sir, Englishmen are good whist-players.  It's their national game, I
believe."

"Won't be a fair match, Mr Chorley," said the dealer in hog-meat; "but
since you propose it, if Mr Hatcher here--your name, sir, I believe?"

"Hatcher is my name," replied the person addressed, the same who
suggested whist.

"If Mr Hatcher here," continued white-hat, "has no objection to the
arrangement, I'll not back out.  Doggoned, if I do!"

"Oh!  I don't care," said Hatcher, in a tone of reckless indifference,
"anything to get up a game."

Now, I was never fond of gambling, either amateur or otherwise, but
circumstances had made me a tolerable whist-player, and I knew there
were few who could beat me at it.  If my partner knew the game as well,
I felt certain we could not be badly damaged; and according to all
accounts he understood it well.  This was the opinion of one or two of
the bystanders, who whispered in my ear that he was a "whole team" at
whist.

Partly from the reckless mood I was in--partly that a secret purpose
urged me on--a purpose which developed itself more strongly afterwards--
and partly that I had been bantered, and, as it were, "cornered" into
the thing, I consented to play--Chorley and I _versus_ Hatcher and the
pork-merchant.

We took our seats--partners _vis-a-vis_--the cards were shuffled, cut,
dealt, and the game began.



CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.

THE GAME INTERRUPTED.

We played the first two or three games for low stakes--a dollar each.
This was agreeable to the desire of Hatcher and the pork-merchant--who
did not like to risk much as they had nearly forgotten the game.  Both,
however, made "hedge bets" freely against my partner, Chorley, and
against any one who chose to take them up.  These bets were on the
turn-up, the colour, the "honours," or the "odd trick."

My partner and I won the two first games, and rapidly.  I noted several
instances of bad play on the part of our opponent.  I began to believe
that they really were not a match for us.  Chorley said so with an air
of triumph, as though we were playing merely for the honour of the
thing, and the stakes were of no consequence.  After a while, as we won
another game, he repeated the boast.

The pork-dealer and his partner seemed to get a little nettled.

"It's the cards," said the latter, with an air of pique.

"Of coorse it's the cards," repeated white-hat.  "Had nothing but darned
rubbish since the game begun.  Thar again!"

"Bad cards again?" inquired his partner with a sombre countenance.

"Bad as blazes! couldn't win corn-shucks with 'em."

"Come, gentlemen!" cried my partner, Chorley; "not exactly fair that--no
hints."

"Bah!" ejaculated the dealer.  "Mout show you my hand, for that matter.
Thar ain't a trick in it."

We won again!

Our adversaries, getting still more nettled at our success, now proposed
doubling the stakes.  This was agreed to, and another game played.

Again Chorley and I were winners, and the pork-man asked his partner if
he would double again.  The latter consented after a little hesitation,
as though he thought the amount too high.  Of course we, the winners,
could not object, and once more we "swept the shin-plasters," as Chorley
euphoniously expressed it.

The stakes were again doubled, and possibly would have increased in the
same ratio again and again had I not made a positive objection.  I
remembered the amount of cash I carried in my pocket, and knew that at
such a rate, should fortune go against us, my purse would not hold out.
I consented, however, to a stake of ten dollars each, and at this amount
we continued the play.

It was well we had not gone higher, for from this time fortune seemed to
desert us.  We lost almost every time, and at the rate of ten dollars a
game.  I felt my purse grow sensibly lighter.  I was in a fair way of
being "cleared out."

My partner, hitherto so cool, seemed to lose patience, at intervals
anathematising the cards, and wishing he had never consented to a game
of "nasty whist."  Whether it was this excitement that caused it I could
not tell, but certainly he played badly--much worse than at the
beginning.  Several times he flung down his cards without thought or
caution.  It seemed as if his temper, ruffled at our repeated losses,
rendered him careless, and even reckless, about the result.  I was the
more surprised at this, as but an hour before at Euchre I had seen him
lose sums of double the amount apparently with the utmost indifference.

We had not bad luck neither.  Each hand our cards were good; and several
times I felt certain we should have won, had my partner played his hand
more skilfully.  As it was, we continued to lose, until I felt satisfied
that nearly half of my money was in the pockets of Hatcher and the
pork-dealer.

No doubt the whole of it would soon have found its way into the same
receptacles, had not our game been suddenly, and somewhat mysteriously,
interrupted.

Some loud words were heard--apparently from the lower deck--followed by
a double report, as of two pistols discharged in rapid succession, and
the moment after a voice called out, "Great God! there's a man shot!"

The cards fell from our fingers--each seized his share of the stakes,
springing to his feet as he did so; and then players, backers,
lookers-on, and all, making for front and side entrances, rushed
_pell-mell_ out of the saloon.

Some ran down stairs--some sprang up to the hurricane-deck--some took
aft, others forward, all crying out "Who is it?"  "Where is he?"  "Who
fired?"  "Is he killed?" and a dozen like interrogatories, interrupted
at intervals by the screams of the ladies in their cabins.  The alarm of
the "woman overboard" was nothing to this new scene of excitement and
confusion.  But what was most mysterious was the fact that no killed or
wounded individual could be found, nor any one who had either fired a
pistol or had seen one fired! no man had been shot, nor had any man shot
him!

What the deuce could it mean?  Who had cried out that some one was shot?
That no one could tell!  Mystery, indeed.  Lights were carried round
into all the dark corners of the boat, but neither dead nor wounded, nor
trace of blood, could be discovered; and at length men broke out in
laughter, and stated their belief that the "hul thing was a hoax."  So
declared the dealer in hog-meat, who seemed rather gratified that he no
longer stood alone as a contriver of false alarms.



CHAPTER FORTY NINE.

THE SPORTSMEN OF THE MISSISSIPPI.

Before things had reached this point, I had gained an explanation of the
mysterious alarm.  I alone knew it, along with the individual who had
caused it.

On hearing the shots, I had run forward under the front awning, and
stood looking over the guards.  I was looking down upon the
boiler-deck--for it appeared to me that the loud words that preceded the
reports had issued thence, though I also thought that the shots had been
fired at some point nearer.

Most of the people had gone out by the side entrances, and were standing
over the gangways, so that I was alone in the darkness, or nearly so.

I had not been many seconds in this situation, when some one glided
alongside of me, and touched me on the arm.  I turned and inquired who
it was, and what was wanted.  A voice answered me in French--

"A friend, Monsieur, who wishes to do you a service."

"Ha, that voice!  It was you, then, who called out--"

"It was."

"And--"

"I who fired the shots--precisely."

"There is no one killed, then?"

"Not that I know of.  My pistol was pointed to the sky--besides it was
loaded blank."

"I'm glad of that, Monsieur; but for what purpose, may I ask, have
you--"

"Simply to do _you_ a service, as I have said."

"But how do you contemplate serving me by firing off pistols, and
frightening the passengers of the boat out of their senses?"

"Oh! as to that, there's no harm done.  They'll soon got over their
little alarm.  I wanted to speak with you alone.  I could think of no
other device to separate you from your new acquaintances.  The firing of
my pistol was only a _ruse_ to effect that purpose.  It has succeeded,
you perceive."

"Ha!  Monsieur, it was you then who whispered the word in my ear as I
sat down to play?"

"Yes; have I not prophesied truly?"

"So far you have.  It was you who stood opposite me in the corner of the
saloon?"

"It was I."

Let me explain these two last interrogatories.  As I was about
consenting to the game of whist, some one plucked my sleeve, and
whispered in French--

"Don't play, Monsieur; you are certain to lose."

I turned in the direction of the speaker, and saw a young man just
leaving my side; but was not certain whether it was he who had given
this prudent counsel.  As is known, I did not heed it.

Again, while engaged in the game, I noticed this same young man standing
in front of me, but in a distant and somewhat dark corner of the saloon.
Notwithstanding the darkness, I saw that his eyes were bent upon me, as
I played.  This fact would have drawn my attention of itself, but there
was also an expression in the face that at once fixed my interest; and,
each time, while the cards were being dealt, I took the opportunity to
turn my eyes upon this strange individual.

He was a slender youth, under the medium height, and apparently scarce
twenty years of age, but a melancholy tone that pervaded his countenance
made him look a little older.  His features were small, but finely
chiselled--the nose and lips resembling more those of a woman.  His
cheek was almost colourless, and dark silky hair fell in profuse curls
over his neck and shoulders; for such at that time was the Creole
fashion.  I felt certain the youth was a Creole, partly from his French
cast of countenance, partly from the fashion and material of his dress,
and partly because he spoke French--for I was under the impression it
was he who had spoken to me.  His costume was altogether of Creole
fashion.  He wore a blouse of brown linen--not after the mode of that
famous garment as known in France--but as the Creole "hunting-shirt,"
with plaited body and gracefully-gathered skirt.  Its material,
moreover,--the fine unbleached linen,--showed that the style was one of
choice, not a mere necessary covering.  His pantaloons were of the
finest sky-blue _cottonade_--the produce of the looms of Opelousas.
They were plaited very full below the waist, and open at the bottoms
with rows of buttons to close them around the ankles when occasion
required.  There was no vest.  Its place was supplied by ample frills of
cambric lace, that puffed out over the breast.  The _chaussure_
consisted of gaiter-bootees of drab lasting-cloth, tipped with patent
leather, and fastened over the front with a silk lace.  A broad-brimmed
Panama hat completed the dress, and gave the finishing touch to this
truly Southern costume.

There was nothing _outre_ about either the shirt, the pantaloons, the
head-dress, or foot-gear.  All were in keeping--all were in a style that
at that period was the _mode_ upon the lower Mississippi.  It was not,
therefore, the dress of this youth that had arrested my attention.  I
had been in the habit of seeing such, every day.  It could not be that.
No--the dress had nothing to do with the interest which he had excited.
Perhaps my regarding him as the author of the brief counsel that had
been uttered in my ear had a little to do with it--but not all.
Independent of that, there was something in the face itself that
forcibly attracted my regard--so forcibly that I began to ponder whether
I had ever seen it before.  If there had been a better light, I might
have resolved the doubt, but he stood in shadow, and I could not get a
fair view of him.

It was just about this time that I missed him from his station in the
corner of the saloon, and a minute or two later were heard the shouts
and shots from without.

"And now, Monsieur, may I inquire why you wish to speak to me, and what
you have to say?"

I was beginning to feel annoyed at the interference of this young
fellow.  A man does not relish being suddenly pulled up from a game of
whist; and not a bit the more that he has been losing at it.

"Why I wish to speak to you is, because I feel an interest in you.  What
I have to say you shall hear."

"An interest in me!  And pray, Sir, to what am I indebted for this
interest?"

"Is it not enough that you are a stranger likely to be plundered of your
purse?--a _green-horn_--"

"How, Monsieur?"

"Nay, do not be angry with me.  That is the phrase which I have heard
applied to you to-night by more than one of your new acquaintances.  If
you return to play with them, I think you will merit the title."

"Come, Monsieur, this is too bad: you interfere in a matter that does
not concern you."

"True, it does not; but it concerns _you_, and yet--ah!"

I was about to leave this meddling youth, and hurry back to the game,
when the strange melancholy tone of his voice caused me to hesitate, and
remain by him a little longer.

"Well," I said, "you have not yet told me what you wished to say."

"Indeed, I have said already.  I have told you not to play--that you
would lose if you did.  I repeat that counsel."

"True, I have lost a little, but it does not follow that fortune will be
always on one side.  It is rather my partner's fault, who seems a bad
player."

"Your partner, if I mistake not, is one of the best players on the
river.  I think I have seen that gentleman before."

"Ha! you know him them?"

"Something of him--not much, but that much I know.  Do _you_ know him?"

"Never saw him before to-night."

"Nor any of the others?"

"They are all equally strangers to me."

"You are not aware, then, that you are playing with _sportsmen_?"

"No, but I am very glad to hear it.  I am something of a sportsman
myself--as fond of dogs, horses, and guns, as any of the three, I
warrant."

"Ha!  Monsieur, you misapprehend.  A sportsman in your country, and a
sportsman in a Mississippi steamboat, are two very distinct things.
Foxes, hares, and partridges, are the game of your sportsman.
Greenhorns and their purses are the game of gentry like these."

"The men with whom I am playing, then, are--"

"Professional gamblers--steamboat sharpers."

"Are you sure of this, Monsieur?"

"Quite sure of it.  Oh!  I often travel up and down to New Orleans.  I
have seen them all before."

"But one of them has the look of a farmer or a merchant, as I thought--a
pork-merchant from Cincinnati--his talk ran that way."

"Farmer--merchant, ha! ha! ha! a farmer without acres--a merchant
without trade!  Monsieur, that simply-dressed old fellow is said to be
the `smartest'--that is the Yankee word--the smartest sportsman in the
Mississippi valley, and such are not scarce, I trow."

"After all, they are strangers to each other, and one of them is my
partner--I do not see how they can--"

"Strangers to each other!" interrupted my new friend.  "Since when have
they become acquainted?  I myself have seen the three in company, and at
the same business, almost every time I have journeyed on the river.
True, they talk to each other as if they had accidentally met.  That is
part of their arrangement for cheating such as you."

"So you believe they have actually been cheating me?"

"Since the stakes have been raised to ten dollars they have."

"But how?"

"Oh, it is very simple.  Sometimes your partner designedly played the
wrong card--"

"Ha!  I see now; I believe it."

"It did not need that though.  Even had you had an honest partner, it
would have been all the same in the end.  Your opponents have a system
of signals by which they can communicate to each other many facts--the
sort of cards they hold,--the colour of the cards, their value, and so
forth.  You did not observe how they placed their fingers upon the edge
of the table.  _I_ did.  One finger laid horizontally denoted one
trump--two fingers placed in a similar manner, two trumps--three for
three, and so on.  A slight curving of the fingers told: how many of the
trumps were honours; a certain movement of the thumbs bespoke an ace;
and in this way each of your adversaries knew almost to a card what his
partner had got.  It needed not the third to bring about the desired
result.  As it was, there were seven knaves about the table--four in the
cards, and three among the players."

"This is infamous!"

"True, I would have admonished you of it sooner; but, of course, I could
not find an opportunity.  It would have been no slight danger for me to
have told you openly, and exposed the rascals.  Hence, the _ruse_ I have
been compelled to adopt.  These are no common swindlers.  Any of the
three would resent the slightest imputation upon their honour.  Two of
them are noted duellists.  Most likely I should have been called out
to-morrow and shot, and you would scarce have thanked me for my
`interference.'"

"My dear sir, I am exceedingly grateful to you.  I am convinced that
what you say is true.  How would you have me act?"

"Simply give up the game--let your losses go--you cannot recover them."

"But I am not disposed to be thus outraged and plundered with impunity.
I shall try another game, watch them, and--"

"No, you would be foolish to do so.  I tell you, Monsieur, these men are
noted duellists as well as black-legs, and possess courage.  One of
them, your partner, has given proof of it by having travelled over three
hundred miles to fight with a gentleman who had slandered him, or rather
had spoken the truth about him!  He succeeded, moreover, in killing his
man.  I tell you, Monsieur, you can gain nothing by quarrelling with
such men, except a fair chance of having a bullet through you.  I know
you are a stranger in our country.  Be advised, then, and act as I have
said.  Leave them to their gains.  It is late: Retire to your
state-room, and think no more on what you have lost."

Whether it was the late excitement consequent upon the false alarm, or
whether it was the strange development I had just listened to, aided by
the cool river breeze, I know not; but the intoxication passed away, and
my brain became clear.  I doubted not for a moment that the young Creole
had told me the truth.  His manner as well as words, connected with the
circumstances that had just transpired, produced full conviction.

I felt impressed with a deep sense of gratitude to him for the service
he had rendered, and at such risk to himself--for even the _ruse_ he had
adopted might have had an awkward ending for him, had any one seen him
fire off his pistols.

Why had he acted thus?  Why this interest in my affairs?  Had he
assigned the true reason?  Was it a feeling of pure chivalry that had
prompted him?  I had heard of just such instances of noble nature among
the Creole-French of Louisiana.  Was this another illustration of that
character?

I say I was impressed with a deep sense of gratitude, and resolved to
follow his advice.

"I shall do as you say," I replied, "on one condition."

"Name it, Monsieur."

"That you will give me your address, so that when we arrive in New
Orleans, I may have the opportunity of renewing your acquaintance, and
proving to you my gratitude."

"Alas, Monsieur!  I have no address."

I felt embarrassed.  The melancholy tone in which these words were
uttered was not to be mistaken; some grief pressed heavily on that young
and generous heart.

It was not for me to inquire into its cause, least of all at that time;
but my own secret sorrow enabled me to sympathise the more deeply with
others, and I felt I stood beside one whose sky was far from serene.  I
felt embarrassed by his answer.  It left me in a delicate position to
make reply.  I said at length--

"Perhaps you will do me the favour to call upon me?  I live at the Hotel
Saint Luis."

"I shall do so with pleasure."

"To-morrow?"

"To-morrow night."

"I shall stay at home for you.  _Bon soir_, Monsieur."

We parted, each taking the way to his state-room.

In ten minutes after I lay in my shelf-like bed, asleep; and in ten
hours after I was drinking my _cafe_ in the Hotel Saint Luis.



CHAPTER FIFTY.

THE CITY.

I am strongly in favour of a country life.  I am a lover of the chase
and the angle.

Perhaps if I were to analyse the feeling, I might find that these
predilections have their source in a purer fountain--the love of Nature
herself.  I follow the deer in his tracks, because they lead me into the
wildest solitudes of the forest--I follow the trout in its stream,
because I am guided into still retreats, by the margin of shady pools,
where human foot rarely treads.  Once in the haunts of the fish and the
game, my sporting energy dies within me.  My rod-spear pierces the turf,
my gun lies neglected by my side, and I yield up my soul to a diviner
dalliance with the beauties of Nature.  Oh, I am a rare lover of the
sylvan scene!

And yet, for all this, I freely admit that the first hours spent in a
great city have for me a peculiar fascination.  A world of new pleasures
is suddenly placed within reach--a world of luxury opened up.  The soul
is charmed with rare joys.  Beauty and song, wine and the dance, vary
their allurements.  Love, or it may be passion, beguiles you into many
an incident of romantic adventure; for romance may be found within the
walled city.  The human heart is its home, and they are but Quixotic
dreamers who fancy that steam and civilisation are antagonistic to the
purest aspirations of poetry.  A sophism, indeed, is the chivalry of the
savage.  His rags, so picturesque, often cover a shivering form and a
hungry stomach.  Soldier though I may claim to be, I prefer the cheering
roll of the busy mill to the thunder of the cannon--I regard the tall
chimney, with its banner of black smoke, a far nobler sight than the
fortress turret with its flouting and fickle flag.  I hear sweet music
in the plashing of the paddle-wheel; and in my ears a nobler sound is
the scream of the iron horse than the neigh of the pampered war-steed.
A nation of monkeys may manage the business of gunpowder: they must be
men to control the more powerful element of steam.

These ideas will not suit the puling sentimentalism of the boudoir and
the boarding-school.  The Quixotism of the modern time will be angry
with the rough writer who thus rudely lays his hand upon the helm of the
mailed knight, and would deflower it of its glory and glossy plumes.  It
is hard to yield up prejudices and preconceptions, however false; and
the writer himself in doing so confesses to the cost of a struggle of no
ordinary violence.  It was hard to give up the Homeric illusion, and
believe that Greeks were men, not demigods--hard to recognise in the
organ-man and the opera-singer the descendants of those heroes portrayed
in the poetic pictures of a Virgil; and yet in the days of my dreamy
youth, when I turned my face to the West, I did so under the full
conviction that the land of prose was before me and the land of poetry
behind my back!

Thanks to Saint Hubert and the golden ring of the word "Mexico," I did
turn my face in that direction: and no sooner had I set foot on those
glorious shores, trodden by a Columbus and a Cortez, than I recognised
the home both of the poetic and the picturesque.  In that very land,
called prosaic--the land of dollars--I inhaled the very acme of the
poetic spirit; not from the rhythm of books, but expressed in the most
beautiful types of the human form, in the noblest impulses of the human
soul, in rock and stream, in bird, and leaf and flower.  In that very
city, which, thanks to perjured and prejudiced travellers, I had been
taught to regard as a sort of outcast camp, I found humanity in its
fairest forms--progress blended with pleasure--civilisation adorned with
the spirit of chivalry as with a wreath.  Prosaic indeed! a
dollar-loving people!  I make bold to assert, that in the concave of
that little crescent where lies the city of New Orleans will be found a
psychological _melange_ of greater variety and interest than exists in
any space of equal extent on the globe's surface.  There the passions,
favoured by the clime, reach their fullest, highest development, Love
and hate, joy and grief, avarice, ambition--all attain to perfect
vigour.  There, too, the moral virtues are met with in full purity.
Cant has there no home, hypocrisy must be deep indeed to avoid exposure
and punishment.  Genius is almost universal--universal, too, is
activity.  The stupid and the slothful cannot exist in this moving world
of busy life and enjoyment.

An ethnological _melange_ as well this singular city presents.  Perhaps
no other city exhibits so great a variety of nationalities as in its
streets.  Founded by the French, held by the Spaniards, "annexed" by the
Americans, these three nations form the elements of its population.  But
you may, nevertheless, there meet with representatives of most other
civilised, and of many "savage" people.  The Turk in his turban, the
Arab in his burnouse, the Chinaman with shaven scalp and queue, the
black son of Africa, the red Indian, the swarthy Mestize, yellow
Mulatto, the olive Malay, the light graceful Creole, and the not less
graceful Quadroon, jostle each other in its streets, and jostle with the
red-blooded races of the North, the German and Gael, the Russ and Swede,
the Fleming, the Yankee, and the Englishman.  An odd human mosaic--a
mottled piebald mixture is the population of the Crescent City.

In truth, New Orleans is a great metropolis, more of a city than places
of much greater population either in Europe or America.  In passing
through its streets you feel that you are not in a provincial town.  Its
shops exhibit the richest goods, of best workmanship.  Palace-like
hotels appear in every street.  Luxurious _cafes_ invite you into their
elegant saloons.  Theatres are there--grand architectural temples--in
which you may witness the drama well performed in French, and German,
and English, and in its season you may listen to the soul-moving music
of the Italian opera.  If you are a lover of the Terpsichorean art, you
will fold New Orleans, _par excellence_, the town to your taste.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I knew the capacities of New Orleans to afford pleasure.  I was
acquainted with the sources of enjoyment, yet I sought them not.  After
a long interval of country life I entered the city without a thought of
its gaieties--a rare event in the life even of the most sedate.  The
masquerades, the quadroon-balls, the drama, the sweet strains of the
Opera, had lost their attractions for me.  No amusement could amuse me
at that moment.  One thought alone had possession of my heart--Aurore!
There was room for no other.

I pondered as to how I should act.

Place yourself in my position, and you will surely acknowledge it a
difficult one.  First, I was in love with this beautiful quadroon--in
love beyond redemption.  Secondly, she, the object of my passion, was
for _sale_, and by _public auction_!  Thirdly, I was jealous--ay
jealous, of that which might be sold and bought like a bale of cotton,--
a barrel of sugar!  Fourthly, I was still uncertain whether I should
have it in my power to become the purchaser.  I was still uncertain
whether my banker's letter had yet reached New Orleans.  Ocean steamers
were not known at this period, and the date of a European mail could not
be relied upon with any degree of certainty.  Should that not come to
hand in due time, then indeed should my misery reach its culminating
point.  Some one else would become possessed of all I held dear on
earth--would be her lord and master--with power to do aught--oh God! the
idea was fearful.  I could not bear to dwell upon it.

Again, even should my letter reach me in time, would the amount I
expected be enough?  Five hundred pounds sterling--five times five--
twenty-five hundred dollars!  Would twenty-five hundred be the price of
that which was priceless?

I even doubted whether it would.  I knew that a thousand dollars was at
that time the "average value" of a slave, and it was rare when one
yielded twice that amount.  It must be a strong-bodied man--a skilful
mechanic, a good blacksmith, an expert barber, to be worth such a sum!

But for Aurore.  Oh!  I had heard strange tales of "fancy prices," for
such a "lot"--of brisk competition in the bidding--of men with long
purses and lustful thoughts eagerly contending for such a prize.

Such thoughts might harrow the soul even under the most ordinary
circumstances! what was their effect upon me?  I cannot describe the
feelings I experienced.

Should the sum reach me in time--should it prove enough--should I even
succeed in becoming the _owner_ of Aurore, what then?  What if my
jealousy were well founded?  What if she loved me not?  Worse dilemma
than ever.  I should only have her body--then her heart and soul would
be another's.  I should live in exquisite torture--the slave of a slave!

Why should I attempt to purchase her at all?  Why not make a bold
effort, and free myself from this delirious passion?  She is not worthy
of the sacrifice I would make for her.  No--she has deceived me--surely
she has deceived me.  Why not break my promise, plighted though it be in
words of fervid love?  Why not flee from the spot, and endeavour to
escape the torture that is maddening both my heart and brain?  Oh! why
not?

In calmer moments, such questions might be thought worthy of an answer.
I could not answer them.  I did not even entertain them,--though, like
shadows, they flitted across my mind.  In the then state of my feelings,
prudence was unknown.  Expediency had no place.  I would not have
listened to its cold counsels.  You who have passionately loved can
alone understand me.  I was resolved to risk fortune, fame, life--all--
to possess the object I so deeply adored.



CHAPTER FIFTY ONE.

VENTE IMPORTANTE DES NEGRES.

"_L'abeille_, Monsieur?"

The _garcon_ who helped me to the fragrant cup, at the same time handed
me a newspaper fresh from the press.

It was a large sheet, headed upon one side "L'Abeille", on the reverse
its synonyme in English, "The Bee."  Half of its contents were in
French, half in English: each half was a counterpart--a translation of
the other.

I mechanically took the journal from the hand of the waiter, but without
either the design or inclination to read it.  Mechanically my eyes
wandered over its broad-sheet--scarce heeding the contents.

All at once, the heading of an advertisement fixed my gaze and my
attention.  It was on the "French side" of the paper.

"Annoncement."

"_Vente importante des Negres_!"  Yes--it was they.  The announcement
was no surprise to me.  I expected as much.

I turned to the translation on the reverse page, in order to comprehend
it more clearly.  There it was in all its broad black meaning:--

"_Important Sale of Negroes_!"  I read on:--"_Estate in Bankruptcy.
Plantation Besancon_!"

"Poor Eugenie!"

Farther:--

"_Forty able-bodied field-hands, of different ages.  Several first-rate
domestic servants, coachman, cooks, chamber-maids, wagon-drivers.  A
number of likely mulatto boys and girls, from ten to twenty_," etcetera,
etcetera.

The list followed _in extenso_.  I read--

"Lot 1.  _Scipio, 48.  Able-bodied black, 5 foot 11 inches, understands
house-work, and the management of horses.  Sound and without blemish_.

"Lot 2.  _Hannibal, 40.  Dark mulatto, 5 foot 9 inches, good coachman,
sound and steady_.

"Lot 3.  _Cesar, 43.  Black field-hand.  Sound_," etcetera, etcetera.

My eyes could not wait for the disgusting details.  They ran down the
column in search of that name.  They would have lit upon it sooner, but
that my hands trembled, and the vibratory motion of the sheet almost
prevented me from reading.  It was there at length--_last upon the
list_!  "Why last?"  No matter--her "description" was there.

Can I trust myself to read it?  Down, burning heart, still your wild
throbbings!

"Lot 65.  _Aurore. 19.  Quadroon.  Likely_--_good housekeeper, and
sempstress_."

Portrait sketched by refined pen--brief and graphic.

"Likely," ha! ha! ha!  "Likely," ha! ha!  The brute who wrote that
paragraph would have described Venus as a likely gal.

'Sdeath!  I cannot jest--this desecration of all that is lovely--all
that is sacred--all that is dear to my heart, is torture itself.  The
blood is boiling in my veins--my bosom is wrung with dire emotions!

The journal fell from my hands, and I bent forward over the table, my
fingers clutching each other.  I could have groaned aloud had I been
alone.  But I was not.  I sat in the great refectory of the hotel.  Men
were near who would have jeered at my agony had they but known its
cause.

Some minutes elapsed before I could reflect on what I had read.  I sat
in a kind of stupor, brought on by the violence of my emotions.

Reflection came at length, and my first thought was of action.  More
than ever did I now desire to become the purchaser of the beautiful
slave--to redeem her from this hideous bondage.  I should buy her.  I
should set her free.  True or false to me, I should accomplish this all
the same.  I should make no claim for gratitude.  She should choose for
herself.  She should be free, if not in the disposal of her gratitude,
at least in that of her love.  A love based only on gratitude would not
content me.  Such could not last.  Her heart should freely bestow
itself.  If I had already won it, well.  If not, and it had fixed its
affection upon another--mine be the grief.  Aurore, at all events, shall
be happy.

My love had elevated my soul--had filled it with such noble resolves.

And now to set her free.

When was this hideous exhibition--this "Important Sale," to come off?
When was my betrothed to be sold, and I to assist at the spectacle?

I took up the paper again to ascertain the time and place.  The place I
knew well--the Rotundo of the Saint Louis exchange--adjoining the hotel,
and within twenty yards of where I sat.  That was the slave-market.  But
the time--it was of more importance--indeed of all importance.  Strange
I did not think of this before!  Should it be at an early date, and my
letter not have arrived!  I dared not trust myself with such a
supposition.  Surely it would be a week--several days, at the least--
before a sale of so much importance would take place.  Ha! it may have
been advertised for some days.  The <DW64>s may have been brought down
only at the last moment!

My hands trembled, as my eyes sought the paragraph.  At length they
rested upon it.  I read with painful surprise:--

"_To-morrow at twelve_!"

I looked to the date of the journal.  All correct.  It was the issue of
that morning.  I looked to the dial on the wall.  The clock was on the
stroke of _twelve_!  Just one day to elapse.

"O God! if my letter should not have arrived!"

I drew forth my purse, and mechanically told over its contents.  I knew
not why I did so.  I knew it contained but a hundred dollars.  The
"sportsmen" had reduced it in bulk.  When I had finished counting it, I
could not help smiling at the absurdity of the thing.  "A hundred
dollars _for the quadroon!  Likely_--_good housekeeper, etcetera! a
hundred dollars bid_!"  The auctioneer would not be likely to repeat the
bid.

All now depended on the English mail.  If it had not arrived already, or
did not before the morning, I would be helpless.  Without the letter on
my New Orleans banker, I could not raise fifty pounds--watch, jewels,
and all.  As to borrowing, I did not think of such a thing.  Who was to
lend me money?  Who to an almost perfect stranger would advance such a
sum as I required?  No one I felt certain.  Reigart could not have
helped me to so large an amount, even had there been time to communicate
with him.  No--there was no one who _would_, that _could_ have favoured
me.  No one I could think of.

"Stop:"--the banker himself!  Happy thought, the banker Brown!  Good,
generous Brown, of the English house, Brown and Co., who, with smiling
face, has already cashed my drafts for me.  He will do it!  The very
man!  Why did I not think of him sooner?  Yes; if the letter have not
reached him I shall tell him that I expect it every day, and its amount.
He will advance the money.

"Twelve o'clock gone.  There is no time to be lost.  He's in his
counting-house by this.  I shall at once apply to him."

I seized my hat, and hastening out of the hotel, took my way through the
streets towards the banking-house of Brown and Co.



CHAPTER FIFTY TWO.

BROWN AND CO.

The banking-house of Brown and Co. was in Canal Street.  From the Saint
Louis Exchange, Canal Street may be approached by the Rue Conti, or the
parallel street of the Rue Royale.  The latter is the favourite
promenade of the gay Creole-French, as Saint Charles Street is for the
fashionable Americans.

You will wonder at this _melange_ of French and English in the
nomenclature of streets.  The truth is, that New Orleans has a
peculiarity somewhat rare.  It is composed of two distinct cities--a
French and an American one.  I might even say _three_, for there is a
Spanish quarter with a character distinct from either, and where you may
see on the corner the Spanish designation "Calle," as the _Calle de
Casacalvo, Calle del Obispo_, etcetera.  This peculiarity is explained
by referring to the history of Louisiana.  It was colonised by the
French in the early part of the eighteenth century, New Orleans being
founded in 1717.  The French held Louisiana till 1762, when it was ceded
to Spain, and remained in her possession for a period of nearly fifty
years--till 1798, when France once more became its master.  Five years
after, in 1803, Napoleon sold this valuable country to the American
government for 15,000,000 of dollars--the best bargain which Brother
Jonathan has ever made, and apparently a slack one on the part of
Napoleon.  After all, Napoleon was right.  The sagacious Corsican, no
doubt, foresaw that it could not have long remained the property of
France.  Sooner or later the American flag would wave over the Crescent
City, and Napoleon's easy bargain has no doubt saved America a war, and
France a humiliation.

This change of masters will explain the peculiarity of the population of
New Orleans.  The characteristics of all three nations are visible in
its streets, in its houses, in the features, habits, and dress of its
citizens.  In nothing are the national traces more distinctly marked
than in the different styles of architecture.  In the American quarter
you have tall brick dwellings, several stories in height, their shining
fronts half occupied with rows of windows, combining the light and
ornamental with the substantial and useful.  This is typical of the
Anglo-American.  Equally typical of the French character are the light
wooden one-storey houses, painted in gay colours, with green verandah
palings; windows that open as doors, and a profusion of gauzy curtains
hanging behind them.

Equally a type of the grand solemn character of the Spaniard, are the
massive sombre structures of stone and lime, of the imposing Moorish
style, that is still seen in many of the streets of New Orleans.  Of
these, the Great Cathedral is a fine specimen--that will stand as a
monument of Spanish occupancy, long after both the Spanish and French
population has been absorbed and melted down in the alembic of the
Anglo-American propagandism.  The American part of New Orleans is that
which is highest on the river--known as the Faubourgs Saint Mary and
Annunciation.  Canal Street separates it from the French quarter--which
last is the old city, chiefly inhabited by Creole-French and Spaniards.

A few years ago, the French and American populations were about equal.
Now the Saxon element predominates, and rapidly absorbs all the others.
In time the indolent Creole must yield to the more energetic American--
in other words, New Orleans will be Americanised.  Progress and
civilisation will gain by this, at the expense--according to the
sentimental school--of the poetic and picturesque.

Two distinct cities, then, are there in New Orleans.  Each has its
Exchange distinct from the other--a distinct municipal court and public
offices--each has its centre of fashionable resort--its favourite
promenade for the _flaneurs_, of which the South-western metropolis can
boast a large crowd--its own theatres, ballrooms, hotels, and cafes.  In
fact, a walk of a few paces transports one into quite a different world.
The crossing of Canal Street is like being transferred from Broadway to
the Boulevards.

In their occupations there is a wide difference between the inhabitants
of the two quarters.  The Americans deal in the strong staples of human
life.  The great depots of provisions, of cotton, of tobacco, of lumber,
and the various sorts of raw produce, will be found among them.  On the
other hand, the finer fabrics, the laces, the jewels, the modes and
modistes, the silks and satins, and all articles of _bijouterie_ and
_virtu_, pass through the lighter fingers of the Creoles--for these
inherit both the skill and taste of their Parisian progenitors.  Fine
old rich wine-merchants, too, will be found in the French part, who have
made fortunes by importing the wines of Bordeaux and Champagne--for
claret and champagne are the wines that flow most freely on the banks of
the Mississippi.

A feeling of jealousy is not wanting between the two races.  The strong
energetic Kentuckian affects to despise the gay pleasure-loving
Frenchman, while the latter--particularly the old Creole noblesse--
regard with contempt the _bizarrerie_ of the Northern, so that feuds and
collisions between them are not infrequent.  New Orleans is, _par
excellence_, the city of the duello.  In all matters of this kind the
Kentuckian finds the Creole quite his equal--his full match in spirit,
courage, and skill.  I know many Creoles who are notorious for the
number of their duels.  An opera-singer or _danseuse_ frequently causes
half a score or more--according to her merits, or mayhap her demerits.
The masqued and quadroon-balls are also frequent scenes of quarrel among
the wine-heated bloods who frequent them.  Let no one fancy that life in
New Orleans is without incident or adventure.  A less prosaic city it
would be hard to find.

These subjects did _not_ come before my mind as I walked towards the
banking-house of Brown and Co.  My thoughts were occupied with a far
different theme--one that caused me to press on with an agitated heart
and hurried steps.

The walk was long enough to give me time for many a hypothetic
calculation.  Should my letter and the bill of exchange have arrived, I
should be put in possession of funds at once,--enough, as I supposed,
for my purpose--enough to buy my slave-bride!  If not yet arrived, how
then?  Would Brown advance the money?  My heart throbbed audibly as I
asked myself this question.  Its answer, affirmative or negative, would
be to me like the pronouncement of a sentence of life or death.

And yet I felt more than half certain that Brown would do so.  I could
not fancy his smiling generous John-Bull face clouded with the
seriousness of a refusal.  Its great importance to me at that moment--
the certainty of its being repaid, and in a few days, or hours at the
farthest--surely he would not deny me!  What to him, a man of millions,
could be the inconvenience of advancing five hundred pounds?  Oh! he
would do it to a certainty.  No fear but he would do it!

I crossed the threshold of the man of money, my spirits buoyant with
sweet anticipation.  When I recrossed it my soul was saddened with
bitter disappointment.  My letter had not yet arrived--Brown refused the
advance!

I was too inexperienced in business to comprehend its sordid
calculations--its cold courtesy.  What cared the banker for my pressing
wants?  What to him was my ardent appeal?  Even had I told him my
motives, my object, it would have been all the same.  That game cold
denying smile would have been the reply--ay, even had my life depended
upon it.

I need not detail the interview.  It was brief enough.  I was told, with
a bland smile, that my letter had not yet come to hand.  To my proposal
for the advance the answer was blunt enough.  The kind generous smile
blanked off Brown's ruddy face.  It was not business.  It could not be
done.  There was no sign thrown out--no invitation to talk farther.  I
might have appealed in a more fervent strain.  I might have confessed
the purpose for which I wanted the money, but Brown's face gave me no
encouragement.  Perhaps it was as well I did not.  Brown would have
chuckled over my delicate secret.  The town, over its tea-table, would
have relished it as a rich joke.

Enough--my letter had not arrived--Brown refused the advance.  With Hope
behind me and Despair in front, I hurried back to the hotel.



CHAPTER FIFTY THREE.

EUGENE D'HAUTEVILLE.

The remainder of the day I was occupied in searching for Aurore.  I
could learn nothing of her--not even whether she had yet reached the
city!

In search of her I went to the quarters where the others had their
temporary lodgment.  She was not these.  She had either not yet arrived,
or was kept at some other place.  They had not seen her!  They knew
nothing about her.

Disappointed and wearied with running through the hot and dusty streets,
I returned to the hotel.

I waited for night.  I waited for the coming of Eugene d'Hauteville, for
such was the name of my new acquaintance.

I was strangely interested in this young man.  Our short interview had
inspired me with a singular confidence in him.  He had given proof of a
friendly design towards me; and still more had impressed me with a high
idea of his knowledge of the world.  Young as he was, I could not help
fancying him a being possessed of some mysterious power.  I could not
help thinking that in some way he might aid me.  There was nothing
remarkable in his being so young and still _au-fait_ to all the
mysteries of life.  Precocity is the privilege of the American,
especially the native of New Orleans.  A Creole at fifteen is a man.

I felt satisfied that D'Hauteville--about my own age--knew far more of
the world than I, who had been half my life cloistered within the walls
of an antique university.

I had an instinct that he both _could_ and _would_ serve me.

How? you may ask.  By lending me the money I required?

It could not be thus.  I believed that he was himself without funds, or
possessed of but little--far too little to be of use to me.  My reason
for thinking so was the reply he had made when I asked for his address.
There was something in the tone of his answer that led me to the thought
that he was without fortune--even without a home.  Perhaps a clerk out
of place, thought I; or a poor artist.  His dress was rich enough--but
dress is no criterion on a Mississippi steamboat.

With these reflections it was strange I should have been impressed with
the idea _he_ could serve me!  But I was so, and had therefore resolved
to make him the confidant of my secret--the secret of my love--the
secret of my misery.

Perhaps another impulse acted upon me, and aided in bringing me to this
determination.  He whose heart has been charged with a deep grief must
know the relief which sympathy can afford.  The sympathy of friendship
is sweet and soothing.  There is balm in the counsel of a kind
companion.

My sorrow had been long pent up within my own bosom, and yearned to find
expression.  Stranger among strangers, I had no one to share it with me.
Even to the good Reigart I had not confessed myself.  With the
exception of Aurore herself, Eugenie--poor Eugenie--was alone mistress
of my secret.  Would that she of all had never known it!

Now to this youth Eugene--strange coincidence of name!--I was resolved
to impart it--resolved to unburden my heart.  Perhaps, in so doing I
might find consolation or relief.

I waited for the night.  It was at night he had promised to come.  I
waited with impatience--with my eyes bent almost continuously on the
index finger of time, and chafing at the slow measured strokes of the
pendulum.

I was not disappointed.  He came at length.  His silvery voice rang in
my ears, and he stood before me.

As he entered my room, I was once more struck with the melancholy
expression of his countenance--the pale cheek--the resemblance to some
face I had met before.

The room was close and hot.  The summer had not yet quite departed.  I
proposed a walk.  We could converse as freely in the open air, and there
was a lovely moon to light us on our way.

As we sallied forth, I offered my visitor a cigar.  This he declined,
giving his reason.  He did not smoke.

Strange, thought I, for one of a race, who almost universally indulge in
the habit.  Another peculiarity in the character of my new acquaintance!

We passed up the Rue Royale, and turned along Canal Street in the
direction of the "Swamp."  Presently we crossed the Rue des Rampartes,
and soon found ourselves outside the limits of the city.

Some buildings appeared beyond, but they were not houses--at least not
dwelling-places for the living.  The numerous cupolas crowned with
crosses--the broken columns--the monuments of white marble, gleaming
under the moon, told us that we looked upon a city of the dead.  It was
the great cemetery of New Orleans--that cemetery where the poor after
death are _drowned_, and the rich fare no better, for they are _baked_!

The gate stood open--the scene within invited me--its solemn character
was in unison with my spirit.  My companion made no objection, and we
entered.

After wending our way among tombs, and statues, and monuments; miniature
temples, columns, obelisks, sarcophagi carved in snow-white marble--
passing graves that spoke of recent affliction--others of older date,
but garnished with fresh flowers--the symbols of lore or affection that
still lingered--we seated ourselves upon a moss-grown slab, with the
fronds of the Babylonian willow waving above our heads, and drooping
mournfully around us.



CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR.

PITY FOR LOVE.

Along the way we had conversed upon several topics indifferently--of my
gambling adventure on the boat--of the "sportsmen" of New Orleans--of
the fine moonlight.

Until after entering the cemetery, and taking our seats upon the tomb, I
had disclosed nothing of that which altogether engrossed my thoughts.
The time had now arrived for unbosoming myself, and half-an-hour after
Eugene D'Hauteville knew the story of my love.

I confided to him all that had occurred from the time of my leaving New
Orleans, up to the period of our meeting upon the Houma.  My interview
with the banker Brown, and my fruitless search that day for Aurore, were
also detailed.

From first to last he listened without interrupting me; only once, when
I described the scene of my confession to Eugenie, and its painful
ending.  The details of this seemed to interest him exceedingly--in
fact, to give him pain.  More than once I was interrupted by his sobs,
and by the light of the moon I could see that he was in tears!

"Noble youth!" thought I, "thus to be affected by the sufferings of a
stranger!"

"Poor Eugenie!" murmured he, "is _she_ not to be pitied?"

"Pitied! ah, Monsieur; you know not how much I pity her!  That scene
will never be effaced from my memory.  If pity--friendship--any
sacrifice could make amends, how willingly would I bestow it upon her--
all but that which is not in my power to give--my love.  Deeply,
Monsieur D'Hauteville--deeply do I grieve for that noble lady.  Oh, that
I could pluck the sting from her heart which I have been the innocent
cause of placing there.  But surely she will recover from this
unfortunate passion?  Surely in time--"

"Ah! never! never!" interrupted D'Hauteville, with an earnestness of
manner that surprised me.

"Why say you so, Monsieur?"

"Why?--because I have some skill in such affairs; young as you think me,
_I_ have experienced a similar misfortune.  Poor Eugenie!  _Such a wound
is hard to heal_; she will not recover from it.  Ah--never!"

"Indeed, I pity her--with my whole soul I pity her."

"You should seek her and say so."

"Why?"  I asked, somewhat astonished at the suggestion.

"Perhaps your pity expressed to her might give consolation."

"Impossible.  It would have the contrary effect."

"You misjudge, Monsieur.  Unrequited love is far less hard to bear when
it meets with sympathy.  It is only haughty contempt and heartless
triumph that wring blood-drops from the heart.  Sympathy is balm to the
wounds of love.  Believe me it is so.  _I feel it to be so.  Oh!  I feel
it to be_ so!"

The last two phrases he spoke with an earnestness that sounded strangely
in my ears.

"Mysterious youth!" thought I.  "So gentle, so compassionate, and yet so
worldly-wise!"

I felt as though I conversed with some spiritual being--some superior
mind, who comprehended all.

His doctrine was new to me, and quite contrary to the general belief.
At a later period of my life I became convinced of its truth.

"If I thought my sympathy would have such an effect," replied I, "I
should seek Eugenie--I should offer her--"

"There will be a time for that afterward," said D'Hauteville,
interrupting me; "your present business is more pressing.  You purpose
to _buy this quadroon_?"

"I did so this morning.  Alas!  I have no longer a hope.  It will not be
in my power."

"How much money have these sharpers left you?"

"Not much over one hundred dollars."

"Ha! that will not do.  From your description of her she will bring ten
times the amount.  A misfortune, indeed!  My own purse is still lighter
than yours.  I have not a hundred dollars.  _Pardieu_! it is a sad
affair."

D'Hauteville pressed his head between his hands, and remained for some
moments silent, apparently in deep meditation.  From his manner I could
not help believing that he really sympathised with me, and that he was
thinking of some plan to assist me.

"After all," he muttered to himself, just loud enough for me to hear
what was said, "if she should not succeed--if she should not find the
papers--then she, too, must be a sacrifice.  Oh! it is a terrible risk.
It might be better not--it might be--"

"Monsieur!"  I said, interrupting him, "of what are you speaking?"

"Oh!--ah! pardon me: it is an affair I was thinking of--_n'importe_.  We
had better return, Monsieur.  It is cold.  The atmosphere of this solemn
place chills me."

He said all this with an air of embarrassment, as though he had been
speaking his thoughts unintentionally.

Though astonished at what he had uttered, I could not press him for an
explanation; but, yielding to his wish, I rose up to depart.  I had lost
hope.  Plainly he had it not in his power to serve me.

At this moment a resource suggested itself to my mind, or rather the
forlorn hope of a resource.

I communicated it to my companion.

"I have still these two hundred dollars," said I, "They are of no more
service to me for the purchase of Aurore than if they were so many
pebbles.  Suppose I try to increase the amount at the gaming-table?"

"Oh, I fear it would be an idle attempt.  You would lose as before."

"That is not so certain, Monsieur.  The chances at least are equal.  I
need not play with men of skill, like those upon the boat.  Here in New
Orleans there are gaming-houses, plenty of them, where _games of chance_
are carried on.  These are of various kinds--as _faro, craps, loto_, and
_roulette_.  I can choose some one of these, where bets are made on the
tossing of a die or the turning of a card.  It is just as likely I may
win as lose.  What say you, Monsieur?  Give me your counsel."

"You speak truly," replied he.  "There is a chance in the game.  It
offers a hope of your winning.  If you lose, you will be no worse off as
regards your intentions for to-morrow.  If you win--"

"True, true--if I win--"

"You must not lose time, then.  It is growing late.  These gaming-houses
should be open at this hour: no doubt, they are now in the very tide of
their business.  Let us find one."

"You will go with me?  Thanks, Monsieur D'Hauteville!
Thanks--_allons_!"

We hastily traversed the walk that led to the entrance of the cemetery;
and, issuing from the gate, took our way back into the town.

We headed for our point of departure--the Rue Saint Louis; for I knew
that in that neighbourhood lay the principal gambling hells.

It was not difficult to find them.  At that period there was no
concealment required in such matters.  The gambling passion among the
Creoles, inherited from the original possessors of the city, was too
rife among all classes to be put down by a police.  The municipal
authorities in the American quarter had taken some steps toward the
suppression of this vice; but their laws had no force on the French side
of Canal Street; and Creole police had far different ideas, as well as
different instructions.  In the French faubourgs gaming was not
considered so hideous a crime, and the houses appropriated to it were
open and avowed.

As you passed along Rue Conti, or Saint Louis, or the Rue Bourbon, you
could not fail to notice several large gilded lamps, upon which you
might read "faro" and "craps", "loto" or "roulette,"--odd words to the
eyes of the uninitiated, but well enough understood by those whose
business it was to traverse the streets of the "First Municipality."

Our hurrying stops soon brought us in front of one of these
establishments, whose lamp told us in plain letters that "faro" was
played inside.

It was the first that offered; and, without hesitating a moment, I
entered, followed by D'Hauteville.

We had to climb a wide stairway, at the top of which we were received by
a whiskered and moustached fellow in waiting.  I supposed that he was
about to demand some fee for admission.  I was mistaken in my
conjecture.  Admission was perfectly free.  The purpose of this
individual in staying us was to divest us of arms, for which he handed
us a ticket, that we might reclaim them in going out.  That he had
disarmed a goodly number before our turn came, was evident from the
numerous butts of pistols, hafts of bowie-knives, and handles of
daggers, that protruded from the pigeon-holes of a shelf-like structure
standing in one corner of the passage.

The whole proceeding reminded me of the scenes I had often witnessed--
the surrender of canes, umbrellas, and parasols, on entering a
picture-gallery or a museum.  No doubt it was a necessary precaution--
the non-observance of which would have led to many a scene of blood over
the gaming-table.

We yielded up our weapons--I a pair of pistols, and my companion a small
silver dagger.  These were ticketed, duplicates delivered to us, and we
were allowed to pass on into the "_saloon_."



CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE.

ON GAMES AND GAMBLING.

The passion of gaming is universal amongst men.  Every nation indulges
in it to a greater or less extent.  Every nation, civilised or savage,
has its game, from whist and cribbage at Almacks to "chuck-a-luck" and
"poke-stick" upon the prairies.

Moral England fancies herself clear of the stain.  Her gossiping
traveller rarely fails to fling a stone at the foreigner on this head.
French, German, Spaniard, and Mexican, are in turn accused of an undue
propensity for this vice.  Cant--all cant!  There is more gambling in
moral England than in any country of my knowing.  I do not speak of
card-playing about the purlieus of Piccadilly.  Go to Epsom races on a
"Derby day," and there you may form an idea of the scale upon which
English gaming is carried on--for gaming it is in the very lowest sense
of the word.  Talk of "noble sport,"--of an admiration for that fine
animal--the horse.  Bah!  Noble, indeed!  Fancy those seedy scamps, who
in thousands and tens of thousands flock upon every race-course,--fancy
them and their harlotic companions possessed with the idea of anything
fine or noble!  Of all who crowd there the horse alone is noble--naught
could be more ignoble than his _entourage_.

No, moral England!  You are no pattern for the nations in this respect.
You are not free from the stain, as you imagine yourself.  You have a
larger population of gamblers,--_horse-gamblers_ if you will, than any
other people; and, however noble be your game, I make bold to affirm
that your gamesters are the seediest, snobbiest, and most revolting of
the tribe.  There is something indescribably mean in the life and habits
of those hungry-looking vultures who hang about the corners of Coventry
Street and the Haymarket, out at elbows, out at heels, sneaking from
tavern to betting-house, and from betting-house to tavern.  There is a
meanness, a positive cowardice in the very nature of their game,--their
small ventures and timid "hedging" of bets.  In comparison, the bold
ringer of dice has something _almost_ noble in him.  Your apathetic Don,
who stakes his gold onzas on a single throw of the ivory--your Mexican
monte-player, who risks his doubloons on each turn of the cards,--are,
to some extent, dignified by the very boldness of their venture.  With
them gambling is a passion--its excitement their lure; but Brown, and
Smith, and Jones, cannot even plead _the passion_.  Even _that_ would
exalt them.

Of all gamblers by profession the "sportsman" of the Mississippi Valley
is perhaps the most picturesque.  I have already alluded to their
elegant style of attire, but, independent of that, there is a dash of
the gentleman--a certain _chivalresqueness_ of character which
distinguishes them from all others of their calling.  During the wilder
episodes of my life I have been _honoured_ with the acquaintance of more
than one of these _gentlemen_, and I cannot help bearing a somewhat high
testimony in their favour.  Several have I met of excellent moral
character,--though, perhaps, not quite up to the standard of Exeter
Hall.  Some I have known of noble and generous hearts--doers of noble
actions--who, though outcasts in society, were not outcasts to their own
natures; men who would bravely resent the slightest insult that might be
put upon them.  Of course there were others, as the Chorleys and
Hatchers, who would scarce answer to this description of Western
"sportsmen"--but I really believe that such are rather the exception
than the rule.  A word about the "games of America."  The true national
game of the United States is the "election."  The local or state
elections afford so many opportunities of betting, just as the minor
horse-races do in England; while the great quadrennial, the Presidential
election, is the "Derby day" of America.  The enormous sums that change
hands upon such occasions, and the enormous number of them, would be
incredible.  A statistic of these bets, could such be given, and their
amount, would surprise even the most "enlightened citizen" of the States
themselves.  Foreigners cannot understand the intense excitement which
is felt during an election time throughout the United States.  It would
be difficult to explain it, in a country where men generally know that
the fate of the particular candidate has, after all, but a slight
influence on their material interests.  True, party spirit and the great
stake of all--the "spoils" of office--will account for some of the
interest taken in the result, but not for all.  I am of opinion that the
"balance" of the excitement may be set down to the credit of the gaming
passion.  Nearly every second man you meet has a bet, or rather a
"book," upon the Presidential election!

Election, therefore, is the true national game, indulged in by high,
low, rich, and poor.

To bet upon an election, however, is not considered _infra dig_.  It is
not _professional_ gambling.

The games for that purpose are of various kinds--in most of which cards
are relied upon to furnish the chances.  Dice and billiards are also in
vogue--billiards to a considerable extent.  It is a very mean village in
the United States--particularly in the South and West--that does not
furnish one or more public billiard-tables; and among Americans may be
found some of the most expert (crack) players in the world.  The
"Creoles" of Louisiana are distinguished at this game.

"Ten-pins" is also a very general game, and every town has its "ten-pin
alley."  But "billiards" and "ten-pins" are not true "gambling games."
The first is patronised rather as an elegant amusement, and the latter
as an excellent exercise.  Cards and dice are the real weapons of the
"sportsman," but particularly the former.  Besides the English games of
whist and cribbage, and the French games of "vingt-un", "rouge-et-noir,"
etcetera, the American gambler plays "poker", "euchre", "seven-up," and
a variety of others.  In New Orleans there is a favourite of the Creoles
called "craps," a dice game, and "keno," and "loto," and "roulette,"
played with balls and a revolving wheel.  Farther to the South, among
the Spano-Mexicans, you meet the game of "monte,"--a card game, distinct
from all the others.  Monte is the national game of Mexico.

To all other modes of getting at your money, the South-Western sportsman
prefers "faro."  It is a game of Spanish origin, as its name imports;
indeed, it differs but little from monte, and was no doubt obtained from
the Spaniards of New Orleans.  Whether native or exotic to the towns of
the Mississippi Valley, in all of them it has become perfectly
naturalised; and there is no sportsman of the West who does not
understand and practise it.

The game of faro is simple enough.  The following are its leading
features:--

A green cloth or baize covers the table.  Upon this the thirteen cards
of a suite are laid out in two rows, with their faces turned up.  They
are usually attached to the cloth by gum, to prevent them from getting
out of place.

A square box, like an overgrown snuff-box, is next produced.  It is of
the exact size and shape to hold two packs of cards.  It is of solid
silver.  Any other metal would serve as well; but a professed "faro
dealer" would scorn to carry a mean implement of his calling.  The
object of this box is to hold the cards to be dealt, and to assist in
dealing them.  I cannot explain the internal mechanism of this
mysterious box; but I can say that it is without a lid, open at one
edge--where the cards are pressed in--and contains an interior spring,
which, touched by the finger of the dealer, pushes out the cards one by
one as they lie in the pack.  This contrivance is not at all essential
to the game, which may be played without the box.  Its object is to
insure a fair deal, as no card can be recognised by any mark on its
back, since up to the moment of drawing they are all invisible within
the box.  A stylish "faro box" is the ambition of every "faro dealer"--
the specific title of all "sportsmen" whose game is faro.

Two packs of cards, well shuffled, are first put into the box; and the
dealer, resting the left hand upon it, and holding the right in
readiness, with the thumb extended, pauses a moment until some bets are
made.  The "dealer" is in reality your antagonist in the game; he is the
"banker" who pays all your gains, and pockets all your losses.  As many
may bet as can sit or stand around the table; but all are betting
against the dealer himself.  Of course, in this case, the faro dealer
must be something of a proprietor to play the game at all; and the "faro
bank" has usually a capital of several thousands of dollars--often
hundreds of thousands to back it!  Not unfrequently, after an unlucky
run, the bank gets "broke;" and the proprietor of it may be years before
he can establish another.  An assistant or "croupier" usually sits
beside the dealer.  His business is to exchange the "cheques" for money,
to pay the bets lost, and gather in those which the bank has won.

The cheques used in the game are pieces of ivory of circular form, of
the diameter of dollars: they are white, red, or blue, with the value
engraved upon them, and they are used as being more convenient than the
money itself.  When any one wishes to leave off playing, he can demand
from the bank to the amount specified on the cheques he may then hold.

The simplest method of betting "against faro" is by placing the money on
the face of any particular one of the cards that lie on the table.  You
may choose which you will of the thirteen.  Say you have selected the
ace, and placed your money upon the face of that card.  The dealer then
commences, and "draws" the cards out of the box one by one.  After
drawing each two he makes a pause.  Until two aces follow each other,
with no other card between, there is no decision.  When two aces come
together the bet is declared.  If both appear in the drawing of the two
cards, then the dealer takes your money; if only one is pulled out, and
the other follows in the next drawing, you have won.  You may then renew
your bet upon the ace--double it if you will, or remove it to any other
card--and these changes you may make at any period of the deal--provided
it is not done after the first of the two cards has been drawn.

Of course the game goes on, whether you play or not.  The table is
surrounded by betters; some on one card, some on another; some by
"paralee," on two or more cards at a time; so that there is a constant
"falling due" of bets, a constant rattling of cheques and chinking of
dollars.

It is all a game of chance.  "Skill" has naught to do with the game of
faro; and you might suppose, as many do, that the chances are exactly
equal for the dealer and his opponents.  Such, however, is not the case;
a peculiar arrangement of the cards produces a percentage in favour of
the former, else there would be no faro bank; and although a rare run of
ill-fortune may go against the dealer for a time, if he can only hold
out long enough, he is "bound to beat you" in the end.

A similar percentage will be against you in all games of chance--"faro,"
"monte," or "craps," wherever you bet against a "banker."  Of course the
banker will not deny this, but answers you, that that _small_ percentage
is to "pay for the game."  It usually does, and well.

Such is faro--the game at which I had resolved to empty my purse, or win
the price of my betrothed.



CHAPTER FIFTY SIX.

THE FARO BANK.

We entered the saloon.  The game _voila_!

At one end was the table--the bank.  We could see neither bank nor
dealer; both were hidden by the double ring of bettors, who encircled
the table--one line seated, the other standing behind.  There were
women, too, mingled in the crowd--seated and standing in every
attitude--gay and beautiful women, decked out in the finery of fashion,
but with a certain _braverie_ of manner that betokened their unfortunate
character.

D'Hauteville had guessed aright--the game was at its height.  The look
and attitudes of the betters--their arms constantly in motion, placing
their stakes--the incessant rattling of the ivory cheques, and the
clinking together of dollars--all told that the game was progressing
briskly.

A grand chandelier, suspended above the table, cast its brilliant light
over the play and the players.

Near the middle of the saloon stood a large table, amply furnished with
"refreshments."  Cold fowls, ham and tongue, chicken salad, and
lobsters, cut-glass decanters tilled with wine, brandy, and other
liquors, garnished this table.  Some of the plates and glasses bore the
traces of having been already used, while others were clean and ready
for anyone who chose to play knife and fork a while.  It was, in fact, a
"free lunch," or rather supper--free to any guest who chose to partake
of it.  Such is the custom of an American gambling-house.

The rich viands did not tempt either my companion or myself.  We passed
the table without halting, and walked directly up to the "bank."

We reached the outer circle, and looked over the shoulders of the
players.  "_Shade of Fortuna!  Chorley and Hatcher_!"

Yes--there sat the two sharpers, side by side, behind the faro-table--
not as mere bettors, but acting respectively as banker and croupier of
the game!  Chorley held the dealing-box in his fingers, while Hatcher
sat upon his right, with cheques, dollars, and bank-notes piled upon the
table in front of him!  A glance around the ring of faces showed us the
pork-merchant as well.  There sat he in his loose jeans coat and broad
white-hat, talking farmer-like, betting bravely, and altogether a
stranger to both banker and croupier!

My companion and I regarded each other with a look of surprise.

After all, there was nothing to surprise us.  A faro bank needs no
charter, no further preliminaries to its establishment than to light up
a table, spread a green baize over it, and commence operations.  The
sportsmen were no doubt quite at home here.  Their up-river excursion
was only by way of a little variety--an interlude incidental to the
summer.  The "season" of New Orleans was now commencing, and they had
just returned in time for it.  Therefore there was nothing to be
surprised at, in our finding them where we did.

At first seeing them, however, I felt astonishment, and my companion
seemed to share it.  I turned towards him, and was about proposing that
we should leave the room again, when the wandering eye of the pseudo
pork-merchant fell upon me.

"Hilloa, stranger!" he cried out, with an air of astonishment, "you
hyar?"

"I believe so," I replied unconcernedly.

"Wal! wal!  I tho't you war lost.  Whar did you go, anyhow?" he inquired
in a tone of vulgar familiarity, and loud enough to turn the attention
of all present upon myself and my companion.

"Ay--_whar_ did I go?"  I responded, keeping my temper, and concealing
the annoyance I really felt at the fellow's impudence.

"Yes--that's jest what I wanted to know."

"Are you very anxious?"  I asked.

"Oh, no--not particklerly so."

"I am glad of that," I responded, "as I don't intend telling you."

With all his swagger I could see that his crest fell a little at the
general burst of laughter that my somewhat _bizarre_ remark had called
forth.

"Come, stranger," he said, in a half-deprecatory, half-spiteful tone,
"you needn't a be so short-horned about it, I guess; I didn't mean no
offence--but you know you left us so suddintly--never mind--'taint no
business o' mine.  You're going to take a hand at faro, ain't you?"

"Perhaps."

"Wal, then, it appears a nice game.  I'm jest trying it for the first
time myself.  It's all chance, I believe--jest like odds and evens.  I'm
a winnin' anyhow."

He turned his face to the bank, and appeared to busy himself in
arranging his bets.

A fresh deal had commenced, and the players, drawn off for a moment by
our conversation, became once more engaged in what was of greater
interest to them--the little money-heaps upon the cards.

Of course, both Chorley and Hatcher recognised me; but they had
restricted their recognitions to a friendly nod, and a glance that
plainly said--

"He's here! all right! he'll not go till he has tried to get back his
hundred dollars--he'll have a shy at the bank--no fear but he will."

If such were their thoughts they were, not far astray.  My own
reflections were as follows:--

"I may as well risk my money here as elsewhere.  A faro bank is a faro
bank all the same.  There is no opportunity for cheating, where cards
are thus dealt.  The arrangement of the bets precludes every possibility
of such a thing.  Where one player loses to the bank, another may win
from it by the very same turn, and this of course checks the dealer from
drawing the cards falsely, even if it were possible for him to do so.
So I may as well play against Messrs. Chorley and Hatcher's bank as any
other--better, indeed; for if I am to win I shall have the satisfaction
of the _revanche_, which those gentlemen owe me.  I shall play here
then.  Do you advise me, Monsieur?"

Part of the above reflections, and the interrogatory that wound them up,
were addressed in a whisper to the young Creole.

He acknowledged their justice.  He advised me to remain.  He was of the
opinion I might as well tempt fortune there as go farther.

Enough--I took out a five-dollar gold-piece, and placed it upon the ace.

No notice was taken of this--neither banker nor croupier even turning
their eyes in the direction, of the bet.  Such a sum as five dollars
would not decompose the well-practised nerves of these gentlemen--where
sums of ten, twenty, or even fifty times the amount, were constantly
passing to and from their cash-box.

The deal proceeded, Chorley drawing the cards with that air of
imperturbable _sang-froid_ so characteristic of his class.

"Ace wins," cried a voice, as two aces came forth together.

"Pay you in cheques, sir?" asked the croupier.

I assented, and a flat round piece of ivory, of a red colour, with the
figure 5 in its centre, was placed upon my half-eagle.  I permitted both
to remain upon the ace.  The deal went on, and after a while two aces
came out together, and two more of the red cheques were mine.

I suffered all four pieces, now worth twenty dollars, to lie.  I had not
come there to amuse myself.  My purpose was very different; and,
impelled by that purpose, I was resolved not to waste time.  If Fortune
was to prove favourable to me, her favours were as likely to be mine
soon as late; and when I thought of the real stake for which I was
playing, I could not endure the suspense.  No more was I satisfied at
contact with the coarse and bawd company that surrounded the table.

The deal went on--and after some time aces again came out.  This time I
lost.

Without a word passing from his lips, the croupier drew in the cheques
and gold-piece, depositing them in his japanned cash-box, I took out my
purse, and tried ten dollars upon the queen, I won.  I doubled the bet,
and lost again.

Another ten dollars won--another lost--another and another, and so on,
now winning, now losing, now betting with cheques, now with
gold-pieces--until at length I felt to the bottom of my purse without
encountering a coin!



CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN.

THE WATCH AND RING.

I rose from my seat, and turned towards D'Hauteville with a glance of
despair.  I needed not to tell him the result.  My look would have
announced it, but he had been gazing over my shoulder and knew all.

"Shall we go, Monsieur?"  I asked.

"Not yet--stay a moment," replied he, placing his hand upon my arm.

"And why?"  I asked; "I have not a dollar.  I have lost all.  I might
have known it would be so.  Why stay here, sir?"

I spoke somewhat brusquely.  I confess I was at the moment in anything
but an amiable mood.  In addition to my prospects for the morrow, a
suspicion had flashed across my mind that my new friend was not loyal.
His knowledge of these men--his having counselled me to play there--the
accident, to say the least, a strange one, of our again meeting with the
"sportsmen" of the boat, and under such a new phase--the great celerity
with which my purse had been "cleared out"--all these circumstances
passing rapidly through my mind, led me naturally enough to suspect
D'Hauteville of treason.  I ran rapidly over our late conversation.  I
tried to remember whether he had said or done anything to guide me into
this particular hell.  Certainly he had not proposed my playing, but
rather opposed it; and I could not remember that by word or act he had
endeavoured to introduce me to the game.  Moreover, he seemed as much
astonished as myself at seeing these gentlemen behind the table.

What of all that?  The surprise might have been well feigned.  Possibly
enough; and after my late experience of the pork-merchant, probably
enough, Monsieur D'Hauteville was also a partner in the firm of Chorley,
Hatcher, and Co.  I wheeled round with an angry expression on my lips,
when the current of my thoughts was suddenly checked, and turned into a
new channel.  The young Creole stood looking up in my face--he was not
so tall as I--gazing upon me out of his beautiful eyes, and waiting
until my moment of abstraction should pass.  Something glittered in his
outstretched hand.  It was a purse.  I could see the yellow coins
shining through the silken network.  It was a purse of gold!

"Take it!" he said, in his soft silvery voice.

My heart fell abashed within me.  I could scarce stammer forth a reply.
Had he but known my latest thoughts, he might have been able to read the
flush of shame that so suddenly mantled my cheeks.

"No, Monsieur," I replied; "this is too generous of you.  I cannot
accept it."

"Come--come!  Why not?  Take it, I pray--try Fortune again.  She has
frowned on you of late, but remember she is a fickle goddess, and may
yet smile on you.  Take the purse, man!"

"Indeed, Monsieur, I cannot after what I--pardon me--if you knew--"

"Then must _I_ play for you--remember the purpose that brought us here!
Remember Aurore!"

"Oh!"

This ejaculation, wrung from my heart, was the only answer I could make,
before the young Creole had turned to the faro-table, and was placing
his gold upon the cards.

I stood watching him with feelings of astonishment and admiration,
mingled with anxiety for the result.

What small white hands!  What a brilliant jewel, sparkling on his
finger--a diamond!  It has caught the eyes of the players, who gloat
upon it as it passes back and forward to the cards.  Chorley and Hatcher
have both noticed it.  I saw them exchange their peculiar glance as they
did so.  Both are polite to him.  By the large bets he is laying he has
won their esteem.  Their attention in calling out the card when he wins,
and in handing him his cheques, is marked and assiduous.  He is the
favoured better of the ring; and oh! how the eyes of those fair lemans
gleam upon him with their wild and wicked meaning!  Not one of them that
would not love him for that sparkling gem!

I stood on one side watching with great anxiety--greater than if the
stake had been my own.  But it _was_ my own.  It was _for me_.  The
generous youth was playing away his gold for _me_.

My suspense was not likely to be of long duration.  He was losing
rapidly--recklessly losing.  He had taken my place at the table, and
along with it my ill-luck.  Almost every bet he made was "raked" into
the bank, until his last coin lay upon the cards.  Another turn, and
that, too, chinked as it fell into the cash-box of the croupier!

"Come now, D'Hauteville!  Come away!"  I whispered, leaning over, and
laying hold of his arm.

"How much against this?" he asked the banker, without heeding me--"how
much, sir?"

As he put the question, he raised the gold guard over his head, at the
same time drawing forth his watch.

I suspected this was his intention when I first spoke.  I repeated my
request in a tone of entreaty--all in vain.  He pressed Chorley for a
reply.

The latter was not the man to waste words at such a crisis.

"A hundred dollars," said he, "for the watch--fifty more upon the
chain."

"Beautiful!" exclaimed one of the players.

"They're worth more," muttered another.

Even in the _blaze_ hearts around that table there were human feelings.
There is always a touch of sympathy for him who loses boldly; and an
expression of this in favour of the Creole youth could be heard, from
time to time, as his money parted from him.

"Yes, that watch and chain are worth more," said a tall dark-whiskered
man, who sat near the end of the table.  This remark was made in a firm
confident tone of voice, that seemed to command Chorley's attention.

"I'll look at it again, if you please?" said he, stretching across the
table to D'Hauteville, who still held the watch in his hand.

The latter surrendered it once more to the gambler, who opened the case,
and commenced inspecting the interior.  It was an elegant watch, and
chain also--of the fashion usually worn by ladies.  They were worth more
than Chorley had offered, though that did not appear to be the opinion
of the pork-merchant.

"It's a good pile o' money, is a hundred an' fifty dollars," drawled he;
"a good biggish pile, I reckon.  I don't know much about such fixins
meself, but it's full valley for that ar watch an' chain, I shed say."

"Nonsense!" cried several: "two hundred dollars--it's worth it all.  See
the jewels!"

Chorley cut short the discussion.

"Well," said he, "I don't think it worth more than what I've bid, sir.
But since you wish to get back what you've already lost, I don't mind
staking two hundred against watch and chain together.  Does that satisfy
you?"

"Play on!" was the only answer made by the impatient Creole, as he took
back his watch, and laid it down upon one of the cards.

It was a cheap watch to Chorley.  It cost him but the drawing out of
half-a-dozen cards, and it became his!

"How much against this?"

D'Hauteville drew off his ring, and held it before the dazzled eyes of
the dealer.

At this crisis I once more interfered, but my remonstrance was unheeded.
It was of no use trying to stay the fiery spirit of the Creole.

The ring was a diamond, or rather a collection of diamonds in a gold
setting.  It, like the watch, was also of the fashion worn by ladies;
and I could hear some characteristic remarks muttered around the table,
such as, "That young blood's got a rich girl somewhere", "There's more
where they come from," and the like!

The ring was evidently one of much value, as Chorley, after an
examination of it, proposed to stake four hundred dollars.  The tall man
in dark whiskers again interfered, and put it at five hundred.  The
circle backed him, and the dealer at length agreed to give that sum.

"Will you take cheques, sir?" he inquired, addressing D'Hauteville, "or
do you mean to stake it at one bet?"

"At one bet," was the answer.

"No, no!" cried several voices, inclined to favour D'Hauteville.

"At one bet," repeated he, in a determined tone.  "Place it upon the
ace!"

"As you wish, sir," responded Chorley, with perfect _sang-froid_, at the
same time handing back the ring to its owner.

D'Hauteville took the jewel in his slender white fingers, and laid it on
the centre of the card.  It was the only bet made.  The other players
had become so interested in the result, that they withheld their stakes
in order to watch it.

Chorley commenced drawing the cards.  Each one as it came forth caused a
momentary thrill of expectancy; and when aces, deuces, or tres with
their broad white margins appeared outside the edge of that mysterious
box, the excitement became intense.

It was a long time before two aces came together.  It seemed as if the
very importance of the stakes called for more than the usual time to
decide the bet.

It was decided at length.  The ring followed the watch.

I caught D'Hauteville by the arm, and drew him away from the table.
This time he followed me unresistingly--as he had nothing more to lay.

"What matters it?" said he, with a gay air as we passed together out of
the saloon.  "Ah! yes," he continued, changing his tone, "ah, yes, it
does matter!  It matters to _you_, and _Aurore_!"



CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT.

MY FORLORN HOPE.

It was pleasant escaping from that hot hell into the cool night air--
into the soft light of a Southern moon.  It would have been pleasant
under other circumstances; but then the sweetest clime and loveliest
scene would have made no impression upon me.

My companion seemed to share my bitterness of soul.  His words of
consolation were not without their influence; I knew they were the
expressions of a real sympathy.  His acts had already proved it.

It was, indeed, a lovely night.  The white moon rode buoyantly through
fleecy clouds, that thinly dappled the azure sky of Louisiana, and a
soft breeze played through the now silent streets.  A lovely night--too
sweet and balmy.  My spirit would have preferred a storm.  Oh! for black
clouds, red lightning, and thunder rolling and crashing through the sky.
Oh! for the whistling wind, and the quick pattering of the rain-drops.
Oh! for a hurricane without, consonant to the storm that was raging
within me!

It was but a few steps to the hotel; but we did not stop there.  We
could think better in the open air, and converse as well.  Sleep had no
charms for me, and my companion seemed to share my impulses; so passing
once more from among the houses, we went on towards the Swamp, caring
not whither we went.

We walked side by side for some time without exchanging speech.  Our
thoughts were running upon the same theme,--the business of to-morrow.
To-morrow no longer, for the tolling of the great cathedral clock had
just announced the hour of midnight.  In twelve hours more the _vente de
l'encan_ would commence--in twelve hours more they would be bidding, for
my betrothed!

Our steps were towards the "Shell Road," and soon our feet crunched upon
the fragments of unios and bivalves that strewed the path.  Here was a
scene more in unison with our thoughts.  Above and around waved the dark
solemn cypress-trees, fit emblems of grief--rendered doubly lugubrious
in their expression by the hoary _tillandsia_, that draped them like a
couch of the dead.  The sounds, too, that here saluted our ears had a
soothing effect; the melancholy "coowhoo-a" of the swamp-owl--the
creaking chirp of the tree-crickets and cicadas--the solemn "tong-tong"
of the bell-frog--the hoarse trumpet-note of the greater batrachian--and
high overhead the wild treble of the bull-bat, all mingled together in a
concert, that, however disagreeable under other circumstances, now fell
upon my ears like music, and even imparted a kind of sad pleasure to my
soul.

And yet it was not my darkest hour.  A darker was yet in store for me.
Despite the very hopelessness of the prospect, I still clung to hope.  A
vague feeling it was; but it sustained me against despair.  The trunk of
a taxodium lay prostrate by the side of our path.  Upon this we sat
down.

We had exchanged scarce a dozen words since emerging from the hell.  I
was busy with thoughts of the morrow: my young companion, whom I now
regarded in the light of an old and tried friend, was thinking of the
same.

What generosity towards a stranger! what self-sacrifice!  _Ah! little
did I then know of the vast extent_--_the noble grandeur of that
sacrifice_!

"There now remains but one chance," I said; "the chance that to-morrow's
mail, or rather to-day's, may bring my letter.  It might still arrive in
time; the mail is due by ten o'clock in the morning."

"True," replied my companion, seemingly too busy with his own thoughts
to give much heed to what I had said.

"If not," I continued, "then there is only the hope that he who shall
become the purchaser, may afterwards sell her to _me_.  I care not at
what price, if I--"

"Ah!" interrupted D'Hauteville, suddenly waking from his reverie; "it is
just that which troubles me--that is exactly what I have been thinking
upon.  I fear, Monsieur, I fear--"

"Speak on!"

"I fear there is no hope that he who buys her will be willing to sell
her again."

"And why?  Will not a large sum--?"

"No--no--I fear that he who buys will not give her up again, _at any
price_."

"Ha!  Why do you think so, Monsieur D'Hauteville."

"I have my suspicion that a certain individual designs--"

"Who?"

"Monsieur Dominique Gayarre."

"Oh! heavens!  Gayarre!  Gayarre!"

"Yes; from what you have told me--from what I know myself--for I, too,
have some knowledge of Dominique Gayarre."

"Gayarre!  Gayarre!  Oh, God!"

I could only ejaculate.  The announcement had almost deprived me of the
power of speech.  A sensation of numbness seemed to creep over me--a
prostration of spirit, as if some horrid danger was impending and nigh,
and I without the power to avert it.

Strange this thought had not occurred to me before.  I had supposed that
the quadroon would be sold to some buyer in the ordinary course; some
one who would be disposed to _resell_ at a profit--perhaps an enormous
one; but in time I should be prepared for that.  Strange I had never
thought of Gayarre becoming the purchaser.  But, indeed, since the hour
when I first heard of the bankruptcy, my thoughts had been running too
wildly to permit me to reflect calmly upon anything.

Now it was clear.  It was no longer a conjecture; most certainly,
Gayarre would become the master of Aurore.  Ere another night her body
would be his property.  Her soul--Oh, God!  Am I awake?--do I dream?

"I had a suspicion of this before," continued D'Hauteville; "for I may
tell you I know something of this family history--of Eugenie Besancon--
of Aurore--of Gayarre the avocat.  I had a suspicion before that Gayarre
might desire to be the owner of Aurore.  But now that you have told me
of the scene in the dining-room, I no longer doubt this villain's
design.  Oh! it is infamous."

"Still further proof of it," continued D'Hauteville.  "There was a man
on the boat--you did not notice him, perhaps--an agent for Gayarre in
such matters.  A <DW64>-trader--a fit tool for such a purpose.  No doubt
his object in coming down to the city is to be present at the sale--to
bid for the poor girl."

"But why," I asked, catching at a straw of hope,--"why, since he wishes
to possess Aurore, could he not have effected it by private contract?--
why send her to the slave-market to public auction?"

"The law requires it.  The slaves of an estate in bankruptcy must be
sold publicly to the highest bidder.  Besides, Monsieur, bad as may be
this man, he dare not for the sake of his character act as you have
suggested.  He is a thorough hypocrite, and, with all his wickedness,
wishes to stand well before the world.  There are many who believe
Gayarre a good man!  He dare not act openly in this villainous design,
and will not appear in it.  To save scandal, the <DW64>-trader will be
supposed to purchase for himself.  It is infamous!"

"Beyond conception!  Oh! what is to be done to save her from this
fearful man? to save me--"

"It is of that I am thinking, and have been for the last hour.  Be of
good cheer, Monsieur! all hope is not lost.  There is still one chance
of saving Aurore.  There is one hope left.  Alas!  I have known the
time,--I, too, have been unfortunate--sadly--sadly--unfortunate.  No
matter now.  We shall not talk of my sorrows till yours have been
relieved.  Perhaps, at some future time you may know me, and my griefs--
no more of that now.  There is still one chance for Aurore, and she and
you--both--may yet be happy.  It must be so; I am resolved upon it.
'Twill be a wild act; but it is a wild story.  Enough--I have no time to
spare--I must be gone.  Now to your hotel!--go and rest.  To-morrow at
twelve I shall be with you--at twelve in the Rotundo.  Good night!
Adieu."

Without allowing me time to ask for an explanation, or make any reply,
the Creole parted from me; and, plunging into a narrow street, soon
passed out of sight!

Pondering over his incoherent words--over his unintelligible promise--
upon his strange looks and manner,--I walked slowly to my hotel.

Without undressing I flung myself on my bed, without a thought of going
to sleep.



CHAPTER FIFTY NINE.

THE ROTUNDO.

The thousand and one reflections of a sleepless night--the thousand and
one alternations of hope, and doubt, and fear--the theoretic tentation
of a hundred projects--all passed before my waking spirit.  Yet when
morning came, and the yellow sunlight fell painfully on my eyes, I had
advanced no farther in any plan of proceeding.  All my hopes centred
upon D'Hauteville--for I no longer dwelt upon the chances of the mail.

To be assured upon this head, however, as soon as it had arrived, I once
more sought the banking-house of Brown and Co.  The negative answer to
my inquiry was no longer a disappointment.  I had anticipated it.  When
did money ever arrive in time for a crisis?  Slowly roll the golden
circles--slowly are they passed from hand to hand, and reluctantly
parted with.  This supply was due by the ordinary course of the mail;
yet those friends at home, into whose executive hands I had intrusted my
affairs, had made some cause of delay.

Never trust your business affairs to a _friend_.  Never trust to a day
for receiving a letter of credit, if to a friend belongs the duty of
sending it.  So swore I, as I parted from the banking-house of Brown and
Co.

It was twelve o'clock when I returned to the Rue Saint Louis.  I did not
re-enter the hotel--I walked direct to the _Rotundo_.

My pen fails to paint the dark emotions of my soul, as I stepped under
the shadow of that spacious dome.  I remember no fooling akin to what I
experienced at that moment.

I have stood under the vaulted roof of the grand cathedral, and felt the
solemnity of religious awe--I have passed through the gilded saloons of
a regal palace, that inspired me with pity and contempt--pity for the
slaves who had sweated for that gilding, and contempt for the sycophants
who surrounded me--I have inspected the sombre cells of a prison with
feelings of pain--but remembered no scene that had so painfully
impressed me as that which now presented itself before my eyes.

Not sacred was that spot.  On the contrary, I stood upon _desecrated_
ground--desecrated by acts of the deepest infamy.  This was the famed
_slave-market of New Orleans_--the place where human bodies--I might
almost say _human souls_--were bought and sold!

Many a forced and painful parting had these walls witnessed.  Oft had
the husband been here severed from his wife--the mother from her child.
Oft had the bitter tear-bedewed that marble pavement--oft had that
vaulted dome echoed back the sigh--nay more--the cry of the anguished
heart!

I repeat it--my soul was filled with dark emotions as I entered within
the precincts of that spacious hall.  And no wonder--with such thoughts
in my heart, and such a scene before my eyes, as I then looked upon.

You will expect a description of that scene.  I must disappoint you.  I
cannot give one.  Had I been there as an ordinary spectator--a reporter
cool and unmoved by what was passing--I might have noted the details,
and set them before you.  But the case was far otherwise.  One thought
alone was in my mind--my eyes sought for one sole object--and that
prevented me from observing the varied features of the spectacle.

A few things I do remember.  I remember that the Rotundo, as its name
imports, was a circular hall, of large extent, with a flagged floor, an
arched coiling, and white walls.  These were without windows, for the
hall was lighted from above.  On one side, near the wall, stood a desk
or rostrum upon an elevated dais, and by the side of this a large block
of cut stone of the form of a parallelopipedon.  The use of these two
objects I divined.

A stone "kerb," or banquette, ran around one portion of the wall.  The
purpose of this was equally apparent.

The hall when I entered was half filled with people.  They appeared to
be of all ages and sorts.  They stood conversing in groups, just as men
do when assembled for any business, ceremony, or amusement, and waiting
for the affair to begin.  It was plain, however, from the demeanour of
these people, that what they waited for did not impress them with any
feelings of solemnity.  On the contrary a merry-meeting might have been
anticipated, judging from the rough jests and coarse peals of laughter
that from time to time rang through the hall.

There was one group, however, which gave out no such signs or sounds.
Seated along the stone banquette, and standing beside it, squatted down
upon the floor, or leaning against the wall in any and every attitude,
were the individuals of this group.  Their black and brown skins, the
woolly covering of their skulls, their rough red "brogans," their coarse
garments of cheap cottonade, of jeans, of "<DW65> cloth" died cinnamon
colour by the juice of the catalpa-tree,--these characteristics marked
them as distinct from all the other groups in the hall--a distinct race
of beings.

But even without the distinctions of dress or complexion--even without
the thick lips or high cheekbones and woolly hair, it was easy to tell
that those who sat upon the banquette were under different circumstances
from these who strutted over the floor.  While these talked loudly and
laughed gaily, those were silent and sad.  These moved about with the
air of the conqueror--those were motionless with the passive look and
downcast mien of the captive.  These were _masters_--those were
_slaves_!  They were the slaves of the plantation Besancon.

All were silent, or spoke only in whispers.  Most of them seemed ill at
ease.  Mothers sat holding their "piccaninnies" in their sable embrace,
murmuring expressions of endearment, or endeavouring to hush them to
rest.  Here and there big tears rolled over their swarthy cheeks, as the
maternal heart rose and fell with swelling emotions.  Fathers looked on
with drier eyes, but with the stern helpless gaze of despair, which
bespoke the consciousness, that they had no power to avert their fate--
no power to undo whatever might be decreed by the pitiless wretches
around them.

Not all of them wore this expression.  Several of the younger slaves,
both boys and girls, were gaily-dressed in stuffs of brilliant colours,
with flounces, frills, and ribbons.  Most of these appeared indifferent
to their future.  Some even seemed happy--laughing and chatting gaily to
each other, or occasionally exchanging a light word with one of the
"white folks."  A change of masters could not be such a terrible idea,
after the usage they had lately had.  Some of them rather anticipated
such an event with hopeful pleasure.  These were the dandy young men,
and the yellow belles of the plantation.  They would, perhaps, be
allowed to remain in that great city, of which they had so often heard--
perhaps a brighter future was before them.  Dark must it be to be darker
than their proximate past.

I glanced over the different groups, but my eyes rested not long upon
them.  A glance was enough to satisfy me that _she_ was not there.
There was no danger of mistaking any one of those forms or faces for
that of Aurore.  She was not there, Thank Heaven!  I was spared the
humiliation of seeing her in such a crowd!  She was, no doubt, near at
hand and would be brought in when her turn came.

I could ill brook the thought of seeing her exposed to the rude and
insulting glances--perhaps insulting speeches--of which she might be the
object.  And yet that ordeal was in store for me.

I did not discover myself to the slaves.  I knew their impulsive
natures, and that a scene would be the result.  I should be the
recipient of their salutations and entreaties, uttered loud enough to
draw the attention of all upon me.

To avoid this, I took my station behind one of the groups of white men
that screened me from their notice, and kept my eyes fixed upon the
entrance, watching for D'Hauteville.  In him now lay my last and only
hope.

I could not help noting the individuals who passed out and in.  Of
course they were all of my own sex, but of every variety.  There was the
regular "<DW64>-trader," a tall lathy fellow, with harsh horse-dealer
features, careless dress, loose coat, slouching broad-brimmed hat,
coarse boots, and painted quirt of raw hide,--the "cowskin,"--fit emblem
of his calling.

In strong contrast to him was the elegantly-attired Creole, in coat of
claret or blue, full-dress, with gold buttons, plated pantaloons, gaiter
"bootees," laced shirt, and diamond studs.

An older variety of the same might be seen in trousers of buff, nankeen
jacket of the same material, and hat of Manilla or Panama set over his
short-cropped snow-white hair.

The American merchant from Poydras or Tehoupitoulas Street, from Camp,
New Levee, or Saint Charles, in dress-coat of black cloth, vest of black
satin, shining like glaze--trousers of like material with the coat--
boots of calf-skin, and gloveless hands.

The dandy clerk of steamboat or store, in white grass frock, snowy
ducks, and beaver hat, long furred and of light yellowish hue.  There,
too, the snug smooth banker--the consequential attorney, here no longer
sombre and professional, but gaily caparisoned--the captain of the
river-boat, with no naval look--the rich planter of the coast--the
proprietor of the cotton press or "pickery"--with a sprinkling of
nondescripts made up the crowd that had now assembled in the Rotundo.

As I stood noting these various forms and costumes, a large heavy-built
man, with florid face, and dressed in a green "shad-bellied" coat,
passed through the entrance.  In one hand he carried a bundle of papers,
and in the other a small mallet with ivory head--that at once proclaimed
his calling.

His entrance produced a buzz, and set the various groups in motion.  I
could hear the phrases, "Here he comes!"  "Yon's him!"  "Here comes the
major!"

This was not needed to proclaim to all present, who was the individual
in the green "shad-belly."  The beautiful dome of Saint Charles itself
was not better known to the citizens of New Orleans than was Major B--,
the celebrated auctioneer.

In another minute, the bright bland face of the major appeared above the
rostrum.  A few smart raps of his hammer commanded silence, and the sale
began.

Scipio was ordered first upon the block.  The crowd of intended bidders
pressed around him, poked their fingers between his ribs, felt his limbs
as if he had been a fat ox, opened his mouth and examined his teeth as
if he had been a horse, and then bid for him just like he had been one
or the other.

Under other circumstances I could have felt compassion for the poor
fellow; but my heart was too full--there was no room in it for Scipio;
and I averted my face from the disgusting spectacle.



CHAPTER SIXTY.

THE SLAVE-MART.

I once more fixed my eyes upon the entrance, scrutinising every form
that passed in.  As yet no appearance of D'Hauteville!  Surely he would
soon arrive.  He said at twelve o'clock.  It was now one, and still he
had not come.

No doubt he would come, and in proper time.  After all, I need not be so
anxious as to the time.  Her name was last upon the list.  It would be a
long time.

I had full reliance upon my new friend--almost unknown, but not untried.
His conduct on the previous night had inspired me with perfect
confidence.  He would not disappoint me.  His being thus late did not
shake my faith in him.  There was some difficulty about his obtaining
the money, for it was _money_ I expected him to bring.  He had hinted as
much.  No doubt it was that that was detaining him; but he would be in
time.  He knew that her name was at the bottom of the list--the last
lot--Lot 65!

Notwithstanding my confidence in D'Hauteville I was ill-at-ease.  It was
very natural I should be so, and requires no explanation.  I kept my
gaze upon the door, hoping _every_ moment to see him enter.

Behind me I heard the voice of the auctioneer, in constant and
monotonous repetition, interrupted at intervals by the smart rap of his
ivory mallet.  I knew that the sale was going on; and, by the frequent
strokes of the hammer, I could tell that it was rapidly progressing.
Although but some half-dozen of the slaves had yet been disposed of, I
could not help fancying that they were galloping down the list, and that
_her_ turn would soon come--too soon.  With the fancy my heart beat
quicker and wilder.  Surely D'Hauteville will not disappoint me!

A group stood near me, talking gaily.  They were all young men, and
fashionably dressed,--the scions I could tell of the Creole noblesse.
They conversed in a tone sufficiently loud for me to overhear them.
Perhaps I should not have listened to what they were saying, had not one
of them mentioned a particular name that fell harshly upon my ear.  The
name was _Marigny_.  I had an unpleasant recollection associated with
this name.  It was a Marigny of whom Scipio had spoken to me--a Marigny
who had proposed to _purchase Aurore_.  Of course I remembered the name.

"Marigny!"  I listened.

"So, Marigny, you really intend to bid for her?" asked one.

"_Qui_," replied a young sprig, stylishly and somewhat foppishly
dressed.  "_Oui--oui--oui_," he continued with a languid drawl, as he
drew tighter his lavender gloves, and twirled his tiny cane.  "I do
intend--_ma foi_!--yes."

"How high will you go?"

"Oh--ah! _une petite somme, mon cher ami_."

"A _little sum_ will not do, Marigny," said the first speaker.  "I know
half-a-dozen myself who intend bidding for her--rich dogs all of them."

"Who?" inquired Marigny, suddenly awaking from his languid indifference,
"Who, may I inquire?"

"Who?  Well there's Gardette the dentist, who's half crazed about her;
there's the old Marquis; there's planter Tillareau and Lebon, of
Lafourche; and young Moreau, the wine-merchant of the Rue Dauphin; and
who knows but half-a-dozen of those rich Yankee cotton-growers may want
her for a _housekeeper_!  Ha! ha! ha!"

"I can name another," suggested a third speaker.

"Name!" demanded several; "yourself, perhaps, Le Ber; you want a
sempstress for your shirt-buttons."

"No, not myself," replied the speaker; "I don't buy _coturiers_ at that
price--_deux mille dollares_, at the least, my friends.  _Pardieu_! no.
I find my sempstresses at a cheaper rate in the Faubourg Treme."

"Who, then?  Name him!"

"Without hesitation I do,--the old wizen-face Gayarre."

"Gayarre the avocat?"

"Monsieur Dominique Gayarre!"

"Improbable," rejoined one.  "Monsieur Gayarre is a man of steady
habits--a moralist--a miser."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Le Ber; "it's plain, Messieurs, you don't understand
the character of Monsieur Gayarre.  Perhaps I know him better.  Miser
though he be, in a general sense, there's one class with whom he's
generous enough.  _Il a une douzaine des maitresses_!  Besides, you must
remember that Monsieur Dominique is a bachelor.  He wants a good
housekeeper--a _femme-de-chambre_.  Come, friends, I have heard
something--_un petit chose_.  I'll lay a wager the miser outbids _every_
one of you,--even rich generous Marigny here!"

Marigny stood biting his lips.  His was but a feeling of annoyance or
chagrin--mine was utter agony.  I had no longer a doubt as to who was
the subject of the conversation.

"It was at the suit of Gayarre the bankruptcy was declared, was it not?"
asked one.

"'Tis so said."

"Why, he was considered the great friend of the family--the associate of
old Besancon?"

"Yes, the _lawyer-friend_ of the family--Ha! ha!" significantly rejoined
another.

"Poor Eugenie! she'll be no longer the belle.  She'll now be less
difficult to please in her choice of a husband."

"That's some consolation for you, Le Ber.  Ha! ha!"

"Oh!" interposed another, "Le Ber had no chance lately.  There's a young
Englishman the favourite now--the same who swam ashore with her at the
blowing-up of the Belle steamer.  So I have heard, at least.  Is it so,
Le Ber?"

"You had better inquire of Mademoiselle Besancon," replied the latter,
in a peevish tone, at which the others laughed, "I would," replied the
questioner, "but I know not where to find her.  Where is she?  She's not
at her plantation.  I was up there, and she had left two days before.
She's not with the aunt here.  Where is she, Monsieur?"

I listened for the answer to this question with a degree of interest.
I, too, was ignorant of the whereabouts of Eugenie, and had sought for
her that day, but in vain.  It was said she had come to the city, but no
one could tell me anything of her.  And I now remembered what she had
said in her letter of "_Sacre Coeur_."  Perhaps, thought I, she has
really gone to the convent.  Poor Eugenie!

"Ay, where is she, Monsieur?" asked another of the party.

"Very strange!" said several at once.  "Where can she be?  Le Ber, you
must know."

"I know nothing of the movements of Mademoiselle Besancon," answered the
young man, with an air of chagrin and surprise, too, as if he was really
ignorant upon the subject, as well as vexed by the remarks which his
companions were making.

"There's something mysterious in all this," continued one of the number.
"I should be astonished at it, if it were any one else than Eugenie
Besancon."

It is needless to say that this conversation interested me.  Every word
of it fell like a spark of fire upon my heart; and I could have
strangled these fellows, one and all of them, as they stood.  Little
knew they that the "young Englishman" was near, listening to them, and
as little the dire effect their words were producing.

It was not what they said of Eugenie that gave me pain.  It was their
free speech about Aurore.  I have not repeated their ribald talk in
relation to her--their jesting innuendoes, their base hypotheses, and
coldly brutal sneers whenever her chastity was named.

One in particular, a certain Monsieur Sevigne, was more _bizarre_ than
any of his companions; and once or twice I was upon the point of turning
upon him.  It cost me an effort to restrain myself, but that effort was
successful, and I stood unmoved.  Perhaps I should not have been able to
endure it much longer, but for the interposition of an event, which at
once drove these gossips and their idle talk out of my mind.  That event
was _the entrance of Aurore_!

They had again commenced speaking of her--of her chastity--of her rare
charms.  They were dismissing the probabilities as to who would become
possessed of her, and the _certainty_ that she would be the _maitresse_
of whoever did; they were waxing warmer in their eulogium of her beauty,
and beginning to lay wagers on the result of the sale, when all at once
the clack of their conversation ceased, and two or three cried out--

"_Voila! voila! elle vient_!"

I turned mechanically at the words.  Aurore was in the entrance.



CHAPTER SIXTY ONE.

BIDDING FOR MY BETROTHED.

Yes, Aurore appeared in the doorway of that infernal hall, and stood
timidly pausing upon its threshold.

She was not alone.  A mulatto girl was by her side--like herself a
slave--like herself brought there _to be sold_!

A third individual was of the party, or rather with it; for he did not
walk by the side of the girls, but in front, evidently conducting them
to the place of sale.  This individual was no other than Larkin, the
brutal overseer.

"Come along!" said he, roughly, at the same time beckoning to Aurore and
her companion: "this way, gals--foller me!"

They obeyed his rude signal, and, passing in, followed him across the
hall towards the rostrum.

I stood with slouched hat and averted face.  Aurore saw me not.

As soon as they were fairly past, and their backs towards me, my eyes
followed them.  Oh, beautiful Aurore!--beautiful as ever!

I was not single in my admiration.  The appearance of the Quadroon
created a sensation.  The din ceased as if by a signal; every voice
became hushed, and every eye was bent upon her as she moved across the
floor.  Men hurried forward from distant parts of the hall to get a
nearer glance; others made way for her, stepping politely back as if she
had been a queen.  Men did this who would have scorned to offer
politeness to another of her race--to the "yellow girl" for instance,
who walked by her side!  Oh, the power of beauty!  Never was it more
markedly shown than in the _entree_ of that poor slave.

I heard the whispers, I observed the glances of admiration, of passion.
I marked the longing eyes that followed her, noting her splendid form
and its undulating outlines as she moved forward.

All this gave me pain.  It was a feeling worse than mere jealousy I
experienced.  It was jealousy embittered by the very brutality of my
rivals.

Aurore was simply attired.  There was no affectation of the fine lady--
none of the ribbons and flounces that bedecked the dresses of her
darker-skinned companion.  Such would have ill assorted with the noble
melancholy that appeared upon her beautiful countenance.  None of all
this.

A robe of light- muslin, tastefully made, with long skirt and
tight sleeves--as was the fashion of the time--a fashion that displayed
the pleasing rotundity of her figure.  Her head-dress was that worn by
all quadroons--the "toque" of the Madras kerchief, which sat upon her
brow like a coronet, its green, crimson, and yellow checks contrasting
finely with the raven blackness of her hair.  She wore no ornaments
excepting the broad gold rings that glittered against the rich glow of
her cheeks; and upon her finger one other circlet of gold--the token of
her betrothal.  I knew it well.

I buried myself in the crowd, slouching my hat on that side towards the
rostrum.  I desired she should not see me, while I could not help gazing
upon her.  I had taken my stand in such a situation, that I could still
command a view of the entrance.  More than ever was I anxious about the
coming of D'Hauteville.

Aurore had been placed near the foot of the rostrum.  I could just see
the edge of her turban over the shoulders of the crowd.  By elevating
myself on my toes, I could observe her face, which by chance was turned
towards me.  Oh! how my heart heaved as I struggled to read its
expression--as I endeavoured to divine the subject of her thoughts!

She looked sad and anxious.  That was natural enough.  But I looked for
another expression--that unquiet anxiety produced by the alternation of
hope and fear.

Her eye wandered over the crowd.  She scanned the sea of faces that
surrounded her.  _She was searching for some one.  Was it for me_?

I held down my face as her glance passed over the spot.  I dared not
meet her gaze.  I feared that I could not restrain myself from
addressing her.  Sweet Aurore!

I again looked up.  Her eye was still wandering in fruitless search--oh!
surely it is for me!

Again I cowered behind the crowd, and her glance was carried onward.

I raised myself once more.  I saw the shadow darkening upon her face.
Her eye filled with a deeper expression--it was the look of despair.

"Courage! courage!"  I whispered to myself.  "Look again, lovely Aurore!
This time I shall meet you.  I shall speak to you from mine eyes--I
shall give back glance for glance--"

"She sees--she recognises me!  That start--the flash of joy in her
eyes--the smile curling upon her lips!  Her glance wanders no more--her
gaze is fixed--proud heart!  It _was_ for me!"

Yes, our eyes met at length--met, melting and swimming with love.  Mine
had escaped from my control.  For some moments I could not turn them
aside, but surrendered them to the impulse of my passion.  It was
mutual.  I doubted it not.  I felt as though the ray of love-light was
passing between us.  I had almost forgotten where I stood!

A murmur from the crowd, and a movement, restored me to my senses.  Her
stedfast gaze had been noticed, and by many--skilled to interpret such
glances--had been understood.  These, in turning round to see who was
the object of that glance, had caused the movement.  I had observed it
in time, and turned my face in another direction.

I watched the entrance for D'Hauteville.  Why had he not arrived?  My
anxiety increased with the minutes.

True, it would still be an hour--perhaps two--before her time should
come.--Ha!--what?

There was silence for a moment--something of interest was going on.  I
looked towards the rostrum for an explanation.  A dark man had climbed
upon one of the steps, and was whispering to the auctioneer.

He remained but a moment.  He appeared to have asked some favour, which
was at once conceded him, and he stepped back to his place among the
crowd.

A minute or two intervened, and then, to my horror and astonishment, I
saw the overseer take Aurore by the arm, and raise her upon the block!
The intention was plain.  _She was to be sold next_!

In the moments that followed, I cannot remember exactly how I acted.  I
ran wildly for the entrance.  I looked out into the street.  Up and down
I glanced with anxious eyes.  No D'Hauteville!

I rushed back into the hall--again through the outer circles of the
crowd, in the direction of the rostrum.

The bidding had begun.  I had not heard the preliminaries, but as I
re-entered there fell upon my ears the terrible words--

"_A thousand dollars for the Quadroon_.--_A thousand dollars bid_!"

"O Heaven!  D'Hauteville has deceived me.  She is lost!--lost!"

In my desperation I was about to interrupt the sale.  I was about to
proclaim aloud its unfairness, in the fact that the Quadroon had been
_taken out of the order advertised_!  Even on this poor plea I rested a
hope.

It was the straw to the drowning man, but I was determined to grasp it.

I had opened my lips to call out, when some one pulling me by the sleeve
caused me to turn round.  It was D'Hauteville!  Thank Heaven, it was
D'Hauteville!

I could scarce restrain myself from shouting with joy.  His look told me
that he was the bearer of bright gold.

"In time, and none to spare," whispered he, thrusting a pocket-book
between my fingers; "there is three thousand dollars--that will surely
be enough; 'tis all I have been able to procure.  I cannot stay here--
there are those I do not wish to see.  I shall meet you after the sale
is over.  Adieu!"

I scarce thanked him.  I saw not his parting.  My eyes were elsewhere.

"Fifteen hundred dollars bid for the Quadroon!--good housekeeper--
sempstress--fifteen hundred dollars!"

"_Two thousand_!"  I called out, my voice husky with emotion.  The
sudden leap over such a large sum drew the attention of the crowd upon
me.  Looks, smiles, and innuendoes were freely exchanged at my expense.

I saw, or rather heeded them not.  I saw Aurore, only Aurore, standing
upon the dais like a statue upon its pedestal--the type of sadness and
beauty.  The sooner I could take her thence, the happier for me; and
with that object in view I had made my "bid."

"Two thousand dollars bid--two thousand--twenty-one hundred dollars--two
thousand, one, two--twenty-two hundred dollars bid--twenty-two--"

"Twenty-five hundred dollars!"  I again cried out, in as firm a voice as
I could command.

"Twenty-five hundred dollars," repeated the auctioneer, in his
monotonous drawl; "twenty-five--six--you, sir? thank you! twenty-six
hundred dollars for the Quadroon--twenty-six hundred!"

"Oh God! they will go above three thousand; if they do--"

"Twenty-seven hundred dollars!" bid the <DW2> Marigny.

"Twenty-eight hundred!" from the old Marquis.

"Twenty-eight hundred and fifty!" assented the young merchant, Moreau.

"Nine!" nodded the tall dark man who had whispered to the auctioneer.

Twenty-nine hundred dollars bid--two thousand nine hundred.

"Three thousand!"  I gasped out in despair.

It was my last bid.  I could go no farther.

I waited for the result, as the condemned waits for the falling of the
trap or the descent of the axe.  My heart could not have endured very
long that terrible suspense.  But I had not long to endure it.

"_Three thousand one hundred dollars_!--three thousand one hundred bid--
thirty-one hundred dollars--"

I cast one look upon Aurore.  It was a look of hopeless despair; and
turning away, I staggered mechanically across the hall.

Before I had reached the entrance I could hear the voice of the
auctioneer, in the same prolonged drawl, calling out, "Three thousand
five hundred bid for the Quadroon girl?"

I halted and listened.  The sale was coming to its close.

"Three thousand five hundred--going at three thousand five hundred--
going--going--"

The sharp stroke of the hammer fell upon my ear.  It drowned the final
word "gone!" but my heart pronounced that word in the emphasis of its
agony.

There was a noisy scene of confusion, loud words and high excitement
among the crowd of disappointed bidders.  Who was the fortunate one?

I leant over to ascertain.  The tall dark man was in conversation with
the auctioneer.  Aurore stood beside him.  I now remembered having seen
the man on the boat.  He was the agent of whom D'Hauteville had spoken.
The Creole had guessed aright, and so, too, had Le Ber.

_Gayarre had outbid them all_!



CHAPTER SIXTY TWO.

THE HACKNEY-CARRIAGE.

For a while I lingered in the hall, irresolute and almost without
purpose.  She whom I loved, and who loved me in return, was wrested from
me by an infamous law, ruthlessly torn from me.  She would be borne away
before my eyes, and I might, perhaps, never behold her again.  Probable
enough was this thought--I might never behold her again!  Lost to me,
more hopelessly lost, than if she had become the _bride_ of another.
Far more hopelessly lost.  Then, at least, she would have been free to
think, to act, to go abroad, to --.  Then I might have hoped to meet her
again, to see her, to gaze upon her, even if only at a distance, to
worship her in the secret silence of my heart, to console myself with
the belief that she still loved me.  Yes; the bride, the wife of
another!  Even that I could have borne with calmness.  But now, not the
bride of another, but the _slave_, the forced, unwilling _leman_, and
that other--.  Oh! how my heart writhed under its horrible imaginings!

What next?  How was I to act?  Resign myself to the situation?  Make no
further effort to recover, to save her?

No!  It had not come to that.  Discouraging as the prospect was, a ray
of hope was visible; one ray yet illumed the dark future, sustaining and
bracing my mind for further action.

The plan was still undefined; but the purpose had been formed, and that
purpose was to free Aurore, to make her mine _at every hazard_!  I
thought no longer of buying her.  I knew that Gayarre had become her
owner.  I felt satisfied that to purchase her was no longer possible.
He who had paid such an enormous sum would not be likely to part with
her at any price.  My whole fortune would not suffice.  I gave not a
thought to it.  I felt certain it would be impossible.

Far different was the resolve that was already forming itself in my
mind, and cheering me with new hopes.  Forming itself, do I say?  It had
already taken a definite shape, even before the echoes of the salesman's
voice had died upon my ears!  With the clink of his hammer my mind was
made up.  The purpose was formed; it was only the _plan_ that remained
indefinite.

I had resolved to outrage the laws--to become thief or robber, whichever
it might please circumstances to make me.  I had resolved to _steal my
betrothed_!

Disgrace there might be--danger I knew there was, not only to my
liberty, but my life.  I cared but little about the disgrace; I recked
not of the danger.  My purpose was fixed--my determination taken.

Brief had been the mental process that conducted me to this
determination--the more brief that the thought had passed through my
mind before--the more brief that I believed there was positively no
other means I could adopt.  It was the only course of action left me--
either that, or yield up all that I loved without a struggle--and,
passion-led as I was, I was not going to yield.  Certain disgrace,--even
death itself, appeared more welcome than this alternative.

I had formed not yet the shadow of a plan.  That, must be thought of
afterwards; but even at that moment was action required.  My poor heart
was on the rack; I could not bear the thought that a single night should
pass and she under the same roof with that hideous man!

Wherever she should pass the night, I was determined that I should not
be far-distant from her.  Walls might separate us, but she should know I
was near.  Just that much of a plan _had_ I thought of.

Stepping to a retired spot, I took out my note-book, and wrote upon one
of its leaves:

"_Ce soir viendrai_!--Edouard."

I had no time to be more particular, for I feared every moment she would
be hurried out of my sight.  I tore out the leaf; and, hastily folding
it, returned to the entrance of the Rotundo.

Just as I got back to the door a hackney-carriage drove up, and halted
in front.  I conjectured its use, and lost no time in providing another
from a stand close by.  This done, I returned within the hall.  I was
yet in time.  As I entered, I saw Aurore being led away from the
rostrum.

I pressed into the crowd, and stood in such a position that she would
have to pass near me.  And she did so, our hands met, and the note
parted from my fingers.  There was no time for a further recognition--
not even a love-pressure--for the moment after she was hurried on
through the crowd, and the carriage-door closed after her.

The mulatto girl accompanied her, and another of the female slaves.  All
were put into the carriage.  The <DW64>-dealer climbed to the box
alongside the coachman, and the vehicle rattled off over the stony
pavement.

A word to my driver was enough, who, giving the whip to his horses,
followed at like speed.



CHAPTER SIXTY THREE.

TO BRINGIERS.

Coachmen of New Orleans possess their full share of _intelligence_; and
the ring of a piece of silver, extra of their fare, is a music well
understood by them.  They are the witnesses of many a romantic
adventure--the necessary confidants of many a love-secret.  A hundred
yards in front rolled the carriage that had taken Aurore; now turning
round corners, now passing among drays laden with huge cotton-bales or
hogsheads of sugar--but my driver had fixed his knowing eye upon it, and
I had no need to be uneasy.

It passed up the Rue Chartres but a short distance, and then turned into
one of the short streets that ran from this at right angles towards the
Levee.  I fancied for a moment, it was making for the steamboat wharves;
but on reaching the corner, I saw that it had stopped about half way
down the street.  My driver, according to the instructions I had given
him, pulled up at the corner, and awaited my further orders.  The
carriage I had followed was now standing in front of a house; and just
as I rounded the corner, I caught a glimpse of several figures crossing
the banquette and entering the door.  No doubt, all that had ridden in
the carriage--Aurore with the rest--had gone inside the house.

Presently a man came out, and handing his fare to the hackney-coachman,
turned and went back into the house.  The latter, gathering up his
reins, gave the whip to his horses, and, wheeling round, came back by
the Rue Chartres.  As he passed me, I glanced through the open windows
of his vehicle.  It was empty.  She had gone into the house, then.

I had no longer any doubt as to where she had been taken.  I read on the
corner, "Rue Bienville."  The house where the carriage had stopped was
the town residence of Monsieur Dominique Gayarre.

I remained for some minutes in the cab, considering what I had best do.
Was this to be her future home? or was she only brought here
temporarily, to be afterwards taken up to the plantation?

Some thought, or instinct perhaps, whispered me that she was not to
remain in the Rue Bienville; but would be carried to the gloomy old
mansion at Bringiers.  I cannot tell why I thought so.  Perhaps it was
because I wished it so.

I saw the necessity of watching the house--so that she might not be
taken away without my knowing it.  Wherever she went I was determined to
follow.

Fortunately I was prepared for any journey.  The three thousand dollars
lent me by D'Hauteville remained intact.  With that I could travel to
the ends of the earth.

I wished that the young Creole had been with me.  I wanted his counsel--
his company.  How should I find him? he had not said where we should
meet--only that he would join me when the sale should be over.  I saw
nothing of him on leaving the Rotundo.  Perhaps he meant to meet me
there or at my hotel; but how was I to get back to either of these
places without leaving my post?

I was perplexed as to how I should communicate with D'Hauteville.  It
occurred to me that the hackney-coachman--I had not yet dismissed him--
might remain and watch the house, while I went in search of the Creole.
I had only to pay the Jehu; he would obey me, of course, and right
willingly.

I was about arranging with the man, and had already given him some
instructions, when I heard wheels rumbling along the street; and a
somewhat old-fashioned coach, drawn by a pair of mules, turned into the
Rue Bienville.  A <DW64> driver was upon the box.

There was nothing odd in all this.  Such a carriage and such a coachman
were to be seen every hour in New Orleans, and drawn by mules as often
as horses.  But this pair of mules, and the <DW64> who drove them, I
recognised.

Yes!  I recognised the equipage.  I had often met it upon the Levee Road
near Bringiers.  It was the carriage of Monsieur Dominique!

I was further assured upon this point by seeing the vehicle draw up in
front of the avocat's house.

I at once gave up my design of going back for D'Hauteville.  Climbing
back into the hack, I ensconced myself in such a position, that I could
command a view of what passed in the Rue Bienville.

Some one was evidently about to become the occupant of the carriage.
The door of the house stood open, and a servant was speaking to the
coachman.  I could tell by the actions of the latter, that he expected
soon to drive off.

The servant now appeared outside with several parcels, which he placed
upon the coach; then a man came out--the <DW64>-trader--who mounted the
box.  Another man shot across the banquette, but in such a hurried gait
that I could not recognise him.  I guessed, however, who _he_ was.  Two
others now came from the house--a mulatto woman and a young girl.  In
spite of the cloak in which she was enveloped I recognised Aurore.  The
mulatto woman conducted the girl to the carriage, and then stepped in
after.  At this moment a man on horseback appeared in the street, and
riding up, halted by the carriage.  After speaking to some one inside,
he again put his horse in motion and rode off.  This horseman was Larkin
the overseer.

The clash of the closing door was immediately followed by the crack of
the coachman's whip; and the mules, trotting off down the street, turned
to the right, and headed up the Levee.

My driver, who had already been instructed, gave the whip to his hack,
and followed, keeping a short distance in the rear.

It was not till we had traversed the long street of Tehoupitoulas,
through the Faubourg Marigny, and were some distance upon the road to
the suburban village of Lafayette, that I thought of where I was going.
My sole idea had been to keep in sight the carriage of Gayarre.

I now bethought me for what purpose I was driving after him.  Did I
intend to follow him to his house, some thirty miles distant, in a
hackney-coach?

Even had I been so determined, it was questionable whether the driver of
the vehicle could have been tempted to humour my caprice, or whether his
wretched hack could have accomplished such a feat.

For what purpose, then, was I galloping after?  To overtake these men
upon the road, and deliver Aurore from their keeping?  No, there were
three of them--well armed, no doubt--and I alone.

But it was not until I had gone several miles that I began to reflect on
the absurdity of my conduct.  I then ordered my coachman to pull up.

I remained seated; and from the window of the hack gazed after the
carriage, until it was hidden by a turn in the road.

"After all," I muttered to myself, "I have done right in following.  I
am now sure of their destination.  Back to the Hotel Saint Luis!"

The last phrase was a command to my coachman, who turning his horse
drove back.

As I had promised to pay for speed, it was not long before the wheels of
my hackney rattled over the pave of the Rue Saint Luis.

Having dismissed the carriage, I entered the hotel.  To my joy I found
D'Hauteville awaiting my return, and in a few minutes I had communicated
to him my determination to carry off Aurore.

Bare friendship his! he approved of my resolve.  Rare devotion! he
proposed to take part in my enterprise, I warned him of its perils--to
no purpose.  With an enthusiasm I could not account for, and that
greatly astonished me at the time, he still insisted upon sharing them.

Perhaps I might more earnestly have admonished him against such a
purpose, but I felt how much I stood in need of him.

I could not explain the strange feeling of confidence, with which the
presence of this gentle but heroic youth had inspired me.  The
reluctance with which I accepted his offer was only apparent--it was not
felt.  My heart was struggling against my will.  I was but too glad when
he stated his determination to accompany me.

There was no boat going up that night; but we were not without the means
to travel.  A pair of horses were hired--the best that money could
procure--and before sun-down we had cleared the suburbs of the city, and
were riding along the road that conducts to the village of Bringiers.



CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR.

TWO VILLAINS.

We travelled rapidly.  There were no hills to impede our progress.  Our
route lay along the Levee Road, which leads from New Orleans by the bank
of the river, passing plantations and settlements at every few hundred
yards' distance.  The path was as level as a race-course, and the hoof
fell gently upon the soft dusty surface, enabling us to ride with ease.
The horses we bestrode were _mustangs_ from the prairies of Texas,
trained to that gait, the "pace" peculiar to the saddle-bags of the
South-western States.  Excellent "pacers" both were; and, before the
night came down, we had made more than half of our journey.

Up to this time we had exchanged only a few words.  I was busy with my
thoughts--busy planning my enterprise.  My young companion appeared
equally occupied with his.

The darkening down of the night brought us closer together; and I now
unfolded to D'Hauteville the plan which I had proposed to myself.

There was not much of plan about it.  My intention was simply this: To
proceed at once to the plantation of Gayarre--stealthily to approach the
house--to communicate with Aurore through some of the slaves of the
plantation; failing in this, to find out, if possible, in what part of
the house she would pass the night--to enter her room after all had gone
to sleep--propose to her to fly with me--and then make our escape the
best way we could.

Once clear of the house, I had scarce thought of a plan of action.  That
seemed easy enough.  Our horses would carry us back to the city.  There
we might remain concealed, until some friendly ship should bear us from
the country.

This was all the plan I had conceived, and, having communicated it to
D'Hauteville, I awaited his response.

After some moments' silence, he replied, signifying his approval of it.
Like me, he could think of no other course to be followed.  Aurore must
be carried away at all hazards.

We now conversed about the details.  We debated every chance of failure
and success.

Our main difficulty, both agreed, would be in communicating with Aurore.
Could we do so?  Surely she would not be locked in?  Surely Gayarre
would not be suspicious enough to have her guarded and watched?  He was
now the full owner of this coveted treasure--no one could legally
deprive him of his slave--no one could carry her away without the risk
of a fearful punishment; and although he no doubt suspected that some
understanding existed between the quadroon and myself, I would never
dream of such a love as that which I felt--a love that would lead me to
risk even life itself, as I now intended.

No.  Gayarre, judging from his own vile passion, might believe that I,
like himself, had been "struck" with the girl's beauty, and that I was
willing to pay a certain sum--three thousand dollars--to possess her.
But the fact that I had bid no more--no doubt exactly reported to him by
his agent--was proof that my love had its limits, and there was an end
of it.  As a rival he would hear of me no more.  No.  Monsieur Dominique
Gayarre would never suspect a passion like mine--would never dream of
such a purpose as the one to which that passion now impelled me.  An
enterprise so romantic was not within the bounds of probability.
Therefore--so reasoned D'Hauteville and I--it was not likely Aurore
would be either guarded or watched.

But even though she might not be, how were we to communicate with her?
That would be extremely difficult.

I built my hopes on the little slip of paper--on the words "_Ce soir
viendrai_."  Surely upon this night Aurore would _not sleep_.  My heart
told me she would not, and the thought rendered me proud and sanguine.
That very night should I make the attempt to carry her off.  I could not
bear the thought that she should pass even a single night under the roof
of her tyrant.

And the night promised to befriend us.  The sun had scarcely gone down,
when the sky became sullen, turning to the hue of lead.  As soon as the
short twilight passed, the whole canopy had grown so dark, that we could
scarce distinguish the outline of the forest from the sky itself.  Not a
star could be seen.  A thick pall of smoke- clouds hid them from
the view.  Even the yellow surface of the river was scarce perceptible
from its bank, and the white dust of the road alone guided us.

In the woods, or upon the darker ground of the plantation fields, to
find a path would have been impossible--so intense was the darkness that
enveloped us.

We might have augured trouble from this--we might have feared losing our
way.  But I was not afraid of any such result.  I felt assured that the
star of love itself would guide me.

The darkness would be in our favour.  Under its friendly shadow we could
approach the house, and act with safety; whereas had it been a moonlight
night, we should have been in great danger of being discovered.

I read in the sudden change of sky no ill augury, but an omen of
success.

There were signs of an approaching storm.  What to me would have been
kindly weather?  Anything--a rain-storm--a tempest--a hurricane--
anything but a fine night was what I desired.

It was still early when we reached the plantation Besancon--not quite
midnight.  We had lost no time on the road.  Our object in hurrying
forward was to arrive at the place before the household of Gayarre
should go to rest.  Our hopes were that we might find some means of
communicating with Aurore--through the slaves.

One of those I know.  I had done him a slight favour during my residence
at Bringiers.  I had gained his confidence--enough to render him
accessible to a bribe.  He might be found, and might render us the
desired assistance.

All was silent upon the plantation Besancon.  The dwelling-house
appeared deserted.  There were no lights to be seen.  One glimmered in
the rear, in a window of the overseer's house.  The <DW64> quarter was
dark and silent.  The buzz usual at that hour was not heard.  They whose
voices used to echo through its little street were now far away.  The
cabins were empty.  The song, the jest, and the cheerful laugh, were
hushed; and the '<DW53>-dog howling for his absent master, was the only
sound that broke the stillness of the place.

We passed the gate, riding in silence, and watching the road in front of
us.  We were observing the greatest caution as we advanced.  We might
meet those whom above all others we desired not to encounter--the
overseer, the agent, Gayarre himself.  Even to have been seen by one of
Gayarre's <DW64>s might have resulted in the defeat of our plans.  So
fearful was I of this, that but for the darkness of the night, I should
have left the road sooner, and tried a path through the woods which I
knew of.  It was too dark to traverse this path without difficulty and
loss of time.  We therefore clung to the road, intending to leave it
when we should arrive opposite the plantation of Gayarre.

Between the two plantations a wagon-road for wood-hauling led to the
forest.  It was this road I intended to take.  We should not be likely
to meet any one upon it; and it was our design to conceal our horses
among the trees in the rear of the cane-fields.  On such a night not
even the <DW64> '<DW53>-hunter would have any business in the woods.

Creeping along with caution, we had arrived near the point where this
wood-road _debouched_, when voices reached our ears.  Some persons were
coming down the road.

We reined, up and listened.  There were men in conversation; and from
their voices each moment growing more distinct, we could tell that they
were approaching us.

They were coming down the main road from the direction of the village.
The hoof-stroke told us they were on horseback, and, consequently, that
they were white men.

A large cotton-wood tree stood on the waste ground on one side of the
road.  The long flakes of Spanish moss hanging from its branches nearly
touched the ground.  It offered the readiest place of concealment, and
we had just time to spur our horses behind its giant trunk, when the
horsemen came abreast of the tree.

Dark as it was, we could see them in passing.  Their forms--two of them
there were--were faintly outlined against the yellow surface of the
water.  Had they been silent, we might have remained in ignorance as to
who they were, but their voices betrayed them.  They were Larkin and the
trader.

"Good!" whispered D'Hauteville, as we recognised them; "they have left
Gayarre's--they are on their way home to the plantation Besancon."

The very same thought had occurred to myself.  No doubt they were
returning to their homes--the overseer to the plantation Besancon, and
the trader to his own house--which I know to be farther down the coast.
I now remembered having often seen this man in company with Gayarre.

The thought had occurred to myself as D'Hauteville spoke, but how knew
_he_?  He must be well acquainted with the country, thought I.

I had no time to reflect or ask him any question.  The conversation of
these two ruffians--for ruffians both were--occupied all my attention.
They were evidently in high glee, laughing as they went, and jesting as
they talked.  No doubt their vile work had been remunerative.

"Wal, Bill," said the trader, "it air the biggest price I ever giv for a
<DW65>."

"Darn the old French fool!  He's paid well for his whistle this time--he
ain't allers so open-fisted.  Dog darned if he is!"

"Wal--she air dear; an she ain't when a man has the dollars to spare.
She's as putty a piece o' goods as there air in all Louisiana.  I
wouldn't mind myself--"

"Ha! ha! ha!" boisterously laughed the overseer.  "I guess you can get a
chance if you've a mind to," he added, in a significant tone.

"Say, Bill!--tell me--be candid, old feller--have you ever--?"

"Wal, to tell the truth, I hain't; but I reckon I mout if I had pushed
the thing.  I wan't long enough on the plantation.  Beside, she's so
stuck up with cussed pride an larnin', that she thinks herself as good
as white.  I calclate old Foxey 'll bring down her notions a bit.  She
won't be long wi' him till she'll be glad to take a ramble in the woods
wi' anybody that asks her.  There'll be chance enough yet, I reckon."

The trader muttered some reply to this prophetic speech; but both were
now so distant that their conversation was no longer audible.  What I
had heard, absurd as it was, caused me a feeling of pain, and, if
possible, heightened my desire to save Aurore from the terrible fate
that awaited her.

Giving the word to my companion, we rode out from behind the tree, and a
few minutes after turned into the by-path that led to the woods.



CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE.

THE PAWPAW THICKET.

Our progress along this by-road was slow.  There was no white dust upon
the path to guide us.  We had to grope our way as well as we could
between the zigzag fences.  Now and then our horses stumbled in the deep
ruts made by the wood-wagons, and it was with difficulty we could force
them forward.

My companion seemed to manage better than I, and whipped his horse
onward as if he were more familiar with the path, or else more reckless!
I wondered at this without making any remark.

After half-an-hour's struggling we reached the angle of the rail-fence,
where the enclosure ended and the woods began.  Another hundred yards
brought us under the shadow of the tall timber; where we reined up to
take breath, and concert what was next to be done.

I remembered that there was a pawpaw thicket near this place.

"If we could find it," I said to my companion, "and leave our horses
there?"

"We may easily do that," was the reply; "though 'tis scarce worth while
searching for a thicket--the darkness will sufficiently conceal them.--
Ha! not so--_Voila l'eclair_!"

As D'Hauteville spoke, a blue flash lit up the whole canopy of heaven.
Even the gloomy aisles of the forest were illuminated, so that we could
distinguish the trunks and branches of the trees to a long distance
around us.  The light wavered for some seconds, like a lamp about being
extinguished; and then went suddenly out, leaving the darkness more
opaque than before.

There was no noise accompanying this phenomenon--at least none produced
by the lightning itself.  It caused some noise, however, among the wild
creatures of the woods.  It woke the white-headed haliaetus, perched
upon the head of the tall taxodium, and his maniac laugh sounded harsh
and shrill.  It woke the grallatores of the swamp--the qua-bird, the
curlews, and the tall blue herons--who screamed in concert.  The owl,
already awake, hooted louder its solemn note; and from the deep profound
of the forest came the howl of the wolf, and the more thrilling cry of
the cougar.

All nature seemed startled by this sudden blaze of light that filled the
firmament.  But the moment after all was darkness and silence as before.
"The storm will soon be on?"  I suggested.  "No," said my companion,
"there will be no storm--you hear no thunder--when it is thus we shall
have no rain--a very black night, with lightning at intervals--nothing
more.  Again!"

The exclamation was drawn forth by a second blaze of lightning, that
like the first lit up the woods on all sides around us, and, as before,
unaccompanied by thunder.  Neither the slightest rumble nor clap was
heard, but the wild creatures once more uttered their varied cries.

"We must conceal the horses, then," said my companion; "some straggler
might be abroad, and with this light they could be seen far off.  The
pawpaw thicket is the very place.  Let us seek it!  It lies in this
direction."

D'Hauteville rode forward among the tree-trunks.  I followed
mechanically.  I felt satisfied he know the ground better than I!  He
must have been here before, was my reflection.

We had not gone many steps before the blue light blazed a third time;
and we could see, directly in front of us, the smooth shining branches
and broad green leaves of the _Asiminas_, forming the underwood of the
forest.

When the lightning flashed again, we had entered the thicket.

Dismounting in its midst, we hastily tied our bridles to the branches;
and then, leaving our horses to themselves, we returned towards the open
ground.

Ten minutes' walking enabled us to regain the zigzag railing that shut
in the plantation of Gayarre.

Directing ourselves along this, in ten minutes after we arrived opposite
the house--which by the electric blaze we could distinguish shining
among the tall cotton-wood trees that grew around it.  At this point we
again made a stop to reconnoitre the ground, and consider how we should
proceed.

A wide field stretched from the fence almost to the walls.  A garden
enclosed by palings lay between the field and the house; and on one side
we could perceive the roofs of numerous cabins denoting the <DW64>
quarter.  At some distance in the same direction, stood the sugar-mill
and other outbuildings, and near these the house of Gayarre's overseer.

This point was to be avoided.  Even the <DW64> quarter must be shunned,
lest we might give alarm.  The dogs would be our worst enemies.  I knew
that Gayarre kept several.  I had often seen them along the roads.
Large fierce animals they were.  How were they to be shunned?  They
would most likely be rambling about the outbuildings or the <DW64>
cabins; therefore, our safest way would be to approach from the opposite
side.

If we should fail to discover the apartment of Aurore, then it would be
time to make reconnaissance in the direction of the "quarter," and
endeavour to find the boy Caton.

We saw lights in the house.  Several windows--all upon the
ground-floor--were shining through the darkness.  More than one
apartment therefore was occupied.

This gave us hope.  One of them might be occupied by Aurore.

"And now, Monsieur!" said D'Hauteville, after we had discussed the
various details, "suppose we fail? suppose some alarm be given, and we
be detected before--?"

I turned, and looking my young companion full in the face, interrupted
him in what he was about to say.  "D'Hauteville!" said I, "perhaps, I
may never be able to repay your generous friendship.  It has already
exceeded all bounds--but _life_ you must not risk for me.  That I cannot
permit."

"And how risk life, Monsieur?"

"If I fail--if alarm be given--if I am opposed, _voila_--!"

I opened the breast of my coat, exposing to his view my pistols.

"Yes!"  I continued; "I am reckless enough.  I shall use them if
necessary.  I shall take life if it stand in the way.  I am resolved;
but you must not risk an encounter.  You must remain here--I shall go to
the house alone."

"No--no!" he answered promptly; "I go with you."

"I cannot permit it, Monsieur.  It is better for you to remain here.
You can stay by the fence until I return to you--until _we_ return, I
should say, for I come not back without _her_."

"Do not act rashly, Monsieur!"

"No, but I am determined.  I am desperate.  We must not go farther."

"And why not?  _I, too, have an interest in this affair_."

"You?"  I asked, surprised at the words as well as the tone in which
they were spoken.  "You an interest?"

"Of course," coolly replied my companion.  "I love adventure.  That
gives me an interest.  You must permit me to accompany you--I must go
along with you!"

"As you will then, Monsieur D'Hauteville.  Fear not.  I shall act with
prudence.  Come on!"

I sprang over the fence, followed by my companion; and, without another
word having passed between us, we struck across the field in the
direction of the house.



CHAPTER SIXTY SIX.

THE ELOPEMENT.

It was a field of sugar-cane.  The canes were of that species known as
"ratoons"--suckers from old roots--and the thick bunches at their bases,
as well as the tall columns, enabled us to pass among them unobserved.
Even had it been day, we might have approached the house unseen.

We soon reached the garden-paling.  Here we stopped to reconnoitre the
ground.  A short survey was sufficient.  We saw the very place where we
could approach and conceal ourselves.

The house had an antique weather-beaten look--not without some
pretensions to grandeur.  It was a wooden building, two stories in
height, with gable roofs, and large windows--all of which had Venetian
shutters that opened to the outside.  Both walls and window-shutters had
once been painted, but the paint was old and rusty; and the colour of
the Venetians, once green, could hardly be distinguished from the grey
wood-work of the walls.  All round the house ran an open gallery or
verandah, raised some three or four feet from the ground.  Upon this
gallery the windows and doors opened, and a paling or guard-rail
encompassed the whole.  Opposite the doors, a stairway of half-a-dozen
steps led up; but at all other parts the space underneath was open in
front, so that, by stooping a little, one might get under the floor of
the gallery.

By crawling close up in front of the verandah, and looking through the
rails, we should be able to command a full view of all the windows in
the house;--and in case of alarm, we could conceal ourselves in the dark
cavity underneath.  We should be safe there, unless scented by the dogs.

Our plan was matured in whispers.  It was not much of a plan.  We were
to advance to the edge of the verandah, peep through the windows until
we could discover the apartment of Aurore; then do our best to
communicate with her, and get her out.  Our success depended greatly
upon accident or good fortune.

Before we could make a move forward, fortune seemed as though she was
going to favour us.  In one of the windows, directly before our face, a
figure appeared.  A glance told us it was the Quadroon!

The window, as before stated, reached down to the floor of the verandah;
and as the figure appeared behind the glass, we could see it from head
to foot.  The Madras kerchief on the head, the gracefully undulating
figure, outlined upon the background of the lighted room, left no doubt
upon our minds as to who it was.

"'Tis Aurore!" whispered my companion.

How could _he_ tell?  Did he know her?  All!  I remembered--he had seen
her that morning in the Rotundo.

"It is she!"  I replied, my beating heart scarce allowing me to make
utterance.

The window was curtained, but she had raised the curtain in one hand,
and was looking out.  There was that in her attitude that betokened
earnestness.  She appeared as if trying to penetrate the gloom.  Even in
the distance I could perceive this, and my heart bounded with joy.  She
had understood my note.  She was looking for me!

D'Hauteville thought so as well.  Our prospects were brightening.  If
she guessed our design, our task would be easier.

She remained but a few moments by the window.  She turned away and the
curtain dropped into its place; but before it had screened the view, the
dark shadow of a man fell against the back wall of the room.  Gayarre,
no doubt!

I could hold back no longer; but climbing over the garden-fence, I crept
forward, followed by D'Hauteville.

In a few seconds both of us had gained the desired position--directly in
front of the window, from which we were now separated only by the
wood-work of the verandah.  Standing half-bent our eyes were on a level
with the floor of the room.  The curtain had not fallen properly into
its place.  A single pane of the glass remained unscreened, and through
this we could see nearly the whole interior of the apartment.  Our ears,
too, were at the proper elevation to catch every sound; and persons
conversing within the room we could hear distinctly.

We were right in our conjecture.  It was Aurore we had seen.  Gayarre
was the other occupant of the room.

I shall not paint that scene.  I shall not repeat the words to which we
listened.  I shall not detail the speeches of that mean villain--at
first fulsome and flattering--then coarse, bold, and brutal; until at
length, failing to effect his purpose by entreaties, he had recourse to
threats.

D'Hauteville held me back, begging me in earnest whispers to be patient.
Once or twice I had almost determined to spring forward, dash aside the
sash, and strike the ruffian to the floor.  Thanks to the prudent
interference of my companion, I restrained myself.

The scene ended by Gayarre going out of the room indignant, but somewhat
crest-fallen.  The bold, upright bearing of the Quadroon--whose
strength, at least, equalled that of her puny assailant--had evidently
intimidated him for the moment, else he might have resorted to personal
violence.

His threats, however, as he took his departure; left no doubt of his
intention soon to renew his brutal assault.  He felt certain of his
victim--she was his slave, and must yield.  He had ample time and
opportunity.  He need not at once proceed to extremes.  He could wait
until his valour, somewhat cowed, should return again, and imbue him
with a fresh impulse.

The disappearance of Gayarre gave us an opportunity to make our presence
known to Aurore.  I was about to climb up to the verandah and tap on the
glass; but my companion prevented me from doing so.

"It is not necessary," he whispered; "she certainly knows you will be
here.  Leave it to _her_.  She will return to the window presently.
Patience, Monsieur! a false step will ruin all.  Remember the dogs!"

There was prudence in these counsels, and I gave way to them.  A few
minutes would decide; and we both crouched close, and watched the
movements of the Quadroon.

The apartment in which she was attracted our notice.  It was not the
drawing-room of the house, nor yet a bedroom.  It was a sort of library
or studio--as shelves filled with books, and a table, covered with
papers and writing-materials, testified.  It was, no doubt, the office
of the avocat, in which he was accustomed to do his writing.

Why was Aurore in that room?  Such a question occurred to us; but we had
little time to dwell upon it.  My companion suggested that as they had
just arrived, she may have been placed there while an apartment was
being prepared for her.  The voices of servants overhead, and the noise
of furniture being moved over the floor, was what led him to make this
suggestion; it was just as if a room was being set in order.

This led me into a new train of reflection.  She might be suddenly
removed from the library, and taken up-stairs.  It would then be more
difficult to communicate with her.  It would be better to make the
attempt at once.

Contrary to the wish of D'Hauteville, I was about to advance forward to
the window, when the movements of Aurore herself caused me to hesitate.

The door through which Gayarre had just made his exit was visible from
where we stood.  I saw the Quadroon approach this with silent tread, as
if meditating some design.  Placing her hand upon the key, she turned it
in the lock, so that the door was thus bolted inside.  With what design
had she doing this?

It occurred to us that she was about to make her escape out by the
window, and that she had fastened the door for the purpose of delaying
pursuit.  If so, it would be better for us to remain quiet, and leave
her to complete the design.  It would be time enough to warn her of our
presence when she should reach the window.  This was D'Hauteville's
advice.

In one corner of the room stood a large mahogany desk, and over its head
was ranged a screen of box-shelves--of the kind known as "pigeon-holes."
These were filled with papers and parchments--no doubt, wills, deeds,
and other documents relating to the business of the lawyer.

To my astonishment I saw the Quadroon, as soon as she had secured the
door, hastily approach this desk, and stand directly in front of it--her
eyes eagerly bent upon the shelves, as though she was in search of some
document!

Such was in reality the case, for she now stretched forth her hand, drew
a bundle of folded papers from the box, and after resting her eyes upon
them for a moment, suddenly concealed them in the bosom of her dress!

"Heavens!"  I mentally ejaculated, "what can it mean?"

I had no time to give way to conjectures--for in a second's time Aurore
had glided across the floor, and was standing in the window.

As she raised the curtain, the light streamed full on the faces of
myself and my companion, and at the first glance she saw us.  A slight
exclamation escaped her, but it was of joy, not surprise; and she
suddenly checked herself.

The ejaculation was not loud enough to be heard across the room.  The
sash opened noiselessly--with silent tread the verandah was crossed--and
in another moment my betrothed was in my arms!  I lifted her over the
balustrade, and we passed hastily along the walks of the garden.

The outer field was reached without any alarm having been given; and,
directing ourselves between the rows of the canes, we speeded on towards
the woods, that loomed up like a dark wall in the distance.



CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN.

THE LOST MUSTANGS.

The lightning continued to play at intervals, and we had no difficulty
in finding our way.  We recrossed near the same place where we had
entered the field; and, guiding ourselves along the fence, hurried on
towards the thicket of pawpaws, where we had left our horses.

My design was to take to the road at once, and endeavour to reach the
city before daybreak.  Once there, I hoped to be able to keep
concealed--both myself and my betrothed--until some opportunity offered
of getting out to sea, or up the river to one of the free states.  I
never thought of taking to the woods.  Chance had made me acquainted
with a rare hiding-place, and no doubt we might have found concealment
there for a time.  The advantage of this had crossed my mind, but I did
not entertain the idea for a moment.  Such a refuge could be but
temporary.  We should have to flee from it in the end, and the
difficulty of escaping from the country would be as great as ever.
Either for victim or criminal there is no place of concealment so safe
as the crowded haunts of the populous city; and in New Orleans--half of
which consists of a "floating" population--incognito is especially
easily to be preserved.

My design, therefore--and D'Hauteville approved it--was to mount our
horses, and make direct for the city.

Hard work I had cut out for our poor animals, especially the one that
should have to "carry double."  Tough hacks they were, and had done the
journey up cleverly enough, but it would stretch all their muscle to
take us back before daylight.

Aided by the flashes, we wound our way, amid the trunks of the trees,
until at length we came within sight of the pawpaw thicket--easily
distinguished by the large oblong leaves of the _asiminiers_, which had
a whitish sheen under the electric light.  We hurried forward with
joyful anticipation.  Once mounted, we should soon get beyond the reach
of pursuit.

"Strange the horses do not neigh, or give some sign of their presence!
One would have thought our approach would have startled them.  But no,
there is no whimper, no hoof-stroke; yet we must be close to them now.
I never knew of horses remaining so still?  What can they be doing?
Where are they?"

"Ay, where are they?" echoed D'Hauteville; "surely this is the spot
where we left them?"

"Here it certainly was!  Yes--here--this is the very sapling to which I
fastened my bridle.  See! here are their hoof-prints.  By Heaven! the
_horses are gone_!"

I uttered this with a full conviction of its truth.  There was no room
left for doubt.  There was the trampled earth where they had stood--
there the very tree to which we had tied them.  I easily recognised it--
for it was the largest in the grove.

Who had taken them away?  This was the question that first occurred to
us.  Some one had been dogging us?  Or had it been some one who had come
across the animals by accident?  The latter supposition was the less
probable.  Who would have been wandering in the woods on such a night?
or even if any one had, what would have taken them into the pawpaw
thicket?  Ha! a new thought came into my head--perhaps the horses had
got loose of themselves?

That was likely enough.  Well, we should be able to tell as soon as the
lightning flashed again, whether they had set themselves free; or
whether some human hand had undone the knotted bridles.  We stood by the
tree waiting for the light.  It did not tarry long; and when it came it
enabled us to solve the doubt.  My conjecture was correct; the horses
had freed themselves.  The broken branches told the tale.  Something--
the lightning--or more likely a prowling wild beast, had _stampeded_
them; and they had broken off into the woods.

We now reproached ourselves for having so negligently fastened them--for
having tied them to a branch of the _asiminier_, whose soft succulent
wood possesses scarcely the toughness of an ordinary herbaceous plant.
I was rather pleased at the discovery that the animals had freed
themselves.  There was a hope they had not strayed far.  We might yet
find them near at hand, with trailing bridles, cropping the grass.

Without loss of time we went in search of them--D'Hauteville took one
direction, I another, while Aurore remained in the thicket of the
pawpaws.

I ranged around the neighbourhood, went back to the fence, followed it
to the road, and even went some distance along the road.  I searched
every nook among the trees, pushed through thickets and cane-brakes,
and, whenever it flashed, examined the ground for tracks.  At intervals
I returned to the point of starting, to find that D'Hauteville had been
equally unsuccessful.

After nearly an hour spent in this fruitless search, I resolved to give
it up.  I had no longer a hope of finding the horses; and, with
despairing step, I turned once more in the direction of the thicket.
D'Hauteville had arrived before me.

As I approached, the quivering gleam enabled me to distinguish his
figure.  He was standing beside Aurore.  He was conversing familiarly
with her.  I fancied he was _polite_ to her, and that she seemed
pleased.  There was something in this slight scene that made a painful
impression upon me.

Neither had he found any traces of the missing steeds.  It was no use
looking any longer for them; and we agreed to discontinue the search,
and pass the night in the woods.

It was with a heavy heart that I consented to this; but we had no
alternative.  Afoot we could not possibly reach New Orleans before
morning; and to have been found on the road after daybreak would have
insured our capture.  Such as we could not pass without observation; and
I had no doubt that, at the earliest hour, a pursuing party would take
the road to the city.

Our most prudent plan was to remain all night where we were, and renew
our search for the horses as soon as it became day.  If we should
succeed in finding them, we might conceal them in the swamp till the
following night, and then make for the city.  If we should not recover
them, then, by starting at an earlier hour, we might attempt the journey
on foot.

The loss of the horses had placed us in an unexpected dilemma.  It had
seriously diminished our chances of escape, and increased the peril of
our position.

_Peril_ I have said, and in such we stood--peril of no trifling kind.
You will with difficulty comprehend the nature of our situation.  You
will imagine yourself reading the account of some ordinary lover's
escapade--a mere runaway match, _a la Gretna Green_.

Rid yourself of this fancy.  Know that all three of us had committed an
act for which we were amenable.  Know that my _crime_ rendered me liable
to certain and severe punishment by the _laws of the land_; that a still
more terrible sentence might be feared _outside the laws of the land_.
I knew all this--I knew that life itself was imperilled by the act I had
committed!

Think of our danger, and it may enable you to form some idea of what
were our feelings after returning from our bootless hunt after the
horses.

We had no choice but stay where we were till morning.

We spent half-an-hour in dragging the _tillandsia_ from the trees, and
collecting the soft leaves of the pawpaws.  With these I strewed the
ground; and, placing Aurore upon it, I covered her with my cloak.

For myself I needed no couch.  I sat down near my beloved, with my back
against the trunk of a tree.  I would fain have pillowed her head upon
my breast, but the presence of D'Hauteville restrained me.  Even that
might not have hindered me, but the slight proposal which I made had
been declined by Aurore.  Even the hand that I had taken in mine was
respectfully withdrawn!

I will confess that this coyness surprised and piqued me.



CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT.

A NIGHT IN THE WOODS.

Lightly clad as I was, the cold dews of the night would have prevented
me from sleeping; but I needed not that to keep me awake.  I could not
have slept upon a couch of eider.

D'Hauteville had generously offered me his cloak, which I declined.  He,
too, was clad in cottonade and linen--though that was not the reason for
my declining his offer.  Even had I been suffering, I could not have
accepted it.  I began to fear him!

Aurore was soon asleep.  The lightning showed me that her eyes were
closed, and I could tell by her soft regular breathing that she slept.
This, too, annoyed me!

I watched for each new gleam that I might look upon her.  Each time as
the quivering light illumined her lovely features, I gazed upon them
with mingled feelings of passion and pain.  Oh! could there be falsehood
under that fair face?  Could sin exist in that noble soul?  After all
was I _not_ beloved?

Even so, there was no withdrawing now--no going back from my purpose.
The race in which I had embarked must be run to the end--even at the
sacrifice both of heart and life.  I thought only of the purpose that
had brought us there.

As my mind became calmer, I again reflected on the means of carrying it
out.  As soon as day should break, I would go in search of the horses--
track them, if possible, to where they had strayed--recover them, and
then remain concealed in the woods until the return of another night.

Should we not recover the horses, what then?

For a long time, I could not think of what was best to be done in such a
contingency.

At length an idea suggested itself--a plan so feasible that I could not
help communicating it to D'Hauteville, who like myself was awake.  The
plan was simple enough, and I only wondered I had not thought of it
sooner.  It was that he (D'Hauteville) should proceed to Bringiers,
procure other horses or a carriage there, and at an early hour of the
following night meet us on the Levee Road.

What could be better than this?  There would be no difficulty in his
obtaining the horses at Bringiers--the carriage more likely.
D'Hauteville was not known--at least no one would suspect his having any
relations with me.  I was satisfied that the disappearance of the
quadroon would be at once attributed to me.  Gayarre himself would know
that; and therefore I alone would be suspected and sought after.
D'Hauteville agreed with me that this would be the very plan to proceed
upon, in case our horses could not be found; and having settled the
details, we awaited with less apprehension for the approach of day.

Day broke at length.  The grey light slowly struggled through the
shadowy tree-tops, until it became clear enough to enable us to renew
the search.

Aurore remained upon the ground; while D'Hauteville and I, taking
different directions set out after the horses.

D'Hauteville went farther into the woods, while I took the opposite
route.

I soon arrived at the zigzag fence bounding the fields of Gayarre; for
we were still upon the very borders of his plantation.  On reaching
this, I turned along its edge, and kept on for the point where the
bye-road entered the woods.  It was by this we had come in on the
previous night, and I thought it probable the horses might have taken it
into their heads to stray back the same way.

I was right in my conjecture.  As soon as I entered the embouchure of
the road, I espied the hoof-tracks of both animals going out towards the
river.  I saw also those we had made on the previous night coming in.  I
compared them.  The tracks leading both ways were made by the same
horses.  One had a broken shoe, which enabled me at a glance to tell
they were the same.  I noted another "sign" upon the trail.  I noted
that our horses in passing out dragged their bridles, with branches
adhering to them.  This confirmed the original supposition, that they
had broken loose.

It was now a question of how far they had gone.  Should I follow and
endeavour to overtake them?  It was now bright daylight, and the risk
would be great.  Long before this, Gayarre and his friends would be up
and on the alert.  No doubt parties were already traversing the Levee
Road as well as the bye-paths among the plantations.  At every step I
might expect to meet either a scout or a pursuer.

The tracks of the horses showed they had been travelling rapidly and
straight onward.  They had not stopped to browse.  Likely they had gone
direct to the Levee Road, and turned back to the city.  They were livery
horses, and no doubt knew the road well.  Besides, they were of the
Mexican breed--"mustangs."  With these lively animals the trick of
returning over a day's journey without their riders is not uncommon.

To attempt to overtake them seemed hopeless as well as perilous, and I
at once gave up the idea and turned back into the woods.  As I
approached the pawpaw thicket, I walked with lighter tread.  I am
ashamed to tell the reason.  Foul thoughts were in my heart.

The murmur of voices fell upon my ear.

"By Heaven!  D'Hauteville has again got back before me!"

I struggled for some moments with my honour.  It gave way; and I made my
further approach among the pawpaws with the silence of a thief.

"D'Hauteville and she in close and friendly converse!  They stand
fronting each other.  Their faces almost meet--their attitudes betoken a
mutual interest.  They talk in an earnest tone--in the low murmuring of
lovers!  O God!"

At this moment the scene on the wharf-boat flashed on my recollection.
I remembered the youth wore a cloak, and that he was of low stature.  It
was he who was standing before me!  That puzzle was explained.  I was
but a waif--a foil--a thing for a coquette to play with!

There stood the _true_ lover of Aurore!

I stopped like one stricken.  The sharp aching of my heart, oh!  I may
never describe.  It felt as if a poisoned arrow had pierced to its very
core, and there remained fixed and rankling.  I felt faint and sick.  I
could have fallen to the ground.

She has taken something from her bosom.  She is handing it to him!  A
love-token--a _gage d'amour_!

No.  I am in error.  It is the parchment--the paper taken from the desk
of the avocat.  What does it mean?  What mystery is this?  Oh!  I shall
demand a full explanation from both of you.  I shall--patience, heart!--
patience!

D'Hauteville has taken the papers, and hidden them under his cloak.  He
turns away.  His face is now towards me.  His eyes are upon me.  I am
seen!

"Ho!  Monsieur?" he inquired, advancing to meet me.  "What success?  You
have seen nothing of the horses!"

I made an effort to speak calmly.

"Their tracks," I replied.

Even in this short phrase my voice was quivering with emotion.  He might
easily have noticed my agitation, and yet he did not seem to do so.

"Only their tracks, Monsieur!  Whither did they lead?"

"To the Levee Road.  No doubt they have returned towards the city.  We
need have no farther dependence on them."

"Then I shall go to Bringiers at once?"

This was put hypothetically.

The proposal gave me pleasure.  I wished him away.

I wished to be alone with Aurore.

"It would be as well," I assented, "if you do not deem it too early?"

"Oh, no! besides, I have business in Bringiers that will occupy me all
the day."

"Ah!"

"Doubt not my return to meet you.  I am certain to procure either horses
or a carriage.  Half-an-hour after twilight you will find me at the end
of the bye-road.  Fear not, Monsieur!  I have a strong presentiment that
for you all will yet be well.  For _me_--ah!"

A deep sigh escaped him as he uttered the last phrase.

What did it mean?  Was he mocking me?  Had this strange youth a secret
beyond _my_ secret?  Did he _know_ that Aurore loved _him_?  Was he so
confident--so sure of her heart, that he recked not thus leaving her
alone with me?  Was he playing with me as the tiger with its victim?
Were _both_ playing with me?

These horrid thoughts crowding up, prevented me from making a definite
rejoinder to his remarks.  I muttered something about hope, but he
seemed hardly to heed my remark.  For some reason he was evidently
desirous of being gone; and bidding Aurore and myself adieu, he turned
abruptly off, and with quick, light steps, threaded his way through the
woods.

With my eyes I followed his retreating form, until it was hidden by the
intervening branches.  I felt relief that he was gone.  I could have
wished that he was gone for ever.  Despite the need we had of his
assistance--despite the absolute necessity for his return--at that
moment I could have wished that we should never see him again!



CHAPTER SIXTY NINE.

LOVE'S VENGEANCE.

Now for an explanation with Aurore!  Now to give vent to the dire
passion of jealousy--to relieve my heart with recriminations--with the
bitter-sweet vengeance of reproach!

I could stifle the foul emotion no longer--no longer conceal it.  It
must have expression in words.

I had purposely remained standing with my face averted from her, till
D'Hauteville was gone out of sight.  Longer, too.  I was endeavouring to
still the wild throbbings of my breast--to affect the calmness of
indifference.  Vain hypocrisy!  To her eyes my spite must have been
patent, for in this the keen instincts of woman are not to be baffled.

It was even so.  She comprehended all.  Hence the wild act--the
_abandon_ to which at that moment she gave way.

I was turning to carry out my design, when I felt the soft pressure of
her body against mine--her arms encircled my neck--her head, with face
upturned, rested upon my bosom, and her large lustrous eyes sought mine
with a look of melting inquiry.

That look should have satisfied me.  Surely no eyes but the eyes of love
could have borne such expression?

And yet I was not content.  I faltered out--

"Aurore, you do not love me!"

"_Ah, Monsieur! pourquoi cette cruaute?  Je t'aime_--_mon Dieu! avec
tout mon coeur je t'aime_!"

Even this did not still my suspicious thoughts.  The circumstances had
been too strong--jealousy had taken too firm a hold to be plucked out by
mere assurances.  Explanation alone could satisfy me.  That or
confession.

Having made a commencement, I went on.  I detailed what I had seen at
the landing--the after conduct of D'Hauteville--what I had observed the
preceding night--what I had just that moment witnessed.  I detailed all.
I added no reproaches.  There was time enough for them when I should
receive her answer.

It came in the midst of tears.  She had known D'Hauteville before--that
was acknowledged.  There _was_ a mystery in the relations that existed
between them.  I was solicited not to require an explanation.  My
patience was appealed to.  It was not her secret.  I should soon know
all.  In due time all would be revealed.

How readily my heart yielded to these delicious words!  I no longer
doubted.  How could I, with those large eyes, full of love-light,
shining through the tear-bedewed lashes?

My heart yielded.  Once more my arms closed affectionately around the
form of my betrothed, and a fervent kiss renewed the vow of our
betrothal.

We could have remained long upon this love-hallowed spot, but prudence
prompted us to leave it.  We were too near to the point of danger.  At
the distance of two hundred yards was the fence that separated Gayarre's
plantation from the wild woods; and from that could even be seen the
house itself, far off over the fields.  The thicket concealed this, it
was true; but should pursuit lead that way, the thicket would be the
first place that would be searched.  It would be necessary to seek a
hiding-place farther off in the woods.

I bethought me of the flowery glade--the scene of my adventure with the
_crotalus_.  Around it the underwood was thick and shady, and there were
spots where we could remain screened from the observation of the keenest
eyes.  At that moment I thought only of such concealment.  It never
entered my head that there were means of discovering us, even in the
heart of the tangled thicket, or the pathless maze of the cane-brake.  I
resolved, therefore, to make at once for the glade.

The pawpaw thicket, where we had passed the night, lay near the
south-eastern angle of Gayarre's plantation.  To reach the glade it
would be necessary for us to pass a mile or more to the northward.  By
taking a diagonal line through the woods, the chances were ten to one we
should lose our way, and perhaps not find a proper place of concealment.
The chances were, too, that we might not find a path, through the
network of swamps and bayous that traversed the forest in every
direction.

I resolved, therefore, to skirt the plantation, until I had reached the
path that I had before followed to the glade, and which I now
remembered.  There would be some risk until we had got to the northward
of Gayarre's plantation; but we should keep at a distance from the
fence, and as much as possible in the underwood.  Fortunately a belt of
"palmetto" land, marking the limits of the annual inundation, extended
northward through the woods, and parallel to the line of fence.  This
singular vegetation, with its broad fan-like fronds, formed an excellent
cover; and a person passing through it with caution could not be
observed from any great distance.  The partial lattice-work of its
leaves was rendered more complete by the tall flower-stalks of the
_altheas_, and other malvaceous plants that shared the ground with the
palmettos.

Directing ourselves within the selvage of this rank vegetation, we
advanced with caution; and soon came opposite the place where we had
crossed the fence on the preceding night.  At this point the woods
approached nearest to the house of Gayarre.  As already stated, but one
field lay between, but it was nearly a mile in length.  It was dead
level, however, and did not appear half so long.  By going forward to
the fence, we could have seen the house at the opposite end, and very
distinctly.

I had no intention of gratifying my curiosity at that moment by such an
act, and was moving on, when a sound fell upon my ear that caused me
suddenly to halt, while a thrill of terror ran through my veins.

My companion caught me by the arm, and looked inquiringly in my face.

A caution to her to be silent was all the reply I could make; and,
leaning a little lower, so as to bring my ear nearer to the ground, I
listened.

The suspense was short.  I heard the sound again.  My first conjecture
was right.  It was the "growl" of a hound!

There was no mistaking that prolonged and deep-toned note.  I was too
fond a disciple of Saint Hubert not to recognise the bay of a long-eared
Molossian.  Though distant and low, like the hum of a forest bee, I was
not deceived in the sound.  It fell upon my ears with a terrible import!

And why terrible was the baying of a hound?  To me above all others,
whose ears, attuned to the "tally ho!" and the "view hilloa!" regarded
these sounds as the sweetest of music?  Why terrible?  Ah! you must
think of the circumstances in which I was placed--you must think, too,
of the hours I spent with the snake-charmer--of the tales he told me in
that dark tree-cave--the stories of runaways, of sleuth-dogs, of
man-hunters, and "<DW65>-hunts,"--practices long thought to be confined
to Cuba, but which I found as rife upon the soil of Louisiana,--you must
think of all these, and then you will understand why I trembled at the
distant baying of a hound.

The howl I heard was still very distant.  It came from the direction of
Gayarre's house.  It broke forth at intervals.  It was not like the
utterance of a hound upon the trail, but that of dogs just cleared from
the kennel, and giving tongue to their joy at the prospect of sport.

Fearful apprehensions were stirred within me at the moment.  A terrible
conjecture rushed across my brain.  _They were after us with hounds_!



CHAPTER SEVENTY.

HOUNDS ON OUR TRAIL.

O God! after us with hounds!

Either after us, or about to be, was the hypothetic form of my
conjecture.

I could proceed no farther upon our path till I had become satisfied.

Leaving Aurore among the palmettoes.  I ran directly forward to the
fence, which was also the boundary of the woods.  On reaching this, I
grasped the branch of a tree, and swung myself up to such an elevation
as would enable me to see over the tops of the cane.  This gave me a
full view of the house shining under the sun that had now risen in all
his splendour.

At a glance I saw that I had guessed aright.  Distant as the house was,
I could plainly see men around it, many of them on horseback.  Their
heads were moving above the canes; and now and then the deep bay of
hounds told that several dogs were loose about the enclosure.  The scene
was just as if a party of hunters had assembled before going out upon a
deer "drive;" and but for the place, the time, and the circumstances
that had already transpired, I might have taken it for such.  Far
different, however, was the impression it made upon me.  I knew well why
was that gathering around the house of Gayarre.  I knew well the game
they were about to pursue.  I lingered but a moment upon my perch--long
enough to perceive that the _hunters_ were all mounted and ready to
start.

With quick-beating pulse I retraced my steps; and soon rejoined my
companion, who stood awaiting me with trembling apprehension.

I did not need to tell her the result of my reconnoissance: she read it
in my looks.  She, too, had heard the baying of the dogs.  She was a
native, and knew the customs of the land: she knew that hounds were used
to hunt deer and foxes and wild-cats of the woods; but she knew also
that on many plantations there were some kept for a far different
purpose--sleuth-dogs, _trained to the hunting of men_!

Had she been of slow comprehension, I might have attempted to conceal
from her what I had learnt; but she was far from that, and with quick
instinct she divined all.

Our first feeling was that of utter hopelessness.  There seemed no
chance of our escaping.  Go where we would, hounds, trained to the scent
of a human track, could not fail to follow and find us.  It would be of
no use hiding in the swamp or the bush.  The tallest sedge or the
thickest underwood could not give us shelter from pursuers like these.

Our first feeling, then, was that of hopelessness--quickly followed by a
half-formed resolve to go no farther, to stand our ground and be taken.
We had not death to fear; though I knew that if taken I might make up my
mind to some rough handling.  I knew the feeling that was abroad in
relation to the Abolitionists--at that time raging like a fever.  I had
heard of the barbarous treatment which some of these "fanatics"--as they
were called--had experienced at the hands of the incensed slave-owners.
I should no doubt be reckoned in the same category, or maybe, still
worse, be charged as a "<DW65>-stealer."  In any case I had to fear
chastisement, and of no light kind either.

But my dread of this was nothing when compared with the reflection that,
if taken, _Aurore must go back to Gayarre_!

It was this thought more than any other that made my pulse beat quickly.
It was this thought that determined me not to surrender until after
every effort to escape should fail us.

I stood for some moments pondering on what course to pursue.  All at
once a thought came into my mind that saved me from despair.  That
thought was of Gabriel the runaway.

Do not imagine that I had forgotten him or his hiding-place all this
time.  Do not fancy I had not thought of him before.  Often, since we
had entered the woods, had he and his tree-cave arisen in my memory; and
I should have gone there for concealment, but that the distance deterred
me.  As we intended to return to the Levee Road after sunset, I had
chosen the glade for our resting-place, on account of its being nearer.

Even then, when I learnt that hounds would be after us, I had again
thought of making for the Bambarra's hiding-place; but had dismissed the
idea, because it occurred to me that _the hounds could follow us
anywhere_, and that, by taking shelter with the runaway, we should only
guide his tyrants upon _him_.

So quick and confused had been all these reflections, that it had never
occurred to me that the hounds _could not trail us across water_.  It
was only at that moment when pondering how I could throw them off the
track--thinking of the snake-charmer and his pine-cones--that I
remembered the water.

Sure enough, in that still lay a hope; and I could now appreciate the
remarkable cunning with which the lair of the runaway had been chosen.
It was just the place to seek refuge from "de dam blood-dogs."

The moment I thought of it, I resolved to flee thither.

I would be sure to know the way.  I had taken especial pains to remember
it; for even on the day of my snake-adventure, some half-defined
thoughts--something more like a presentiment than a plan--had passed
through my mind, vaguely pointing to a contingency like the present.
Later events, and particularly my design of escaping to the city at
once, had driven these thoughts out of my mind.  For all that, I still
remembered the way by which the Bambarra had guided me, and could follow
it with hurried steps--though there was neither road nor path, save the
devious tracks made by cattle or the wild animals of the forest.

But I was certain I knew it well.  I should remember the signs and
"blazes" to which the guide had called my attention.  I should remember
where it crossed the "big bayou" by the trunk of a fallen tree that
served as a foot-bridge.  I should remember where it ran through a strip
of marsh impassable for horses, through the cane-brake, among the great
knees and buttocks of the cypresses, down to the edge of the water.  And
that huge tree, with its prostrate trunk projecting out into the lake,
and its moss-wrapped branches--that cunning harbour for the little
pirogue--I should be sure to remember.

Neither had I forgotten the signal, by which I was to warn the runaway
whenever I should return.  It was a peculiar whistle he had instructed
me to give, and also the number of times I was to utter it.

I had not waited for all these reflections.  Many of them were
after-thoughts, that occurred along the way.  The moment I remembered
the lake, I resolved upon my course; and, with a word of cheer to my
companion, we again moved forward.



CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE.

THE SIGNAL.

The change in our plans made no change in the direction.  We continued
on in the same course.  The way to the lake passed by the glade, where
we had purposed going--indeed, through the middle of it lay the nearest
path to the lair of the runaway.

Not far from the north-east angle of Gayarre's plantation, was the spot
where I had parted with the black on the night of my adventure with him.
It was at this point the path entered the woods.  The blaze upon a
sweet-gum-tree, which I remembered well, showed me the direction.  I was
but too glad to turn off here, and leave the open woods; the more so
that, just as we had reached the turning-point, the cry of the hounds
came swelling upon the air, loud and prolonged.  From the direction of
the sound, I had no doubt but that they were already in the cane-field,
and lifting our trail of the preceding night.

For a few hundred yards farther the timber was thin.  The axe had been
flourished there, as the numerous "stumps" testified.  It was there the
"firewood" was procured for the use of the plantation, and "cords" of
it, already cut and piled, could be seen on both sides of our path.  We
passed among these with trembling haste.  We feared to meet with some of
the woodcutters, or the driver of a wood-wagon.  Such an encounter would
have been a great misfortune; as, whoever might have seen us would have
guided our pursuers on the track.

Had I reasoned calmly I would not have felt uneasiness on this head.  I
might have known, that if the dogs succeeded in tracking us thus far,
they would need no direction from either wagoner or wood-chopper.  But
in the hurry of the moment I did not think of this; and I felt relief
when we had passed through the tract of broken woods, and were entering
under the more sombre shadow of the virgin forest.

It was now a question of time--a question of whether we should be able
to reach the lake, summon the Bambarra with his pirogue, and be paddled
out of sight, before the dogs should trail us to the edge of the water.
Should we succeed in doing so, we should then have a fair prospect of
escape.  No doubt the dogs would guide our pursuers to the place of our
embarkation--the fallen tree--but then both dogs and men would be at
fault.  That gloomy lake of the woods was a rare labyrinth.  Though the
open water was a surface of small extent, neither it, nor the
island-like motte of timber in its centre, was visible from the place of
embarkation; and, besides the lake itself, the inundation covered a
large tract of the forest.  Even should our pursuers be certain that we
had escaped by the water, they might despair of finding us in the midst
of such a maze--where the atmosphere at that season of fall foliage had
the hue of a dark twilight.

But they would hardly be convinced of our escape in that way.  There was
no trace left where the pirogue was moored--no mark upon the tree.  They
would scarce suspect the existence of a canoe in such an out-of-the-way
spot, where the water--a mere stagnant pond--had no communication either
with the river or the adjacent bayous.  We were leaving no tracks--I
took care of that--that could be perceived under the forest gloom; and
our pursuers might possibly conclude that the dogs had been running upon
the trail of a bear, a cougar, or the swamp wild-cat (_Lynx rufus_)--all
of which animals freely take the water when pursued.  With such
probabilities I was cheering myself and my companion, as we kept rapidly
along our course!

My greatest source of apprehension was the delay we should have to make,
after giving the signal to the runaway.  Would he hear it at once?
Would he attend to it in due haste?  Would he arrive in time?  These
were the points about which I felt chiefly anxious.  Time was the
important consideration; in that lay the conditions of our danger.  Oh!
that I had thought of this purpose before!--oh! that we had started
earlier!

How long would it take our pursuers to come up?  I could scarce trust
myself to think of a reply to this question.  Mounted as they were, they
would travel faster than we: the dogs would guide them at a run!

One thought alone gave me hope.  They would soon find our resting-place
of the night; they would see where we had slept by the pawpaw-leaves and
the moss; they could not fail to be certain of all that; but would they
so easily trail us thence?  In our search after the horses, we had
tracked the woods in all directions.  I had gone back to the bye-road,
and some distance along it.  All this would surely baffle the dogs for a
while; besides, D'Hauteville, at starting, had left the pawpaw thicket
by a different route from that we had taken.  They might go off on _his_
trail.  Would that they might follow D'Hauteville.

All these conjectures passed rapidly through my mind as we hurried
along.  I even thought of making an attempt to throw the hounds off the
scent.  I thought of the _ruse_ practised by the Bambarra with the spray
of the loblolly pine; but, unfortunately, I could not see any of these
trees on our way, and feared to lose time by going in search of one.  I
had doubts, too, of the efficacy of such a proceeding, though the black
had solemnly assured me of it.  The common red onion, he had afterwards
told me would be equally effective for the like purpose!  But the red
onion grew not in the woods, and the _pin de l'encens_ I could not find.

For all that I did not proceed without precautions.  Youth though I was,
I was an old hunter, and had some knowledge of "woodcraft," gathered in
deerstalking, and in the pursuit of other game, among my native hills.
Moreover, my nine months of New-world life had not all been passed
within city walls; and I had already become initiated into many of the
mysteries of the great American forest.

I did not proceed, then, in mere reckless haste.  Where precautions
could be observed, I adopted them.

A strip of marsh had to be crossed.  It was stagnant water, out of which
grew flags, and the shrub called "swamp-wood" (_Bois de marais_).  It
was knee-deep, and could he waded.  I knew this, for I had crossed it
before.  Hand in hand we waded through, and got safe to the opposite
side; but on entering I took pains to choose a place, where we stepped
at once from the dry ground into the water.  On going out, I observed a
like precaution--so that our tracks might not appear in the mud.

Perhaps I should not have taken all this trouble, had I known that,
there were "hunters" among those who pursued us.  I fancied the crowd I
had seen were but planters, or people of the town--hurriedly brought
together by Gayarre and his friends.  I fancied they might not have much
skill in tracking, and that my simple trick might be sufficient to
mislead them.

Had I known that at their head was a man, of whom Gabriel had told me
much--a man _who made <DW64>-hunting his profession_, and who was the
most noted "tracker" in all the country--I might have saved myself both
the time and the trouble I was taking.  But I knew not that this ruffian
and his trained dogs were after us, and I did my utmost to throw my
pursuers off.

Shortly after passing the marsh, we crossed the "big bayou" by means of
its tree-bridge.  Oh! that I could have destroyed that log, or hurled it
from its position.  I consoled myself with the idea, that though the
dogs might follow us over it, it would delay the pursuers awhile, who,
no doubt, were all on horseback.

We now passed through the glade, but I halted not there.  We stopped not
to look upon its bright flowers--we perceived not their fragrance.  Once
I had wished to share this lovely scene in the company of Aurore.  We
were now in its midst, but under what circumstances!  What wild thoughts
were passing through my brain, as we hurried across this flowery tract
under bright sunshine, and then plunged once more into the sombre
atmosphere of the woods!

The path I remembered well, and was able to pursue it without hesitancy.
Now and then only did I pause--partly to listen, and partly to rest my
companion, whose bosom heaved quick and high with the rude exertion.
But her glance testified that her courage was firm, and her smile
cheered _me_ on.

At length we entered among the cypress-trees that bordered the lake;
and, gliding around their massive trunks, soon reached the edge of the
water.

We approached the fallen tree; and, climbing up, advanced along its
trunk until we stood among its moss-covered branches.

I had provided myself with an instrument--a simple joint of the cane
which grew plenteously around, and which with my knife I had shaped
after a fashion I had been already taught by the Bambarra.  With this I
could produce a sound, that would be heard at a great distance off, and
plainly to the remotest part of the lake.

Taking hold of the branches, I now bent down, until my face almost
touched the surface of the water, and placing the reed to my lips, I
gave utterance to the signal.



CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO.

THE SLEUTH-HOUNDS.

The shrill whistle, pealing along the water, pierced the dark aisles of
the forest.  It aroused the wild denizens of the lake, who, startled by
such an unusual sound, answered it with their various cries in a
screaming concert.  The screech of the crane and the Louisiana heron,
the hoarse hooting of owls, and the hoarser croak of the pelican,
mingled together; and, louder than all, the scream of the osprey and the
voice of the bald eagle--the last falling upon the ear with sharp
metallic repetitions that exactly resembled the filing of saws.

For some moments this commotion was kept up; and it occurred to me that
if I had to repeat the signal then it would not have been heard.  Shrill
as it was, it could scarce have been distinguished in such a din!

Crouching among the branches, we remained to await the result.  We made
no attempts at idle converse.  The moments were too perilous for aught
but feelings of extreme anxiety.  Now and then a word of cheer--a
muttered hope--were all the communications that passed between us.

With earnest looks we watched the water--with glances of fear we
regarded the land.  On one side we listened for the plashing of a
paddle; on the other we dreaded to hear the "howl" of a hound.  Never
can I forget those moments--those deeply-anxious moments.  Till death I
may not forget them.

Every thought at the time--every incident, however minute--now rushes
into my remembrance, as if it were a thing of yesterday.

I remember that once or twice, away under the trees, we perceived a
ripple along the surface of the water.  Our hearts were full of hope--we
thought it was the canoe.

It was a fleeting joy.  The waves were made by the great saurian, whose
hideous body--large almost as the pirogue itself--next moment passed
before our eyes, cleaving the water with fish-like velocity.

I remember entertaining the supposition that the runaway _might not be
in his lair_!  He might be off in the forest--in search of food--or on
any other errand.  Then the reflection followed--if such were the case,
I should have found the pirogue by the tree?  Still he might have other
landing-places around the lake--on the other side perhaps.  He had not
told me whether or no, and it was probable enough.  These hypothetic
conjectures increased my anxiety.

But there arose another, far more dreadful, because far more probable--

_The black might be asleep_!

Far more probable, because night was his day, and day his night.  At
night he was abroad, roaming and busy--by day he was at home and slept.

Oh, Heavens! if he should be asleep, and not have heard the signal!

Such was the terrible fancy that rushed across my brain.

I felt suddenly impelled to repeat the signal--though I thought at the
time, if my conjecture were correct, there was but little hope he would
hear me.  A <DW64> sleeps like a torpid bear.  The report of a gun or a
railway-whistle alone could awake one.  There was no chance for a puny
pipe like mine--the more especially as the screaming concert still
continued.

"Even if he should hear it, he would hardly be able to distinguish the
whistle from--Merciful heavens!"

I was speaking to my companion when this exclamation interrupted me.  It
came from my own lips, but with involuntary utterance.  It was called
forth by a sound of dread import--a sound that I could hear above the
shrill screaming of the birds, and hearing could interpret.  It was the
trumpet-like baying of a hound!

I stood bent, and listening; I heard it again.  There was no mistaking
that note.  I had the ears of a hunter.  I knew the music well.

Oh, how unlike to music then!  It fell upon my ears like a cry of
vengeance--like a knell of death!

I thought no longer of repeating the signal; even if heard, it would be
too late.  I flung the reed away, as a useless toy.  I drew Aurore along
the tree, passing her behind me; and raising myself erect, stood
fronting the land.

Again the "gowl" broke out--its loud echoes rolling through the woods--
this time so near, that every moment I expected to see the animal that
had uttered it.

I had not long to wait.  A hundred yards off was a cane-brake.  I could
perceive a motion among the tall reeds.  Their tops swayed to and fro,
and their hollow culms rattled against each other, as they were jerked
about, and borne downward.  Some living thing was pressing through their
midst.

The motion reached their verge--the last canes gave way, and I now saw
what I had looked for--the spotted body of a hound!  With a spring the
animal came forth, paused for a moment in the open ground, and then,
uttering a prolonged howl, took up the scent, and galloped forward.

Close upon his heels came a second; the waving cane closed behind them,
and both ran forward in the direction of the log.

As there was no longer any underwood, I had a full view of their bodies.
Gloomy as the place was, I could see them with sufficient distinctness
to note their kind--huge, gaunt deer-hounds, black and tan.  From the
manner of their approach, they had evidently been trained to their work,
and that was _not_ the hunting of deer.  No ordinary hound would have
run upon a human track, as they were running upon ours.

The moment I saw these dogs I made ready for a conflict.  Their huge
size, their broad heavy jaws, and ferocious looks, told what savage
brutes they were; and I felt satisfied they would attack me as soon as
they came up.

With this belief I drew forth a pistol; and, laying hold of a branch to
steady me, I stood waiting their approach.

I had not miscalculated.  On reaching the prostrate trunk, he scarcely
made a pause; but, leaping upward, came running along the log.  He had
dropped the scent, and now advanced with eyes glaring, evidently
meditating to spring upon me.

My position could not have been better, had I spent an hour in choosing
it.  From the nature of the ground, my assailant could neither dodge to
the right nor the left; but was compelled to approach me in a line as
straight as an arrow.  I had nought to do but hold my weapon firm and
properly directed.  A novice with fire-arms could hardly have missed
such an object.

My nerves were strung with anger--a feeling of intense indignation was
burning in my breast, that rendered me as firm as steel.  I was cool
from very passion--at the thought of being thus hunted like a wolf!

I waited until the muzzle of the hound almost met that of the pistol,
and then I fired.  The dog tumbled from the log.

I saw the other close upon his heels.  I aimed through the smoke, and
again pulled trigger.

The good weapon did not fail me.  Again the report was followed by a
plunge.

The hounds were no longer upon the log.  They had fallen right and left
into the black water below!



CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE.

THE MAN-HUNTER.

The hounds had fallen into the water--one dead, the other badly wounded.
The latter could not have escaped, as one of his legs had been struck
by the bullet, and his efforts to swim were but the throes of
desperation.  In a few minutes he must have gone to the bottom; but it
was not his fate to die by drowning.  It was predestined that his
howling should be brought to a termination in a far different manner.

The voice of the dog is music to the ear of the alligator.  Of all other
animals, this is the favourite prey of the great saurian; and the howl
of hound or cur will attract him from any distance where it may be
heard.

Naturalists have endeavoured to explain this in a different way.  They
say--and such is the fact--that the howling of a dog bears a resemblance
to the voice of the young alligator, and that the old ones are attracted
towards the spot where it is heard--the mother to protect it, and the
male parent to devour it!

This is a disputed point in natural history; but there can be no dispute
that the alligator eagerly preys upon the dog whenever an opportunity
offers--seizing the canine victim in his terrible jaws, and carrying it
off to his aqueous retreat.  This he does with an air of such earnest
avidity, as to leave no doubt but that he esteems the dog a favourite
morsel.

I was not surprised, then, to see half-a-dozen of these gigantic
reptiles emerging from amid the dark tree-trunks, and hastily swimming
towards the wounded hound.

The continued howling of the latter guided them; and in a few seconds
they had surrounded the spot where he struggled, and were dashing
forward upon their victim.

A shoal of sharks could not have finished him more expeditiously.  A
blow from the tail of one silenced his howling--three or four pair of
gaunt jaws closed upon him at the same time--a short scuffle ensued--
then the long bony heads separated, and the huge reptiles were seen
swimming off again--each with a morsel in his teeth.  A few bubbles and
blotches of red froth mottling the inky surface of the water, were all
that remained where the hound had lately been plunging.

Almost a similar scene occurred on the opposite side of the log--for the
water was but a few feet in depth, and the dead hound was visible as he
lay at the bottom.  Several of the reptiles approaching on that side,
had seen this one at the same time, and, rushing forward, they served
him precisely as his companion had been served by the others.  A crumb
of bread could not have disappeared sooner among a shoal of hungry
minnows, than did the brace of deer-hounds down the throats of these
ravenous reptiles.

Singular as was the incident, it had scarce drawn my notice.  I had far
other things to think of.

After firing the pistol, I remained standing upon the tree, with my eyes
fixed in the direction whence came the hounds.

I gazed intently among the tree-trunks, away up the dark vistas of the
forest, I watched the cane-brake, to note the slightest motion in the
reeds.  I listened to every sound, while I stood silent myself, and
enjoined silence upon my trembling companion.

I had but little hope then.  There would be more dogs, no doubt--slower
hounds following in the distance--and with them the mounted man-hunters.
They could not be far behind--they could not fail to come up soon--the
sooner that the report of my pistol would guide them to the spot.  It
would be of no use making opposition to a crowd of angry men.  I could
do nothing else than surrender to them.

My companion entreated me to this course; abjured me not to use my
weapons--for I now held the second pistol in my hand.  But I had no
intention of using them should the crowd of men come up; I had only
taken out the pistol as a precaution against the attack of the dogs--
should any more appear.

For a good while I heard no sounds from the forest, and saw no signs of
our pursuers.  What could be detaining them?  Perhaps the crossing of
the bayou; or the tract of marsh.  I knew the horsemen must there leave
the trail; but were they all mounted?

I began to hope that Gabriel might yet be in time.  If he had not heard
the signal-whistle, he must have heard the reports of my pistol?  But,
on second thoughts, that might only keep him back.  He would not
understand the firing, and might fear to come with the pirogue!

Perhaps he had heard the first signal, and was now on his way.  It was
not too late to entertain such a supposition.  Notwithstanding what had
passed, we had been yet but a short while upon the spot.  If on the way,
he might think the shots were fired from my double-barrelled gun--fired
at some game.  He might not be deterred.  There was still a hope he
might come in time.  If so, we would be able to reach his tree-cave in
safety.

There was no trace of the dogs, save a blotch or two of blood upon the
rough bark of the log, and that was not visible from the shore.  Unless
there were other dogs to guide them to the spot, the men might not in
the darkness so easily discover these marks.  We might yet baffle them!

With fresh hope I turned once more towards the water, and gazed in the
direction in which I expected the pirogue to come.  Alas! there was no
sign of it.  No sound came from the lake save the wild calling of the
affrighted birds.

I turned once more to the land.

I saw the cane-brake in motion.  The tall culms vibrated and crackled
under the heavy tread of a man, who the next moment emerging into the
open ground, advanced at a slinging trot towards the water!

He was alone and afoot--there were no dogs with him--but the long rifle
poised upon his shoulder, and the hunting accoutrements around his body,
told me at a glance he was the owner of the deer-hounds.

His black bushy beard, his leggings, and buckskin shirt, his red
neckcloth and raccoon cap--but above all, the brutal ferocity of his
visage, left me in no doubt as to who this character was.  The
description of the runaway answered him in every particular.  He could
be no other than _Ruffin the man-hunter_!



CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR.

SHOT FOR SHOT.

Yes, the individual who now advanced was Ruffin the man-hunter; and the
dogs I had killed, were his--a brace of sleuth-hounds, well-known in the
settlement as being specially trained to tracking the unfortunate
blacks, that, driven by cruel treatment, had taken to the woods.

Well-known, too, was their master--a dissipated brutal fellow, half
hunter, half hog-thief, who dwelt in the woods like an Indian savage,
and hired himself out to such of the planters as needed the aid of him
and his horrid hounds!

As I have said, I had never seen this individual, though I had heard of
him often--from Scipio, from the boy Caton, and, lastly, from Gabriel.
The Bambarra had described him minutely--had told me wild stories of the
man's wickedness and ferocious cruelty--how he had taken the lives of
several runaways while in pursuit of them, and caused others to be torn
and mangled by his savage dogs!

He was the terror and aversion of every <DW64> quarter along the coast;
and his name--appropriate to his character--oft served the sable mother
as a "bogey" to frighten her squalling piccaninny into silence!

Such was Ruffin the _man-hunter_, as he was known among the black helots
of the plantations.  The "cobbing-board" and the red cowhide were not
half so terrible as he.  In comparison with him, such characters as
"Bully Bill," the flogging overseer, might be esteemed mild and humane.

The sight of this man at once deprived me of all farther thought of
escape.  I permitted my pistol arm to drop loosely by my side, and stood
awaiting his advance, with the intention of surrendering ourselves up.
Resistance would be vain, and could only lead to the idle spilling of
blood.  With this intention I remained silent, having cautioned my
companion to do the same.

On first emerging from the cane-brake, the hunter did not see us.  I was
partially screened by the moss where I stood--Aurore entirely so.
Besides, the man's eyes were not turned in our direction.  They were
bent upon the ground.  No doubt he had heard the reports of my pistol;
but he trusted more to his tracking instincts; and, from his bent
attitude.  I could tell that he was trailing his own dogs--almost as one
of themselves would have done!

As he neared the edge of the pond, the _smell_ of the water reached him;
and, suddenly halting, he raised his eyes and looked forward.  The sight
of the pond seemed to puzzle him, and his astonishment was expressed in
the short sharp expression--

"Hell!"

The next moment his eyes fell upon the prostrate tree, then quickly
swept along its trunk, and rested full upon me.

"Hell and scissors!" he exclaimed, "thar are ye!  Whar's my dogs?"

I stood eyeing him back, but made no reply.

"You hear, damn yer!  Whar's my dogs?"

I still remained silent.

His eyes fell upon the log.  He saw the blood-spots upon the hark.  He
remembered the shots.

"Hell and damn!" cried he, with horrid emphasis, "you've kilt my dogs!"
and then followed a volley of mingled oaths and threats, while the
ruffian gesticulated as, if he had suddenly gone mad!

After a while he ceased from these idle demonstrations; and, planting
himself firmly, he raised his rifle muzzle towards me, and cried out:--

"Come off that log, and fetch your blue-skin with you!  Quick, damn yer!
Come off that log!  Another minnit, an' I'll plug ye!"

I have said that at first sight of the man I had given up all idea of
resistance, and intended to surrender at once; but there was something
so arrogant in the demand--so insulting in the tone with which the
ruffian made it--that it fired my very flesh with indignation, and
determined me to stand at bay.

Anger, at being thus hunted, new-nerved both my heart and my arm.  The
brute had bayed me, and I resolved to risk resistance.

Another reason for changing my determination--I now saw that he was
_alone_.  He had followed the dogs afoot, while the others on horseback
had no doubt been stopped or delayed by the bayou and morass.  Had the
crowd come up, I must have yielded _nolens volens_; but the man-hunter
himself--formidable antagonist though he appeared--was still but _one_,
and to surrender tamely to a single individual, was more than my
spirit--inherited from border ancestry--could brook.  There was too much
of the moss-trooper blood in my veins for that, and I resolved, _coute
que coute_, to risk the encounter.

My pistol was once more firmly grasped; and looking the ruffian full
into his bloodshot eyes, I shouted back--

"Fire at your peril!  Miss and you are mine!"

The sight of my uplifted pistol caused him to quail; and I have no doubt
that had opportunity offered, he would have withdrawn from the contest.
He had expected no such a reception.

But he had gone too far to recede.  His rifle was already at his
shoulder, and the next moment I saw the flash, and heard the sharp
crack.  The "thud" of his bullet, too, fell upon my ear, as it struck
into the branch against which I was leaning.  Good marksman as he was
reputed, the sheen of my pistols had spoiled his aim, and he had missed
me!

I did not miss _him_.  He fell to the shot with a demoniac howl; and as
the smoke thinned off, I could see him writhing and scrambling in the
black mud!

I hesitated whether to give him the second barrel--for I was angry and
desired his life--but at this moment noises reached me from behind.  I
heard the plunging paddle, with the sounds of a manly voice; and
turning, I beheld the Bambarra.

The latter had shot the pirogue among the tree-tops close to where we
stood, and with voice and gesture now urged us to get aboard.

"Quick, mass'.  Quick, 'Rore gal! jump into de dugout!  Jump in!  Truss
Ole Gabe!--he stand by young mass' to de deff!"

Almost mechanically I yielded to the solicitations of the runaway--
though I now saw but little chance of our ultimate escape--and, having
assisted Aurore into the pirogue, I followed and took my seat beside
her.

The strong arm of the <DW64> soon impelled us far out from the shore; and
in five minutes after we were crossing the open lake toward the cypress
clump in its midst.



CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE.

LOVE IN THE HOUR OF PERIL.

We glided into the shadow of the tree, and passed under its trailing
parasites.  The pirogue touched its trunk.  Mechanically I climbed along
the sloping buttress--mechanically assisted Aurore.

We stood within the hollow chamber--the lurking-place of the runaway--
and for the present were safe from pursuit.  But there was no joy in our
hearts.  We knew it was but a respite, without any hope of ultimate
concealment.

The encounter with Ruffin had ruined all our prospects.  Whether the
hunter were yet dead or alive, his presence would guide the pursuit.
The way we had got off would easily be conjectured, and our hiding-place
could not long remain undiscovered.

What had passed would be likely to aggravate our pursuers, and
strengthen their determination to capture us.  Before Ruffin came up,
there was yet a chance of safety.  Most of those engaged in the pursuit
would regard it as the mere ordinary affair of a chase after a runaway
<DW64>--a sport of which they might get tired whenever they should lose
the track.  Considering for whom the hunt was got up--a man so unpopular
as Gayarre,--none would have any great interest in the result, excepting
himself and his ruffian aids.  Had we left no traces where we embarked
in the pirogue, the gloomy labyrinth of forest-covered water might have
discouraged our pursuers--most of whom would have given up at the
doubtful prospect, and returned to their homes.  We might have been left
undisturbed until nightfall, and it was my design to have then recrossed
the lake, landed at some new point, and, under the guidance of the
Bambarra, get back to the Levee Road, where we were to meet D'Hauteville
with the horses.  Thence, as originally agreed upon, to the city.

All this programme, I had hastily conceived; and previous to the
appearance of Ruffin, there was every probability I should succeed in
carrying it out.

Even after I had shot the dogs, I did not wholly despair.  There were
still many chances of success that occurred to me.  The pursuers,
thought I, detained by the bayou, might have lost the dogs, and would
not follow their track so easily.  Some time would be wasted at all
events.  Even should they form a correct guess as to the fate of the
hounds, neither men afoot nor on horseback could penetrate to our
hiding-place.  They would need boats or canoes.  More time would be
consumed in bringing these from the river, and perhaps night would be
down before this could be effected.  On night and D'Hauteville I still
had confidence.

That was previous to the conflict with the man-hunter.

After that affair, circumstances had undergone a change.  Alive or dead,
Ruffin would guide the pursuit to where we were.  If still living--and
now that my angry feeling had passed away I hoped he was--he would at
once direct the pursuers upon us.

I believed he was not dead--only wounded.  His behaviour, after
receiving the shot, had not been like that of a man mortally wounded.  I
believed, and hoped, that he still lived:--not that I felt at all
remorseful at what had happened, but from mere prudential
considerations.  If dead, his body by the prostrate tree would soon be
discovered, and would tell the tale to those who came up.  We should be
captured all the same, and might expect the more terrible consequences.

The rencontre with this ruffian had been altogether unfortunate.  It had
changed the face of affairs.  Blood had been spilt _in defence of a
runaway_.  The news would return rapidly to the town.  It would spread
through the plantations with lightning-speed.  The whole community would
be fired and roused--the number of our pursuers quadrupled.  I should be
hunted as a _double_ outlaw, and with the hostile energy of vengeance!

I knew all this, and no longer speculated upon the probabilities of
deliverance.  There was not the remotest prospect of our being able to
get away.

I drew my betrothed near me.  I folded her in my arms, and pressed her
to my heart.  Till death she would be mine!  She swore it in that
shadowy spot--in that dread and darksome hour.  Till death she would be
mine!

Her love inspired me with courage; and with courage I awaited the
result.

Another hour passed.

Despite our fearful anticipations, that hour was pleasantly spent.
Strange it is to say so, but it was in reality one of the happiest hours
I can remember.  It was the first time I had been enabled to hold free
converse with Aurore since the day of our betrothal.  We were now
alone--for the faithful black stood sentinel below by the hawser of his
pirogue.

The reaction, consequent upon my late jealousy, had kindled my love to a
renewed and fiercer life--for such is the law of nature.  In the very
ardour of my affection, I almost forgot our desperate situation.

Over and over again we vowed eternal troth--over and over plighted our
mutual faith, in fond, burning words--the eloquence of our heartfelt
passion.  Oh! it was a happy hour!

Alas! it came to an end.  It ended with a painful regret, but not with
surprise.  I was not surprised to hear horns sounding through the woods,
and signal shouts answering each other in different directions.  I was
not surprised when voices came pealing across the water--loud oaths and
ejaculations--mingled with the plashing of paddles and the plunging of
oars; and, when the <DW64> announced that several boats filled with armed
men were in the open water and approaching the tree, it did not take me
by surprise.  I had foreseen all this.

I descended to the base of the cypress, and, stooping down, looked out
under the hanging moss.  I could see the surface of the lake.  I could
see the men in their canoes and skiffs, rowing and gesticulating.

When near the middle of the open water, they lay upon their oars, and
held a short consultation.  After a moment they separated, and rowed in
circles around, evidently with the design of encompassing the tree.

In a few minutes they had executed this manoeuvre, and now closed in,
until their vessels floated among the drooping branches of the cypress.
A shout of triumph told that they had discovered our retreat; and I now
saw their faces peering through the curtain of straggling _tillandsia_.

They could see the pirogue, and both the <DW64> and myself standing by
the bow.

"Surrender!" shouted a voice in a loud, firm tone.  "If you resist, your
lives be on your own heads!"

Notwithstanding this summons, the boats did not advance any nearer.
They knew that I carried pistols, and that I knew how to handle them--
the proofs, were fresh.  They approached, therefore, with caution--
thinking I might still use my weapons.

They had no need to be apprehensive.  I had not the slightest intention
of doing so.  Resistance against twenty men--for there were that number
in the boats, twenty men well armed--would have been a piece of
desperate folly.  I never thought of such a thing; though, if I had, I
believe the Bambarra would have stood by me to the death.  The brave
fellow, steeled to a supernatural courage by the prospect of his
punishment, had even proposed fight!  But his courage was madness; and I
entreated him not to resist--as they would certainly have slain him on
the spot.

I meant no resistance, but I hesitated a moment in making answer.

"We're all armed," continued the speaker, who seemed to have some
authority over the others.  "It is useless for you to resist--you had
better give up!"

"Damn them!" cried another and a rougher voice; "don't waste talk on
them.  Let's fire the tree, and smoke 'em out; that moss 'll burn, I
reckon!"

I recognised the voice that uttered this inhuman suggestion.  It came
from Bully Bill.

"I have no intention of making resistance," I called out in reply to the
first speaker.  "I am ready to go with you.  I have committed no crime.
For what I have done I am ready to answer to the laws."

"You shall answer to _us_," replied one who had not before spoken; "_we_
are the laws here."

There was an ambiguity in this speech that I liked not; but there was no
further parley.  The skiffs and canoes had suddenly closed in around the
tree.  A dozen muzzles of pistols and rifles were pointed at me, and a
dozen voices commanded the <DW64> and myself to get into one of the
boats.

From the fierce, determined glances of these rough men, I saw it was
death or obedience.

I turned to bid adieu to Aurore, who had rushed out of the tree-cave,
and stood near me weeping.

As I faced round, several men sprang upon the buttress; and, seizing me
from behind, held me in their united grasp.  Then drawing my arms across
my back, tied them fast with a rope.

I could just speak one parting word with Aurore, who, no longer in
tears, stood regarding my captors with a look of scornful indignation.
As they led me unresistingly into the boat, her high spirit gave way to
words, and she cried out in a voice of scorn--

"Cowards! cowards!  Not one of you dare meet him in a fair field--no,
not one of you!"

The lofty spirit of my betrothed echoed mine, and gave me proof of her
love.  I was pleased with it, and could have applauded; but my mortified
captors gave me no time to reply; for the next moment the pirogue in
which I had been placed shot out through the branches, and floated on
the open water of the lake.



CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX.

A TERRIBLE FATE.

I saw no more of Aurore.  Neither was the black brought along.  I could
gather from the conversation of my captors, that they were to be taken
in one of the skiffs that had stayed behind--that they were to be landed
at a different point from that to which we were steering.  I could
gather, too, that the poor Bambarra was doomed to a terrible
punishment--the same he already dreaded--the losing of an arm!

I was pained at such a thought, but still more by the rude jests I had
now to listen to.  My betrothed and myself were reviled with a
disgusting coarseness, which I cannot repeat.

I made no attempt to defend either her or myself.  I did not even reply.
I sat with my eyes bent gloomily upon the water; and it was a sort of
relict to me when the pirogue again passed in among the trunks of the
cypress-trees, and their dark shadow half concealed my face from the
view of my captors.  I was brought back to the landing by the old
tree-trunk.

On nearing this I saw that a crowd of men awaited us on the shore; and
among them I recognised the ferocious Ruffin, with his arm slung in his
red kerchief, bandaged and bloody.  He was standing up with the rest.

"Thank Heaven!  I have not killed him!" was my mental ejaculation.  "So
much the less have I to answer for."

The canoes and skiffs--with the exception of that which carried Aurore
and the black--had all arrived at this point, and my captors were
landing.  In all there were some thirty or forty men, with a proportion
of half-grown boys.  Most of them were armed with either pistols or
rifles.  Under the grey gloom of the trees, they presented a picturesque
tableau; but at that moment my feelings were not attuned to enjoy it.

I was landed among the rest; and with two armed men, one before and
another immediately at my back, I was marched off through the woods.
The crowd accompanied us, some in the advance, some behind, while others
walked alongside.  These were the boys and the more brutal of the men
who occasionally taunted me with rude speech.

I might have lost patience and grown angry, had that served me; but I
knew it would only give pleasure to my tormentors, without bettering my
condition.  I therefore observed silence, and kept my eyes averted or
turned upon the ground.

We passed on rapidly--as fast as the crowd could make way through the
bushes--and I was glad of this.  I presumed I was about to be conducted
before a magistrate, or "justice of the peace," as there called.  Well,
thought I.  Under legal authority, and in the keeping of the officers, I
should be protected from the gibes and insults that were being showered
upon me.  Everything short of personal violence was offered; and there
were some that seemed sufficiently disposed even for this.

I saw the forest opening in front.  I supposed we had gone by some
shorter way to the clearings.  It was not so, for the next moment we
emerged into the glade.  Again the glade!

Here my captors came to a halt; and now in the open light I had an
opportunity to know who they were.  At a glance I saw that I was in the
hands of a desperate crowd.

Gayarre himself was in their midst, and beside him his own overseer, and
the <DW64>-trader, and the brutal Larkin.  With these were some
half-dozen Creole-Frenchmen of the poorer class of _proprietaires_,
weavers of cottonade, or small planters.  The rest of the mob was
composed of the very scum of the settlement--the drunken boatmen whom I
had used to see gossiping in front of the "groceries," and other
dissipated rowdies of the place.  Not one respectable planter appeared
upon the ground--not one respectable man!

For what had they stopped in the glade?  I was impatient to be taken
before the justice, and chafed at the delay.

"Why am I detained here?"  I asked in a tone of anger.

"Ho, mister!" replied one; "don't be in such a hell of a hurry!  You'll
find out soon enough, I reckon."

"I protest against this," I continued.  "I insist upon being taken
before the justice."

"An' so ye will, damn you!  You ain't got far to go.  _The justice is
hyar_."

"Who? where?"  I inquired, under the impression that a magistrate was
upon the ground.  I had heard of wood-choppers acting as justices of the
peace--in fact, had met with one or two of them--and among the rude
forms that surrounded me there might be one of these.  "Where is the
justice?"  I demanded.  "Oh, he's about--never you fear!" replied one.
"Whar's the justice?" shouted another.  "Ay, whar's the justice?--whar
are ye, judge?" cried a third, as if appealing to some one in the crowd.
"Come on hyar, judge!" he added.  "Come along!--hyar's a fellar wants
to see you!"

I really thought the man was in earnest.  I really believed there was
such an individual in the mob.  The only impression made upon me was
astonishment at this rudeness towards the magisterial representative of
the law.

My misconception was short-lived, for at this moment Ruffin--the
bandaged and bloody Ruffin--came close up to me; and, after scowling
upon me with his fierce, bloodshot eyes, bent forward until his lips
almost touched my face, and then hissed out--

"Perhaps, Mister <DW65>-stealer, you've niver heerd ov _Justice Lynch_?"

A thrill of horror run through my veins.  The fearful conviction flashed
before my mind that _they_ were _going to Lynch me_!



CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN.

THE SENTENCE OF JUDGE LYNCH.

An undefined suspicion of something of this sort had already crossed my
thoughts.  I remembered the reply made from the boats, "You shall answer
to _us_.  _We_ are the law."  I had heard some mysterious innuendoes as
we passed through the woods--I had noticed too, that on our arrival in
the glade, we found those who had gone in the advance halted there, as
if waiting for the others to come up; and I could not comprehend why we
had stopped there at all.

I now saw that the men of the party were drawing to one side, and
forming a sort of irregular ring, with that peculiar air of solemnity
that bespeaks some serious business.  It was only the boys, and some
<DW64>s--for these, too, had taken part in our capture--who remained
near me.  Ruffin had simply approached to gratify his revengeful
feelings by tantalising me.

All these appearances had aroused wild suspicions within me, but up to
that moment they had assumed no definite form.  I had even endeavoured
to keep back such a suspicion, under the vague belief, that by the very
imagination of it, I might in some way aid in bringing it about!

It was no longer suspicion.  It was now conviction.  They were going to
Lynch me!

The significant interrogatory, on account of the manner in which it was
put, was hailed by the boys with a shout of laughter.  Ruffin
continued--

"No; I guess you han't heerd ov that ar justice, since yur a stranger in
these parts, an' a Britisher.  You han't got sich a one among yur
bigwigs, I reckin.  He's the fellar that ain't a-goin' to keep you long
in Chancery.  No, by God! he'll do yur business in double-quick time.
Hell and scissors! yu'll see if he don't."

Throughout all this speech the brutal fellow taunted me with gestures as
well as words--drawing from his auditory repeated bursts of laughter.

So provoked was I that, had I not been fast bound, I should have sprung
upon him; but, bound as I was, and vulgar brute as was this adversary, I
could not hold my tongue.

"Were I free, you ruffian, you would not dare taunt me thus.  At all
events _you_ have come off but second best.  I've crippled _you_ for
life; though it don't matter much, seeing what a clumsy use you make of
a rifle."

This speech produced a terrible effect upon the brute--the more so that
the boys now laughed at _him_.  These boys were not all bad.  They were
incensed against me as an Abolitionist--or "<DW65>-stealer," as they
phrased it--and, under the countenance and guidance of their elders,
their worst passions were now at play; but for all that, they were not
essentially wicked.  They were rough backwoods' boys, and the spirit of
my retort pleased them.  After that they held back from jeering me.

Not so with Ruffin, who now broke forth into a string of vindictive
oaths and menaces, and appeared as if about to grapple me with his one
remaining hand.  At this moment he was called off by the men, who needed
him in the "caucus;" and, after shaking his fist in my face, and
uttering a parting imprecation, he left me.

I was for some minutes kept in suspense.  I could not tell what this
dread council were debating, or what they meant to do with me--though I
now felt quite certain that they did not intend taking me before any
magistrate.  From frequent phrases that reached my ears, such as, "flog
the scoundrel", "tar and feathers," I began to conjecture that some such
punishment awaited me.  To my astonishment, however, I found, upon
listening a while, that a number of my judges were actually opposed to
these punishments as being too mild!  Some declared openly, that
_nothing but my life could satisfy the outraged laws_!

The _majority_ took this view of the case; and it was to add to their
strength that Ruffin had been summoned!

A feeling of terrible fear crept over me--say rather a feeling of
horror--but it was only complete when the ring of men suddenly broke up,
and I saw two of their number lay hold of a rope, and commence reeving
it over the limb of a gum-tree that stood by the edge of the glade.

There had been a trial and a sentence too.  Even Judge Lynch has his
formality.

When the rope was adjusted, one of the men--the <DW64>-trader it was--
approached me; and in a sort of rude paraphrase of a judge, summed up
and pronounced the sentence!

I had outraged the laws; I had committed two capital crimes.  I had
stolen slaves, and endeavoured to take away the life of a
fellow-creature.  A jury of twelve men had tried--and found me guilty;
and sentenced me to death by hanging.  Even this was not permitted to go
forth in an informal manner.  The very phraseology was adopted.  I was
to be hung by the neck until I should be dead--dead!

You will deem this relation exaggerated and improbable.  You will think
that I am sporting with you.  You will not believe that such lawlessness
can exist in a Christian--a civilised land.  You will fancy that these
men were sporting with _me_, and that in the end they did not seriously
intend to _hang me_.

I cannot help it if you think so; but I solemnly declare that such was
their design: and I felt as certain at that moment that they intended to
have hanged me, as I now feel that I was not hanged!

Believe it or not, you must remember that I would not have been the
first victim by many, and that thought was vividly before my mind at the
time.

Along with it, there was the rope--there the tree--there stood my judges
before me.  Their looks alone might have produced conviction.  There was
not a ray of mercy to be seen.

At that awful moment I knew not what I said or how I acted.

I remember only that my fears were somewhat modified by my indignation.
That I protested, menaced, swore--that my ruthless judges answered me
with mockery.

They were actually proceeding to put the sentence into execution--and
had already carried me across to the foot of the tree--when the sound of
trampling hoofs fell upon our ears, and the next moment a party of
horsemen galloped into the glade.



CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT.

IN THE HANDS OF THE SHERIFF.

At sight of these horsemen my heart leaped with joy, for among the
foremost I beheld the calm, resolute face of Edward Reigart.  Behind him
rode the sheriff of the parish, followed by a "posse" of about a dozen
men--among whom I recognised several of the most respectable planters of
the neighbourhood.  Every one of the party was armed either with a rifle
or pistols; and the manner in which they rode forward upon the ground,
showed that they had come in great haste, and with a determined purpose.

I say my heart leaped with joy.  An actual criminal standing upon the
platform of the gallows could not have been more joyed at sight of the
messenger that brought him reprieve or pardon.  In the new-comers I
recognised friends: in their countenances I read rescue.  I was not
displeased, therefore, when the sheriff, dismounting, advanced to my
side, and placing his hand upon my shoulder, told me I was his prisoner
"in the name of the law."  Though brusquely done, and apparently with a
degree of rudeness, I was not displeased either by the act or the
manner.  The latter was plainly assumed for a purpose; and in the act
itself I hailed the salvation of my life.  I felt like a rescued man.

The proceeding did not equally content my former judges, who loudly
murmured their dissatisfaction.  They alleged that I had already been
tried by a jury of _twelve free citizens_--that I had been found guilty
of <DW65>-stealing--that I had stolen _two niggers_--that I had resisted
when pursued, and had "wownded" one of my pursuers; and that, as all
this had been "clarly made out," they couldn't see what more was wanted
to establish my guilt, and that I ought to be _hung_ on the spot,
without further loss of time.

The sheriff replied that such a course would be illegal; that the
majesty of the law must be respected; that if I was guilty of the crimes
alleged against me, the law would most certainly measure out full
punishment to me; but that I must first be brought before a justice, and
the charge legally and formally made out; and, finally, expressed his
intention to take me before Justice Claiborne, the magistrate of the
district.

An angry altercation ensued between the mob and the sheriffs party--in
which but slight show of respect was paid to the high executive--and for
some time I was actually in dread that the ruffians would carry their
point.  But an American sheriff is entirely a different sort of
character from the idle gentleman who fills that office in an English
county.  The former is, in nine cases out of ten, a man of proved
courage and action; and Sheriff Hickman, with whom my _quasi_ judges had
to deal, was no exception to this rule.  His "posse," moreover,
hurriedly collected by my friend Reigart, chanced to have among their
number several men of a similar stamp.  Reigart himself, though a man of
peace, was well-known to possess a cool and determined spirit; and there
was the landlord of my hotel, and several of the planters who
accompanied several of the young planters, behaved in a handsome manner;
and the law prevailed.

Yes! thank Heaven and half-a-dozen noble men, the law prevailed--else I
should never have gone out of that glade alive!

Justice Lynch had to give way to Justice Claiborne, and a respite was
obtained from the cruel verdict of the former.  The victorious sheriff
and his party bore me off in their midst.

But though my ferocious judges had yielded for the present, it was not
certain that they would not still attempt to rescue me from the hands of
the law.  To prevent this, the sheriff mounted me upon a horse--he
himself riding upon one side, while an assistant of tried courage took
the opposite.  Reigart and the planters kept close to me before and
behind; while the shouting, blaspheming mob followed both on horseback
and afoot.  In this way we passed through the woods, across the fields,
along the road leading into Bringiers, and then to the residence of
"Squire" Claiborne--Justice of the Peace for that district.

Attached to his dwelling was a large room or office where the Squire was
used to administer the magisterial law of the land.  It was entered by a
separate door from the house itself, and had no particular marks about
it to denote that it was a hall of justice, beyond the fact that it was
furnished with a bench or two to serve as seats, and a small desk or
rostrum in one corner.

At this desk the Squire was in the habit of settling petty disputes,
administering affidavits at a quarter of a dollar each, and arranging
other small civic matters.  But oftener was his magisterial function
employed in sentencing the mutinous "darkie" to his due the sheriff--
sterling men, who were lovers of the law and lovers of fair play as
well--and those, armed to the teeth, would have laid down their lives on
the spot in defence of the sheriff and his demand.  True, they were in
the minority in point of numbers; but they had the law upon their side,
and that gave them strength.

There was one point in my favour above all others, and that was, my
accusers chanced to be unpopular men.  Gayarre, as already stated,
although professing a high standard of morality, was not esteemed by the
neighbouring planters--particularly by those of American origin.  The
others most forward against me were known to be secretly instigated by
the lawyer.  As to Ruffin, whom I had "wounded," those upon the ground
had heard the crack of his rifle, and knew that _he had fired first_.
In their calmer moments my resistance would have been deemed perfectly
justifiable--so far as that individual was concerned.

Had the circumstances been different--had the "two <DW65>s" I had
_stolen_ belonged to a popular planter, and not to Monsieur Dominique
Gayarre--had Ruffin been a respectable citizen, instead of the
dissipated half outlaw that he was--had there not been a suspicion in
the minds of many present that it was _not_ a case of ordinary
_nigger-stealing_, then indeed might it have gone ill with me, in spite
of the sheriff and his party.

Even as it was, a long and angry altercation ensued--loud words, oaths,
and gestures of menace, were freely exchanged--and both rifles and
pistols were cocked and firmly grasped before the discussion ended.

But the brave sheriff remained resolute; Reigart acted a most courageous
part; my _ci-devant_ host, and proportion of stripes on the complaint of
a conscientious master--for, after all, such theoretical protection does
the poor slave enjoy.

Into this room, then, was I hurried by the sheriff and his assistants--
the mob rushing in after, until every available space was occupied.



CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE.

THE CRISIS.

No doubt a messenger had preceded us, for we found Squire Claiborne in
his chair of office, ready to hear the case.  In the tall, thin old man,
with white hair and dignified aspect, I recognised a fit representative
of justice--one of those venerable magistrates, who command respect not
only by virtue of age and office, but from the dignity of their personal
character.  In spite of the noisy rabble that surrounded me, I read in
the serene, firm look of the magistrate the determination to show fair
play.

I was no longer uneasy.  On the way, Reigart had told me to be of good
cheer.  He had whispered something about "strange developments to be
made;" but I had not fully heard him, and was at a loss to comprehend
what he meant.  In the hurry and crush I had found no opportunity for an
explanation.

"Keep up your spirits!" said he, as he pushed his horse alongside me.
"Don't have any fear about the result.  It's rather an odd affair, and
will have an odd ending--rather unexpected for somebody, I should say--
ha! ha! ha!"

Reigart actually laughed aloud, and appeared to be in high glee!  What
could such conduct mean?

I was not permitted to know, for at that moment the sheriff, in a high
tone of authority, commanded that no one should "hold communication with
the prisoner;" and my friend and I were abruptly separated.  Strange, I
did not dislike the sheriff for this!  I had a secret belief that his
manner--apparently somewhat hostile to me--was assumed for a purpose.
The mob required conciliation; and all this _brusquerie_ was a bit of
management on the part of Sheriff Hickman.

On arriving before Justice Claiborne, it required all the authority of
both sheriff and justice to obtain silence.  A partial lull, however,
enabled the latter to proceed with the case.

"Now, gentlemen!" said he, speaking in a firm, magisterial tone, "I am
ready to hear the charge against this young man.  Of what is he accused,
Colonel Hickman?" inquired the justice, turning to the sheriff.

"Of <DW64>-stealing, I believe," replied the latter.

"Who prefers the charge?"

"Dominique Gayarre," replied a voice from the crowd, which I recognised
as that of Gayarre himself.

"Is Monsieur Gayarre present?" inquired the justice.

The voice again replied in the affirmative, and the fox-like face of the
avocat now presented itself in front of the rostrum.

"Monsieur Dominique Gayarre," said the magistrate, recognising him,
"what is the charge you bring against the prisoner?  State it in full
and upon oath."

Gayarre having gone through the formula of the oath, proceeded with his
plaint in true lawyer style.

I need not follow the circumlocution of legal phraseology.  Suffice it
to say, that there were several counts in his indictment.

I was first accused of having endeavoured to instigate to mutiny and
revolt the slaves of the plantation Besancon, by having interfered to
prevent one of their number from receiving his _just_ punishment!
Secondly, I had caused another of these to strike down his overseer; and
afterwards had induced him to run away to the woods, and aided him in so
doing!  This was the slave Gabriel, who had just that day been captured
in my company.  Thirdly and Gayarre now came to the cream of his
accusation.

"Thirdly," continued he, "I accuse this person of having entered my
house on the night of October the 18th, and having stolen therefrom the
female slave Aurore Besancon."

"It is false!" cried a voice, interrupting him.  "It is false!  _Aurore
Besancon_ is _not a slave_!"

Gayarre started, as though some one had thrust a knife into him.

"Who says that?" he demanded, though with a voice that evidently
faltered.

"I!" replied the voice; and at the same instant a young man leaped upon
one of the benches, and stood with his head overtopping the crowd.  It
was D'Hauteville!

"I say it!" he repeated, in the same firm tone.  "_Aurore Besancon is no
slave, but a free Quadroon_!  Here, Justice Claiborne," continued
D'Hauteville, "do me the favour to read this document!"  At the same
time the speaker handed a folded parchment across the room.

The sheriff passed it to the magistrate, who opened it and read aloud.

It proved to be the "free papers" of Aurore the Quadroon--the
certificate of her manumission--regularly signed and attested by her
master, Auguste Besancon, and left by him in his will.

The astonishment was extreme--so much so that the crowd seemed
petrified, and preserved silence.  Their feelings were on the turn.

The effect produced upon Gayarre was visible to all.  He seemed covered
with confusion.  In his embarrassment he faltered out--

"I protest against this--that paper has been stolen from my bureau,
and--"

"So much the better, Monsieur Gayarre!" said D'Hauteville, again
interrupting him; "so much the better!  You confess to its being stolen,
and therefore you confess to its being genuine.  Now, sir, having this
document in your possession, and knowing its contents, how could you
claim Aurore Besancon as your slave?"

Gayarre was confounded.  His cadaverous face became of a white, sickly
hue; and his habitual look of malice rapidly gave way to an expression
of terror.  He appeared as if he wanted to be gone; and already crouched
behind the taller men who stood around him.

"Stop, Monsieur Gayarre!" continued the inexorable D'Hauteville, "I have
not done with you yet.  Here, Justice Claiborne!  I have another
document that may interest you.  Will you have the goodness to give it
your attention?"

Saying this, the speaker held out a second folded parchment, which was
handed to the magistrate--who, as before, opened the document and read
it aloud.

This was a codicil to the will of Auguste Besancon, by which the sum of
fifty thousand dollars in bank stock was bequeathed to his daughter,
Eugenie Besancon, to be paid to her upon the day on which she should be
of age by the joint executors of the estate--Monsieur Dominique Gayarre
and Antoine Lereux--and these executors were instructed not to make
known to the recipient the existence of this sum in her favour, until
the very day of its payment.

"Now, Monsieur Dominique Gayarre!" continued D'Hauteville, as soon as
the reading was finished, "I charge you with the embezzlement of this
fifty thousand dollars, with various other sums--of which more
hereafter.  I charge you with having concealed the existence of this
money--of having withheld it from the assets of the estate Besancon--of
having appropriated it to your own use!"

"This is a serious charge," said Justice Claiborne, evidently impressed
with its truth, and prepared to entertain it.  "Your name, sir, if you
please?" continued he, interrogating D'Hauteville, in a mild tone of
voice.

It was the first time I had seen D'Hauteville in the full light of day.
All that had yet passed between us had taken place either in the
darkness of night or by the light of lamps.  That morning alone had we
been together for a few minutes by daylight; but even then it was under
the sombre shadow of the woods--where I could have but a faint view of
his features.

Now that he stood in the light of the open window, I had a full, clear
view of his face.  The resemblance to some one I had seen before again
impressed me.  It grew stronger as I gazed; and before the magistrate's
interrogatory had received its reply, the shock of my astonishment had
passed.

"Your name, sir, if you please?" repeated the justice.

"_Eugenie Besancon_!"

At the same instant the hat was pulled off--the black curls were drawn
aside--and the fair, golden tresses of the beautiful Creole exhibited to
the view.

A loud huzza broke out--in which all joined, excepting Gayarre and his
two or three ruffian adherents.  I felt that I was free.

The conditions had suddenly changed, and the plaintiff had taken the
place of the defendant.  Even before the excitement had quieted down, I
saw the sheriff, at the instigation of Reigart and others, stride
forward to Gayarre, and placing his hand upon the shoulder of the
latter, arrest him as his prisoner.

"It is false!" cried Gayarre; "a plot--a damnable plot!  These documents
are forgeries! the signatures are false--false!"

"Not so, Monsieur Gayarre," said the justice, interrupting him.  "Those
documents are not forgeries.  This is the handwriting of Auguste
Besancon.  I knew him well.  This is his signature--I could myself swear
to it."

"And I!" responded a voice, in a deep solemn tone, which drew the
attention of all.

The transformation of Eugene D'Hauteville to Eugenie Besancon had
astonished the crowd; but a greater surprise awaited them in the
resurrection of the _steward Antoine_!

Reader! my story is ended.  Here upon our little drama must the curtain
drop.  I might offer you other tableaux to illustrate the after history
of our characters, but a slight summary must suffice.  Your fancy will
supply the details.

It will glad you to know, then, that Eugenie Besancon recovered the
whole of her property--which was soon restored to its flourishing
condition under the faithful stewardship of Antoine.

Alas! there was that that could never be restored--the young cheerful
heart--the buoyant spirit--the virgin love!

But do not imagine that Eugenie Besancon yielded to despair--that she
was ever after the victim of that unhappy passion.  No--hers was a
mighty will; and all its energies were employed to pluck the fatal arrow
from her heart.

Time and a virtuous life have much power; but far more effective was
that sympathy of the object beloved--that _pity for love_--which to her
was fully accorded.

Her heart's young hope was crushed--her gay spirit shrouded--but there
are other joys in life besides the play of the passions; and, it may be,
the path of love is not the true road to happiness.  Oh! that I could
believe this!  Oh! that I could reason myself into the belief, that that
calm and unruffled mien--that soft sweet smile were the tokens of a
heart at rest.  Alas!  I cannot.  Fate will have its victims.  Poor
Eugenie!  God be merciful to thee!  Oh, that I could steep thy heart in
the waters of Lethe!

And Reigart?  You, reader, will be glad to know that the good doctor
prospered--prospered until he was enabled to lay aside his lancet, and
become a grandee planter--nay more, a distinguished legislator,--one of
those to whom belongs the credit of having modelled the present system
of Louisiana law--the most advanced code in the civilised world.

You will be glad to learn that Scipio, with his Chloe and the "leetle
Chloe," were brought back to their old and now happy home--that the
snake-charmer still retained his brawny arms, and never afterwards had
occasion to seek refuge in his tree-cavern.

You will not be grieved to know, that Gayarre passed several years of
his after-life in the palace-prison of Baton Rouge, and then disappeared
altogether from the scene.  It was said that under a changed name he
returned to France, his native country.  His conviction was easy.
Antoine had long suspected him of a design to plunder their joint ward,
and had determined to put him to the proof.  The raft of chairs had
floated after all; and by the help of these the faithful steward had
gained the shore, far down the river.  No one knew of his escape; and
the idea occurred to this strange old man to remain for a while _en
perdu_--a silent spectator of the conduct of Monsieur Dominique.  No
sooner did Gayarre believe him gone, than the latter advanced boldly
upon his purpose, and hurried events to the described crisis.  It was
just what Antoine had expected; and acting himself as the accuser, the
conviction of the avocat was easy and certain.  A sentence of five years
to the State Penitentiary wound up Gayarre's connexion with the
characters of our story.

It will scarce grieve you to know that "Bully Bill" experienced a
somewhat similar fate--that Ruffin, the man-hunter, was drowned by a
sudden rising of the swamp--and that the "<DW65>-trader" afterwards
became a "<DW65>-stealer;" and for that crime was sentenced at the court
of Judge Lynch to the punishment of "tar and feathers."

The "sportsmen," Chorley and Hatcher, I never saw again--though their
future is not unknown to me.  Chorley--the brave and accomplished, but
wicked Chorley--was killed in a duel by a Creole of New Orleans, with
whom he had quarrelled at play.

Hatcher's bank "got broke" soon after, and a series of ill-fortune at
length reduced him to the condition of a race-course thimble-rig, and
small sharper in general.

The pork-merchant I met many years afterward, as a successful _monte_
dealer in the "Halls of the Montezumas."  Thither he had gone,--a
camp-follower of the American army--and had accumulated an enormous
fortune by keeping a gambling-table for the officers.  He did not live
long to enjoy his evil gains.  The "_vomito prieto_" caught him at Vera
Cruz; and his dust is now mingled with the sands of that dreary shore.

Thus, reader, it has been my happy fortune to record _poetical justice_
to the various characters that have figured in the pages of our history.

I hear you exclaim, that two have been forgotten, the hero and heroine?

Ah! no--not forgotten.  Would you have me paint the ceremony--the pomp
and splendour--the ribbons and rosettes--the after-scenes of perfect
bliss?

Hymen, forbid!  All these must be left to your fancy, if your fancy
deign to act.  But the interest of a "lover's adventures" usually ends
with the consummation of his hopes--not even always extending to the
altar--and you, reader, will scarce be curious to lift the curtain, that
veils the tranquil after-life of myself and my beautiful Quadroon.

NOTE TO THE PREFACE.

After what has been stated in the Preface, it will scarce be necessary
to say that the _names_ and some of the _places_ mentioned in this book
are fictitious.  Some of the scenes, and many of the characters that
figure in these pages, are _real_, and there are those living who will
recognise them.

The book is "founded" upon an actual experience.  It was written many
years ago, and would have been then published, but for the interference
of a well-known work, which treated of similar scenes and subjects.
That work appeared just as the "Quadroon" was about to be put to press;
and the author of the the latter, not willing to risk the chances of
being considered an imitator had determined on keeping the "Quadroon"
from the public.

Circumstances have ruled it otherwise; and having re-written some parts
of the work, he now presents it to the reader as a painting--somewhat
coarse and crude, perhaps--of life in Louisiana.

The author disclaims all "intention."  The book has been written neither
to aid the Abolitionist nor glorify the planter.  The author does not
believe that by such means he could benefit the slave, else he would not
fear to avow it.  On the other hand, he is too true a Republican, to be
the instrument that would add one drop to the "bad blood" which,
unfortunately for the cause of human freedom, has already arisen between
"North" and "South."  No; he will be the last man to aid European
despots in this, their dearest wish and desperate hope.

_London, July_, 1856.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Quadroon, by Mayne Reid

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