The Crossing
by Winston Churchill
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
Return to Part 1 of 2

But Mr. Jackson swept the room with his eyes and
then glared at the landlord so that he gave back.

``Where's my man?'' he demanded.

``Your man, Mr. Jackson?'' stammered the host.

``Great Jehovah!'' cried Mr. Jackson, ``I believe he's
afraid to race. He had a horse that could show heels to
my Nancy, did he? And he's gone, you say?''

A light seemed to dawn on the landlord's countenance.

``God bless ye, Mr. Jackson!'' he cried, ``ye don't mean
that young daredevil that was with Sevier?''

``With Sevier?'' says Jackson.

``Ay,'' says the landlord; ``he's been a-fightin with
Sevier all summer, and I reckon he ain't afeard of nothin'
any more than you. Wait--his name was Temple--
Nick Temple, they called him.''

``Nick Temple!'' I cried, starting forward.

``Where's he gone?'' said Mr. Jackson. ``He was
going to bet me a six-forty he has at Nashboro that his
horse could beat mine on the Greasy Cove track. Where's
he gone?''

``Gone!'' said the landlord, apologetically, ``Nollichucky
Jack and his boys left town an hour ago.''

``Is he a man of honor or isn't he?'' said Mr. Jackson,
fiercely.

``Lord, sir, I only seen him once, but I'd stake my oath
on it.

``Do you mean to say Mr. Temple has been here--
Nicholas Temple?'' I said.

The bewildered landlord turned towards me helplessly.

``Who the devil are you, sir?'' cried Mr. Jackson.

``Tell me what this Mr. Temple was like,'' said I.

The landlord's face lighted up.

``Faith, a thoroughbred hoss,'' says he; ``sech nostrils,
and sech a gray eye with the devil in it fer go--yellow
ha'r, and ez tall ez Mr. Jackson heah.''

``And you say he's gone off again with Sevier?''

``They rud into town'' (he lowered his voice, for the
room was filling), ``snapped their fingers at Tipton and
his warrant, and rud out ag'in. My God, but that was
like Nollichucky Jack. Say, stranger, when your Mr.
Temple smiled--''

``He is the man!'' I cried; ``tell me where to find him.''

Mr. Jackson, who had been divided between astonishment
and impatience and anger, burst out again.

``What the devil do you mean by interfering with my
business, sir?

``Because it is my business too,'' I answered, quite as
testily; ``my claim on Mr. Temple is greater than yours.''

``By Jehovah!'' cried Jackson, ``come outside, sir,
come outside!''

The landlord backed away, and the men in the tavern
began to press around us expectantly.

``Gallop into him, Andy!'' cried one.

``Don't let him git near no fences, stranger,'' said
another.

Mr. Jackson turned on this man with such truculence
that he edged away to the rear of the room.

``Step out, sir,'' said Mr. Jackson, starting for the door
before I could reply. I followed perforce, not without
misgivings, the crowd pushing eagerly after. Before
we reached the dusty street Jackson began pulling off his
coat. In a trice the shouting onlookers had made a ring,
and we stood facing each other, he in his shirt-sleeves.

``We'll fight fair,'' said he, his lips wetting.

``Very good,'' said I, ``if you are still accustomed to
this hasty manner. You have not asked my name, my
standing, nor my reasons for wanting Mr. Temple.''

I know not whether it was what I said that made him
stare, or how I said it.

``Pistols, if you like,'' said he.

``No,'' said I; ``I am in a hurry to find Mr. Temple. I
fought you this way once, and it's quicker.''

``You fought me this way once?'' he repeated. The
noise of the crowd was hushed, and they drew nearer to
hear.

``Come, Mr. Jackson,'' said I, ``you are a lawyer and a
gentleman, and so am I. I do not care to be beaten to a
pulp, but I am not afraid of you. And I am in a hurry.
If you will step back into the tavern, I will explain to you
my reasons for wishing to get to Mr. Temple.''

Mr. Jackson stared at me the more.

``By the eternal,'' said he, ``you are a cool man. Give
me my coat,'' he shouted to the bystanders, and they
helped him on with it. ``Now,'' said he, as they made to
follow him, ``keep back. I would talk to this gentleman.
By the heavens,'' he cried, when he had gained the room,
``I believe you are not afraid of me. I saw it in your
eyes.''

Then I laughed.

``Mr. Jackson,'' said I, ``doubtless you do not remember
a homeless boy named David whom you took to your
uncle's house in the Waxhaws--''

``I do,'' he exclaimed, ``as I live I do. Why, we slept
together.''

``And you stumped your toe getting into bed and
swore,'' said I.

At that he laughed so heartily that the landlord came
running across the room.

``And we fought together at the Old Fields School.
Are you that boy?'' and he scanned me again. ``By God,
I believe you are.''  Suddenly his face clouded once more.

``But what about Temple?'' said he.

``Ah,'' I answered, ``I come to that quickly. Mr.
Temple is my cousin. After I left your uncle's house
my father took me to Charlestown.''

``Is he a Charlestown Temple?'' demanded Mr.
Jackson. ``For I spent some time gambling and horse-
racing with the gentry there, and I know many of them.
I was a wild lad'' (I repeat his exact words), ``and I ran up
a bill in Charlestown that would have filled a folio volume.
Faith, all I had left me was the clothes on my back and a
good horse. I made up my mind one night that if I
could pay my debts and get out of Charlestown I would
go into the back country and study law and sober down.
There was a Mr. Braiden in the ordinary who staked me
two hundred dollars at rattle-and-snap against my horse.
Gad, sir, that was providence. I won. I left Charlestown
with honor, I studied law at Salisbury in North Carolina,
and I have come here to practise it.''

``You seem to have the talent,'' said I, smiling at the
remembrance of the Hump Gibson incident.

``That is my history in a nutshell,'' said Mr. Jackson.

``And now,'' he added, ``since you are Mr. Temple's cousin
and friend and an old acquaintance of mine to boot, I will
tell you where I think he is.''

``Where is that?'' I asked eagerly.

``I'll stake a cowbell that Sevier will stop at the Widow
Brown's,'' he replied. ``I'll put you on the road. But
mind you, you are to tell Mr. Temple that he is to come
back here and race me at Greasy Cove.''

``I'll warrant him to come,'' said I.

Whereupon we left the inn together, more amicably
than before. Mr. Jackson had a thoroughbred horse
near by that was a pleasure to see, and my admiration of
his mount seemed to set me as firmly in Mr. Jackson's
esteem again as that gentleman himself sat in the saddle.
He was as good as his word, rode out with me some distance
on the road, and reminded me at the last that Nick
was to race him.

CHAPTER VI

THE WIDOW BROWN'S

It was not to my credit that I should have lost the
trail, after Mr. Jackson put me straight. But the night
was dark, the country unknown to me, and heavily
wooded and mountainous. In addition to these things
my mind ran like fire. My thoughts sometimes flew back
to the wondrous summer evening when I trod the
Nollichucky trace with Tom and Polly Ann, when I first
looked down upon the log palace of that prince of the
border, John Sevier. Well I remembered him, broad-
shouldered, handsome, gay, a courtier in buckskin.
Small wonder he was idolized by the Watauga settlers,
that he had been their leader in the struggle of Franklin
for liberty. And small wonder that Nick Temple should
be in his following.

Nick! My mind was in a torment concerning him.
What of his mother? Should I speak of having seen her?
I went blindly through the woods for hours after the
night fell, my horse stumbling and weary, until at length
I came to a lonely clearing on the mountain side, and a
fierce pack of dogs dashed barking at my horse's heels.
There was a dark cabin ahead, indistinct in the starlight,
and there I knocked until a gruff voice answered me and
a tousled man came to the door. Yes, I had missed the
trail. He shook his head when I asked for the Widow
Brown's, and bade me share his bed for the night. No, I
would go on, I was used to the backwoods. Thereupon
he thawed a little, kicked the dogs, and pointed to where
the mountain dipped against the star-studded sky. There
was a trail there which led direct to the Widow Brown's,
if I could follow it. So I left him.

Once the fear had settled deeply of missing Nick at the
Widow Brown's, I put my mind on my journey, and
thanks to my early training I was able to keep the trail.
It doubled around the spurs, forded stony brooks in diagonals,
and often in the darkness of the mountain forest I
had to feel for the blazes on the trees. There was no
making time. I gained the notch with the small hours of
the morning, started on with the descent, crisscrossing,
following a stream here and a stream there, until at length
the song of the higher waters ceased and I knew that I
was in the valley. Suddenly there was no crown-cover
over my head. I had gained the road once more, and I
followed it hopefully, avoiding the stumps and the deep
wagon ruts where the ground was spongy.

The morning light revealed a milky mist through which
the trees showed like phantoms. Then there came stains
upon the mist of royal purple, of scarlet, of yellow like a
mandarin's robe, peeps of deep blue fading into azure as
the mist lifted. The fiery eye of the sun was cocked
over the crest, and beyond me I saw a house with its logs
all golden brown in the level rays, the withered cornstalks
orange among the blackened stumps. My horse stopped
of his own will at the edge of the clearing. A cock crew,
a lean hound prostrate on the porch of the house rose to
his haunches, sniffed, growled, leaped down, and ran to
the road and sniffed again. I listened, startled, and
made sure of the distant ring of many hoofs. And yet I
stayed there, irresolute. Could it be Tipton and his men
riding from Jonesboro to capture Sevier? The hoof-
beats grew louder, and then the hound in the road gave
tongue to the short, sharp bark that is the call to arms.
Other dogs, hitherto unseen, took up the cry, and turning
in my saddle I saw a body of men riding hard at me
through the alley in the forest. At their head, on a
heavy, strong-legged horse, was one who might have
stood for the figure of turbulence, and I made no doubt
that this was Colonel Tipton himself,--Colonel Tipton,
once secessionist, now champion of the Old North State
and arch-enemy of John Sevier. At sight of me he reined
up so violently that his horse went back on his haunches,
and the men behind were near overriding him.

``Look out, boys,'' he shouted, with a fierce oath,
``they've got guards out!''  He flung back one hand to
his holster for a pistol, while the other reached for the
powder flask at his belt. He primed the pan, and, seeing
me immovable, set his horse forward at an amble, his pistol
at the cock.

``Who in hell are you?'' he cried.

``A traveller from Virginia,'' I answered.

``And what are you doing here?'' he demanded, with
another oath.

``I have just this moment come here,'' said I, as calmly
as I might. ``I lost the trail in the darkness.''

He glared at me, purpling, perplexed.

``Is Sevier there?'' said he, pointing at the house.

``I don't know,'' said I.

Tipton turned to his men, who were listening.

``Surround the house,'' he cried, ``and watch this
fellow.''

I rode on perforce towards the house with Tipton and
three others, while his men scattered over the corn-field
and cursed the dogs. And then we saw in the open door
the figure of a woman shading her eyes with her hand.
We pulled up, five of us, before the porch in front of her.

``Good morning, Mrs. Brown,'' said Tipton, gruffly.

``Good morning, Colonel,'' answered the widow.

Tipton leaped from his horse, flung the bridle to a
companion, and put his foot on the edge of the porch to
mount. Then a strange thing happened. The lady
turned deftly, seized a chair from within, and pulled it
across the threshold. She sat herself down firmly, an
expression on her face which hinted that the late lamented
Mr. Brown had been a dominated man. Colonel Tipton
stopped, staggering from the very impetus of his charge,
and gazed at her blankly.

``I have come for Colonel Sevier,'' he blurted. And
then, his anger rising, ``I will have no trifling, ma'am.
He is in this house.''

``La! you don't tell me,'' answered the widow, in a tone
that was wholly conversational.

``He is in this house,'' shouted the Colonel.

``I reckon you've guessed wrong, Colonel,'' said the
widow.

There was an awkward pause until Tipton heard a titter
behind him. Then his wrath exploded.

``I have a warrant against the scoundrel for high
treason,'' he cried, ``and, by God, I will search the house
and serve it.''

Still the widow sat tight. The Rock of Ages was
neither more movable nor calmer than she.

``Surely, Colonel, you would not invade the house of an
unprotected female.''

The Colonel, evidently with a great effort, throttled his
wrath for the moment. His new tone was apologetic but
firm.

``I regret to have to do so, ma'am,'' said he, ``but both
sexes are equal before the law.''

``The law!'' repeated the widow, seemingly tickled
at the word. She smiled indulgently at the Colonel.
``What a pity, Mr. Tipton, that the law compels you to
arrest such a good friend of yours as Colonel Sevier.
What self-sacrifice, Colonel Tipton! What nobility!''

There was a second titter behind him, whereat he swung
round quickly, and the crimson veins in his face looked
as if they must burst. He saw me with my hand over
my mouth.

``You warned him, damn you!'' he shouted, and turning
again leaped to the porch and tried to squeeze past
the widow into the house.

``How dare you, sir?'' she shrieked, giving him a
vigorous push backwards. The four of us, his three men
and myself, laughed outright. Tipton's rage leaped its
bounds. He returned to the attack again and again, and
yet at the crucial moment his courage would fail him and
he would let the widow thrust him back. Suddenly I
became aware that there were two new spectators of this
comedy. I started and looked again, and was near to
crying out at sight of one of them. The others did cry
out, but Tipton paid no heed.

Ten years had made his figure more portly, but I knew
at once the man in the well-fitting hunting shirt, with the
long hair flowing to his shoulders, with the keen, dark
face and courtly bearing and humorous eyes. Yes, humorous
even now, for he stood, smiling at this comedy played
by his enemy, unmindful of his peril. The widow saw
him before Tipton did, so intent was he on the struggle.

``Enough!'' she cried, ``enough, John Tipton!''
Tipton drew back involuntarily, and a smile broadened
on the widow's face. ``Shame on you for doubting a lady's
word! Allow me to present to you--Colonel Sevier.''

Tipton turned, stared as a man might who sees a ghost,
and broke into such profanity as I have seldom heard.

``By the eternal God, John Sevier,'' he shouted, ``I'll
hang you to the nearest tree!''

Colonel Sevier merely made a little ironical bow and
looked at the gentleman beside him.

``I have surrendered to Colonel Love,'' he said.

Tipton snatched from his belt the pistol which he might
have used on me, and there flashed through my head the
thought that some powder might yet be held in its pan.
We cried out, all of us, his men, the widow, and myself,--
all save Sevier, who stood quietly, smiling. Suddenly,
while we waited for murder, a tall figure shot out of the
door past the widow, the pistol flew out of Tipton's hand,
and Tipton swung about with something like a bellow, to
face Mr. Nicholas Temple.

Well I knew him! And oddly enough at that time
Riddle's words of long ago came to me, ``God help the
woman you love or the man you fight.''  How shall I
describe him? He was thin even to seeming frailness,--
yet it was the frailness of the race-horse. The golden
hair, sun-tanned, awry across his forehead, the face the
same thin and finely cut face of the boy. The gray eyes
held an anger that did not blaze; it was far more dangerous
than that. Colonel John Tipton looked, and as I live
he recoiled.

``If you touch him, I'll kill you,'' said Mr. Temple.
Nor did he say it angrily. I marked for the first time
that he held a pistol in his slim fingers. What Tipton
might have done when he swung to his new bearings is
mere conjecture, for Colonel Sevier himself stepped up on
the porch, laid his hand on Temple's arm, and spoke to him
in a low tone. What he said we didn't hear. The
astonishing thing was that neither of them for the moment
paid any attention to the infuriated man beside them. I
saw Nick's expression change. He smiled,--the smile
the landlord had described, the smile that made men and
women willing to die for him. After that Colonel Sevier
stooped down and picked up the pistol from the floor of
the porch and handed it with a bow to Tipton, butt first.
Tipton took it, seemingly without knowing why, and at
that instant a negro boy came around the house, leading a
horse. Sevier mounted it without a protest from any one.

``I am ready to go with you, gentlemen,'' he said.

Colonel Tipton slipped his pistol back into his belt,
stepped down from the porch, and leaped into his saddle,
and he and his men rode off into the stump-lined alley in
the forest that was called a road. Nick stood beside the
widow, staring after them until they had disappeared.

``My horse, boy!'' he shouted to the gaping negro, who
vanished on the errand.

``What will you do, Mr. Temple?'' asked the widow.

``Rescue him, ma'am,'' cried Nick, beginning to pace up
and down. ``I'll ride to Turner's. Cozby and Evans
are there, and before night we shall have made Jonesboro
too hot to hold Tipton and his cutthroats.''

``La, Mr. Temple,'' said the widow, with unfeigned
admiration, ``I never saw the like of you. But I know
John Tipton, and he'll have Colonel Sevier started for
North Carolina before our boys can get to Jonesboro.''

``Then we'll follow,'' says Nick, beginning to pace
again. Suddenly, at a cry from the widow, he stopped
and stared at me, a light in his eye like a point of steel.
His hand slipped to his waist.

``A spy,'' he said, and turned and smiled at the lady,
who was watching him with a kind of fascination; ``but
damnably cool,'' he continued, looking at me. ``I wonder
if he thinks to outride me on that beast? Look you,
sir,'' he cried, as Mrs. Brown's negro came back struggling
with a deep-ribbed, high-crested chestnut that was
making half circles on his hind legs, ``I'll give you to the
edge of the woods, and lay you a six-forty against a pair
of moccasins that you never get back to Tipton.''

``God forbid that I ever do,'' I answered fervently.

``What,'' he exclaimed, ``and you here with him on
this sneak's errand!''

``I am here with him on no errand,'' said I. ``He and his
crew came on me a quarter of an hour since at the edge
of the clearing. Mr. Temple, I am here to find you, and
to save time I will ride with you.''

``Egad, you'll have to ride like the devil then,'' said
he, and he stooped and snatched the widow's hand and
kissed it with a daring gallantry that I had thought to
find in him. He raised his eyes to hers.

``Good-by, Mr. Temple, she said,--there was a tremor
in her voice,--``and may you save our Jack!''

He snatched the bridle from the boy, and with one
leap he was on the rearing, wheeling horse. ``Come on,''
he cried to me, and, waving his hat at the lady on the
porch, he started off with a gallop up the trail in the
opposite direction from that which Tipton's men had
taken.

All that I saw of Mr. Nicholas Temple on that ride to
Turner's was his back, and presently I lost sight of that.
In truth, I never got to Turner's at all, for I met him
coming back at the wind's pace, a huge, swarthy, determined
man at his side and four others spurring after, the
spume dripping from the horses' mouths. They did not
so much as look at me as they passed, and there was
nothing left for me to do but to turn my tired beast and
follow at any pace I could make towards Jonesboro.

It was late in the afternoon before I reached the
town, the town set down among the hills like a caldron
boiling over with the wrath of Franklin. The news of
the capture of their beloved Sevier had flown through the
mountains like seeds on the autumn wind, and from north,
south, east, and west the faithful were coming in, cursing
Tipton and Carolina as they rode.

I tethered my tired beast at the first picket, and was no
sooner on my feet than I was caught in the hurrying
stream of the crowd and fairly pushed and beaten towards
the court-house. Around it a thousand furious men were
packed. I heard cheering, hoarse and fierce cries, threats
and imprecations, and I knew that they were listening to
oratory. I was suddenly shot around the corner of a
house, saw the orator himself, and gasped.

It was Nicholas Temple. There was something awe-
impelling in the tall, slim, boyish figure that towered above
the crowd, in the finely wrought, passionate face, in the
voice charged with such an anger as is given to few men.

``What has North Carolina done for Franklin?'' he
cried. ``Protected her? No. Repudiated her? Yes.
You gave her to the Confederacy for a war debt, and the
Confederacy flung her back. You shook yourselves free
from Carolina's tyranny, and traitors betrayed you again.
And now they have betrayed your leader. Will you
avenge him, or will you sit down like cowards while they
hang him for treason?''

His voice was drowned, but he stood immovable with
arms folded until there was silence again.

``Will you rescue him?'' he cried, and the roar rose
again. ``Will you avenge him? By to-morrow we shall
have two thousand here. Invade North Carolina, humble
her, bring her to her knees, and avenge John Sevier!''

Pandemonium reigned. Hats were flung in the air,
rifles fired, shouts and curses rose and blended into one
terrifying note. Gradually, in the midst of this mad
uproar, the crowd became aware that another man was
standing upon the stump from which Nicholas Temple
had leaped. ``Cozby!'' some one yelled, ``Cozby!''  The
cry was taken up. ``Huzzay for Cozby! He'll lead us
into Caroliny.''  He was the huge, swarthy man I had
seen riding hard with Nick that morning. A sculptor
might have chosen his face and frame for a type of the
iron-handed leader of pioneers. Will was supreme in the
great features,--inflexible, indomitable will. His hunting
shirt was open across his great chest, his black hair
fell to his shoulders, and he stood with a compelling hand
raised for silence. And when he spoke, slowly, resonantly,
men fell back before his words.

``I admire Mr. Temple's courage, and above all his
loyalty to our beloved General,'' said Major Cozby. ``But
Mr. Temple is young, and the heated counsels of youth
must not prevail. My friends, in order to save Jack
Sevier we must be moderate.''

His voice, strong as it was, was lost. ``To hell with
moderation!'' they shouted. ``Down with North Carolina!
We'll fight her!''

He got silence again by the magnetic strength he had
in him.

``Very good,'' he said, ``but get your General first. If
we lead you across the mountains now, his blood will be
upon your heads. No man is a better friend to Jack
Sevier than I. Leave his rescue to me, and I will get
him for you.''  He paused, and they were stilled perforce.
``I will get him for you,'' he repeated slowly, ``or North
Carolina will pay for the burial of James Cozby.''

There was an instant when they might have swung
either way.

``How will ye do it?'' came in a thin, piping voice from
somewhere near the stump. It may have been this that
turned their minds. Others took up the question,
``How will ye do it, Major Cozby?''

``I don't know,'' cried the Major, ``I don't know. And
if I did know, I wouldn't tell you. But I will get
Nollichucky Jack if I have to burn Morganton and rake the
General out of the cinders!''

Five hundred hands flew up, five hundred voices cried,
``I'm with ye, Major Cozby!''  But the Major only shook
his head and smiled. What he said was lost in the roar.
Fighting my way forward, I saw him get down from the
stump, put his hand kindly on Nick's shoulder, and lead
him into the court-house. They were followed by a score
of others, and the door was shut behind them.

It was then I bethought myself of the letter to Mr.
Wright, and I sought for some one who would listen to
my questions as to his whereabouts. At length the
man himself was pointed out to me, haranguing an excited
crowd of partisans in front of his own gate. Some twenty
minutes must have passed before I could get any word
with him. He was a vigorous little man, with black eyes
like buttons, he wore brown homespun and white stockings,
and his hair was clubbed. When he had yielded
the ground to another orator, I handed him the letter.
He drew me aside, read it on the spot, and became all
hospitality at once. The town was full, and though he
had several friends staying in his house I should join
them. Was my horse fed? Dinner had been forgotten
that day, but would I enter and partake? In short, I
found myself suddenly provided for, and I lost no time
in getting my weary mount into Mr. Wright's little
stable. And then I sat down, with several other gentlemen,
at Mr. Wright's board, where there was much guessing
as to Major Cozby's plan.

``No other man west of the mountains could have
calmed that crowd after that young daredevil Temple had
stirred them up,'' declared Mr. Wright.

I ventured to say that I had business with Mr. Temple.

``Faith, then, I will invite him here,'' said my host.
``But I warn you, Mr. Ritchie, that he is a trigger set on
the hair. If he does not fancy you, he may quarrel with
you and shoot you. And he is in no temper to be trifled
with to-day.''

``I am not an easy person to quarrel with,'' I answered.

``To look at you, I shouldn't say that you were,'' said
he. ``We are going to the court-house, and I will see if
I can get a word with the young Hotspur and send him
to you. Do you wait here.''

I waited on the porch as the day waned. The tumult
of the place had died down, for men were gathering in
the houses to discuss and conjecture. And presently,
sauntering along the street in a careless fashion, his spurs
trailing in the dust, came Nicholas Temple. He stopped
before the house and stared at me with a fine insolence,
and I wondered whether I myself had not been too hasty
in reclaiming him. A greeting died on my lips.

``Well, sir,'' he said, ``so you are the gentleman who
has been dogging me all day.''

``I dog no one, Mr. Temple,'' I replied bitterly.

``We'll not quibble about words,'' said he. ``Would it
be impertinent to ask your business--and perhaps your
name?''

``Did not Mr. Wright give you my name?'' I exclaimed.

``He might have mentioned it, I did not hear. Is it
of such importance?''

At that I lost my temper entirely.

``It may be, and it may not,'' I retorted. ``I am David
Ritchie.''

He changed before my eyes as he stared at me, and
then, ere I knew it, he had me by both arms, crying
out:--

``David Ritchie! My Davy--who ran away from me
--and we were going to Kentucky together. Oh, I have
never forgiven you,''--the smile that there was no
resisting belied his words as he put his face close to mine
--``I never will forgive you. I might have known you--
you've grown, but I vow you're still an old man,--Davy,
you renegade. And where the devil did you run to?''

``Kentucky,'' I said, laughing.

``Oh, you traitor--and I trusted you. I loved you,
Davy. Do you remember how I clung to you in my
sleep? And when I woke up, the world was black. I
followed your trail down the drive and to the cross-
roads--''

``It was not ingratitude, Nick,'' I said; ``you were all
I had in the world.''  And then I faltered, the sadness of
that far-off time coming over me in a flood, and the
remembrance of his generous sorrow for me.

``And how the devil did you track me to the Widow
Brown's?'' he demanded, releasing me.

``A Mr. Jackson had a shrewd notion you were there.
And by the way, he was in a fine temper because you had
skipped a race with him.''

``That sorrel-topped, lantern-headed Mr. Jackson?''
said Nick. ``He'll be killed in one of his fine tempers.
Damn a man who can't keep his temper. I'll race him, of
course. And where are you bound now, Davy?''

``For Louisville, in Kentucky, at the Falls of the Ohio.
It is a growing place, and a promising one for a young
man in the legal profession to begin life.''

``When do you leave?'' said he.

``To-morrow morning, Nick,'' said I. ``You wanted once
to go to Kentucky; why not come with me?''

His face clouded.

``I do not budge from this town,'' said he, ``I do not
budge until I hear that Jack Sevier is safe. Damn Cozby!
If he had given me my way, we should have been forty
miles from here by this. I'll tell you. Cozby is even
now picking five men to go to Morganton and steal Sevier,
and he puts me off with a kind word. He'll not have me,
he says.''

``He thinks you too hot. It needs discretion and an
old head,'' said I.

``Egad, then, I'll commend you to him,'' said Nick.

``Now,'' I said, ``it's time for you to tell me something
of yourself, and how you chanced to come into this
country.''

`` 'Twas Darnley's fault,'' said Nick.

``Darnley!'' I exclaimed; ``he whom you got into the
duel with--''  I stopped abruptly, with a sharp twinge of
remembrance that was like a pain in my side. 'Twas
Nick took up the name.

``With Harry Riddle.''  He spoke quietly, that was
the terrifying part of it. ``David, I've looked for that
man in Italy and France, I've scoured London for him,
and, by God, I'll find him before he dies. And when I
do find him I swear to you that there will be no such
thing as time wasted, or mercy.''

I shuddered. In all my life I had never known such a
moment of indecision. Should I tell him? My conscience
would give me no definite reply. The question
had haunted me all the night, and I had lost my way in
consequence, nor had the morning's ride from the Widow
Brown's sufficed to bring me to a decision. Of what use
to tell him? Would Riddle's death mend matters?
The woman loved him, that had been clear to me; yet,
by telling Nick what I knew I might induce him to desist
from his search, and if I did not tell, Nick might some day
run across the trail, follow it up, take Riddle's life, and
lose his own. The moment, made for confession as it
was, passed.

``They have ruined my life,'' said Nick. ``I curse him,
and I curse her.''

``Hold!'' I cried; ``she is your mother.''

``And therefore I curse her the more,'' he said. ``You
know what she is, you've tasted of her charity, and you
are my father's nephew. If you have been without
experience, I will tell you what she is. A common--''
I reached out and put my hand across his mouth.

``Silence!'' I cried; ``you shall say no such thing. And
have you not manhood enough to make your own life for
yourself?''

``Manhood!'' he repeated, and laughed. It was a laugh
that I did not like. ``They made a man of me, my
parents. My father played false with the Rebels and fled
to England for his reward. A year after he went I was
left alone at Temple Bow to the tender mercies of the
niggers. Mr. Mason came back and snatched what was
left of me. He was a good man; he saved me an annuity
out of the estate, he took me abroad after the war on a
grand tour, and died of a fever in Rome. I made my
way back to Charlestown, and there I learned to gamble,
to hold liquor like a gentleman, to run horses and fight
like a gentleman. We were speaking of Darnley,'' he
said.

``Yes, of Darnley,'' I repeated.

``The devil of a man,'' said Nick; ``do you remember
him, with the cracked voice and fat calves?''

At any other time I should have laughed at the recollection.

``Darnley turned Whig, became a Continental colonel,
and got a grant out here in the Cumberland country of
three thousand acres. And now I own it.''

``You own it!'' I exclaimed.

``Rattle-and-snap,'' said Nick; ``I played him for the
land at the ordinary one night, and won it. It is out here
near a place called Nashboro, where this wild, long-faced
Mr. Jackson says he is going soon. I crossed the mountains
to have a look at it, fell in with Nollichucky Jack, and
went off with him for a summer campaign. There's a man
for you, Davy,'' he cried, ``a man to follow through hell-
fire. If they touch a hair of his head we'll sack the State
of North Carolina from Morganton to the sea.''

``But the land?'' I asked.

``Oh, a fig for the land,'' answered Nick; ``as soon as
Nollichucky Jack is safe I'll follow you into Kentucky.''
He slapped me on the knee. ``Egad, Davy, it seems like
a fairy tale. We always said we were going to Kentucky,
didn't we? What is the name of the place you are to
startle with your learning and calm by your example?''

``Louisville,'' I answered, laughing, ``by the Falls of
the Ohio.''

``I shall turn up there when Jack Sevier is safe and I
have won some more land from Mr. Jackson. We'll have
a rare old time together, though I have no doubt you can
drink me under the table. Beware of these sober men.
Egad, Davy, you need only a woolsack to become a full-
fledged judge. And now tell me how fortune has buffeted
you.''

It was my second night without sleep, for we sat
burning candles in Mr. Wright's house until the dawn, making
up the time which we had lost away from each other.

CHAPTER VII

I MEET A HERO

When left to myself, I was wont to slide into the
commonplace; and where my own dull life intrudes to clog
the action I cut it down here and pare it away there until
I am merely explanatory, and not too much in evidence. I
rode out the Wilderness Trail, fell in with other travellers,
was welcomed by certain old familiar faces at Harrodstown,
and pressed on. I have a vivid recollection of a beloved,
vigorous figure swooping out of a cabin door and scattering
a brood of children right and left. ``Polly Ann!''
I said, and she halted, trembling.

``Tom,'' she cried, ``Tom, it's Davy come back, ``and
Tom himself flew out of the door, ramrod in one hand and
rifle in the other. Never shall I forget them as they
stood there, he grinning with sheer joy as of yore, and
she, with her hair flying and her blue gown snapping
in the wind, in a tremor between tears and laughter. I
leaped to the ground, and she hugged me in her arms as
though I had been a child, calling my name again and
again, and little Tom pulling at the skirts of my coat. I
caught the youngster by the collar.

``Polly Ann,'' said I, ``he's grown to what I was when
you picked me up, a foundling.''

``And now it's little Davy no more,'' she answered,
swept me a courtesy, and added, with a little quiver in
her voice, ``ye are a gentleman now.''

``My heart is still where it was,'' said I.

``Ay, ay,'' said Tom, ``I'm sure o' that, Davy.''

I was with them a fortnight in the familiar cabin,
and then I took up my journey northward, heavy at
leaving again, but promising to see them from time to
time. For Tom was often at the Falls when he went
a-scouting into the Illinois country. It was, as of old,
Polly Ann who ran the mill and was the real bread-
winner of the family.

Louisville was even then bursting with importance, and
as I rode into it, one bright November day, I remembered
the wilderness I had seen here not ten years gone
when I had marched hither with Captain Harrod's company
to join Clark on the island. It was even then a
thriving little town of log and clapboard houses and
schools and churches, and wise men were saying of it--
what Colonel Clark had long ago predicted--that it
would become the first city of commercial importance
in the district of Kentucky.

I do not mean to give you an account of my struggles
that winter to obtain a foothold in the law. The time
was a heyday for young barristers, and troubles in those
early days grew as plentifully in Kentucky as corn. In
short, I got a practice, for Colonel Clark was here to
help me, and, thanks to the men who had gone to
Kaskaskia and Vincennes, I had a fairly large acquaintance
in Kentucky. I hired rooms behind Mr. Crede's
store, which was famed for the glass windows which had
been fetched all the way from Philadelphia. Mr. Crede
was the embodiment of the enterprising spirit of the
place, and often of an evening he called me in to see
the new fashionable things his barges had brought down
the Ohio. The next day certain young sparks would
drop into my room to waylay the belles as they came to
pick a costume to be worn at Mr. Nickle's dancing school,
or at the ball at Fort Finney.

The winter slipped away, and one cool evening in May
there came a negro to my room with a note from Colonel
Clark, bidding me sup with him at the tavern and meet
a celebrity.

I put on my best blue clothes that I had brought with
me from Richmond, and repaired expectantly to the tavern
about eight of the clock, pushed through the curious
crowd outside, and entered the big room where the
company was fast assembling. Against the red blaze in the
great chimney-place I spied the figure of Colonel Clark,
more portly than of yore, and beside him stood a gentleman
who could be no other than General Wilkinson.

He was a man to fill the eye, handsome of face,
symmetrical of figure, easy of manner, and he wore a suit of
bottle-green that became him admirably. In short, so
fascinated and absorbed was I in watching him as he
greeted this man and the other that I started as though
something had pricked me when I heard my name called
by Colonel Clark.

``Come here, Davy,'' he cried across the room, and I
came and stood abashed before the hero. ``General,
allow me to present to you the drummer boy of Kaskaskia
and Vincennes, Mr. David Ritchie.''

``I hear that you drummed them to victory through
a very hell of torture, Mr. Ritchie,'' said the General.
``It is an honor to grasp the hand of one who did such
service at such a tender age.''

General Wilkinson availed himself of that honor, and
encompassed me with a smile so benignant, so winning in
its candor, that I could only mutter my acknowledgment,
and Colonel Clark must needs apologize, laughing, for my
youth and timidity.

``Mr. Ritchie is not good at speeches, General,'' said
he, ``but I make no doubt he will drink a bumper to your
health before we sit down. Gentlemen,'' he cried, filling
his glass from a bottle on the table, ``a toast to General
Wilkinson, emancipator and saviour of Kentucky!''

The company responded with a shout, tossed off the
toast, and sat down at the long table. Chance placed me
between a young dandy from Lexington--one of several
the General had brought in his train--and Mr. Wharton,
a prominent planter of the neighborhood with whom I
had a speaking acquaintance. This was a backwoods
feast, though served in something better than the old
backwoods style, and we had venison and bear's meat
and prairie fowl as well as pork and beef, and breads that
came stinging hot from the Dutch ovens. Toasts to this
and that were flung back and forth, and jests and gibes,
and the butt of many of these was that poor Federal
government which (as one gentleman avowed) was like
a bantam hen trying to cover a nestful of turkey's eggs,
and clucking with importance all the time. This picture
brought on gusts of laughter.

``And what say you of the Jay?'' cried one; ``what
will he hatch?''

Hisses greeted the name, for Mr. Jay wished to enter
into a treaty with Spain, agreeing to close the river for
five and twenty years. Colonel Clark stood up, and
rapped on the table.

``Gentlemen,'' said he, ``Louisville has as her guest of
honor to-night a man of whom Kentucky may well be
proud [loud cheering]. Five years ago he favored
Lexington by making it his home, and he came to us with
the laurel of former achievements still clinging to his
brow. He fought and suffered for his country, and
attained the honorable rank of Major in the Continental
line. He was chosen by the people of Pennsylvania to
represent them in the august body of their legislature, and
now he has got new honor in a new field [renewed cheering].
He has come to Kentucky to show her the way to
prosperity and glory. Kentucky had a grievance [loud
cries of ``Yes, yes!'']. Her hogs and cattle had no market,
her tobacco and agricultural products of all kinds were
rotting because the Spaniards had closed the Mississippi
to our traffic. Could the Federal government open the
river? [shouts of ``No, no!'' and hisses]. Who opened it?
[cries of ``Wilkinson, Wilkinson!'']. He said to the
Kentucky planters, `Give your tobacco to me, and I will sell
it.'  He put it in barges, he floated down the river, and, as
became a man of such distinction, he was met by Governor-
general Miro on the levee at New Orleans. Where is that
tobacco now, gentlemen?''  Colonel Clark was here
interrupted by such roars and stamping that he paused a
moment, and during this interval Mr. Wharton leaned
over and whispered quietly in my ear:--

``Ay, where is it?''

I stared at Mr. Wharton blankly. He was a man
nearing the middle age, with a lacing of red in his cheeks,
a pleasant gray eye, and a singularly quiet manner.

``Thanks to the genius of General Wilkinson,'' Colonel
Clark continued, waving his hand towards the smilingly
placid hero, ``that tobacco has been deposited in the King's
store at ten dollars per hundred,--a privilege heretofore
confined to Spanish subjects. Well might Wilkinson
return from New Orleans in a chariot and four to a grateful
Kentucky! This year we have tripled, nay, quadrupled,
our crop of tobacco, and we are here to-night to give
thanks to the author of this prosperity.''  Alas, Colonel
Clark's hand was not as steady as of yore, and he spilled
the liquor on the table as he raised his glass. ``Gentlemen,
a health to our benefactor.''

They drank it willingly, and withal so lengthily and
noisily that Mr. Wilkinson stood smiling and bowing for
full three minutes before he could be heard. He was a very
paragon of modesty, was the General, and a man whose
attitudes and expressions spoke as eloquently as his words.
None looked at him now but knew before he opened his
mouth that he was deprecating such an ovation.

``Gentlemen,--my friends and fellow-Kentuckians,'' he
said, ``I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your
kindness, but I assure you that I have done nothing
worthy of it [loud protests]. I am a simple, practical
man, who loves Kentucky better than he loves himself.
This is no virtue, for we all have it. We have the
misfortune to be governed by a set of worthy gentlemen who
know little about Kentucky and her wants, and think
less [cries of ``Ay, ay!'']. I am not decrying General
Washington and his cabinet; it is but natural that the
wants of the seaboard and the welfare and opulence of
the Eastern cities should be uppermost in their minds
[another interruption]. Kentucky, if she would prosper,
must look to her own welfare. And if any credit is due to
me, gentlemen, it is because I reserved my decision of
his Excellency, Governor-general Miro, and his people
until I saw them for myself. A little calm reason, a plain
statement of the case, will often remove what seems an
insuperable difficulty, and I assure you that Governor-
general Miro is a most reasonable and courteous gentleman,
who looks with all kindliness and neighborliness on
the people of Kentucky. Let us drink a toast to him
To him your gratitude is due, for he sends you word that
your tobacco will be received.''

``In General Wilkinson's barges,'' said Mr. Wharton
leaning over and subsiding again at once.

The General was the first to drink the toast, and he
sat down very modestly amidst a thunder of applause.

The young man on the other side of me, somewhat
flushed, leaped to his feet.

``Down with the Federal government!'' he cried; ``what
have they done for us, indeed? Before General Wilkinson
went to New Orleans the Spaniards seized our flat
boats and cargoes and flung our traders into prison, ay,
and sent them to the mines of Brazil. The Federal
government takes sides with the Indians against us. And
what has that government done for you, Colonel?'' he
demanded, turning to Clark, ``you who have won for
them half of their territory? They have cast you off like
an old moccasin. The Continental officers who fought in
the East have half-pay for life or five years' full pay.
And what have you?''

There was a breathless hush. A swift vision came to
me of a man, young, alert, commanding, stern under necessity,
self-repressed at all times--a man who by the very
dominance of his character had awed into submission the
fierce Northern tribes of a continent, who had compelled
men to follow him until the life had all but ebbed from
their bodies, who had led them to victory in the end. And
I remembered a boy who had stood awe-struck before this
man in the commandant's house at Fort Sackville. Ay,
and I heard again his words as though he had just spoken
them, ``Promise me that you will not forget me if I am
--unfortunate.''  I did not understand then. And now
because of a certain blinding of my eyes, I did not see him
clearly as he got slowly to his feet. He clutched the
table. He looked around him--I dare not say--vacantly.
And then, suddenly, he spoke with a supreme
anger and a supreme bitterness.

``Not a shilling has this government given me, he
cried. ``Virginia was more grateful; from her I have some
acres of wild land and--a sword.''  He laughed. ``A
sword, gentlemen, and not new at that. Oh, a grateful
government we serve, one careful of the honor of her
captains. Gentlemen, I stand to-day a discredited man because
the honest debts I incurred in the service of that government
are repudiated, because my friends who helped it,
Father Gibault, Vigo, and Gratiot, and others have never
been repaid. One of them is ruined.''

A dozen men had sprung clamoring to their feet before
he sat down. One, more excited than the rest, got the
ear of the company.

``Do we lack leaders?'' he cried. ``We have them
here with us to-night, in this room. Who will stop us?
Not the contemptible enemies in Kentucky who call
themselves Federalists. Shall we be supine forever? We
have fought once for our liberties, let us fight again.
Let us make a common cause with our real friends on the
far side of the Mississippi.''

I rose, sick at heart, but every man was standing. And
then a strange thing happened. I saw General Wilkinson
at the far end of the room; his hand was raised, and
there was that on his handsome face which might have
been taken for a smile, and yet was not a smile. Others
saw him too, I know not by what exertion of magnetism.
They looked at him and they held their tongues.

``I fear that we are losing our heads, gentlemen,'' he
said; ``and I propose to you the health of the first citizen
of Kentucky, Colonel George Rogers Clark.

I found myself out of the tavern and alone in the cool
May night. And as I walked slowly down the deserted
street, my head in a whirl, a hand was laid on my
shoulder. I turned, startled, to face Mr. Wharton, the
planter.

``I would speak a word with you, Mr. Ritchie,'' he
said. ``May I come to your room for a moment?''

``Certainly, sir,'' I answered.

After that we walked along together in silence, my
own mind heavily occupied with what I had seen and
heard. We came to Mr. Crede's store, went in at the
picket gate beside it and down the path to my own door,
which I unlocked. I felt for the candle on the table,
lighted it, and turned in surprise to discover that Mr.
Wharton was poking up the fire and pitching on a log of
wood. He flung off his greatcoat and sat down with his
feet to the blaze. I sat down beside him and waited,
thinking him a sufficiently peculiar man.

``You are not famous, Mr. Ritchie,'' said he, presently.

``No, sir,'' I answered.

``Nor particularly handsome,'' he continued, ``nor
conspicuous in any way.''

I agreed to this, perforce.

``You may thank God for it,'' said Mr. Wharton.

``That would be a strange outpouring, sir,'' said I.

He looked at me and smiled.

``What think you of this paragon, General Wilkinson?''
he demanded suddenly.

``I have Federal leanings, sir,'' I answered

``Egad,'' said he, ``we'll add caution to your lack of
negative accomplishments. I have had an eye on you
this winter, though you did not know it. I have made
inquiries about you, and hence I am not here to-night
entirely through impulse. You have not made a fortune
at the law, but you have worked hard, steered wide of
sensation, kept your mouth shut. Is it not so?''

Astonished, I merely nodded in reply.

``I am not here to waste your time or steal your sleep,''
he went on, giving the log a push with his foot, ``and I
will come to the point. When I first laid eyes on this
fine gentleman, General Wilkinson, I too fell a victim to
his charms. It was on the eve of this epoch-making trip
of which we heard so glowing an account to-night, and I
made up my mind that no Spaniard, however wily, could
resist his persuasion. He said to me, `Wharton, give me
your crop of tobacco and I promise you to sell it in spite
of all the royal mandates that go out of Madrid.'  He
went, he saw, he conquered the obdurate Miro as he has
apparently conquered the rest of the world, and he actually
came back in a chariot and four as befitted him. A heavy
crop of tobacco was raised in Kentucky that year. I
helped to raise it,'' added Mr. Wharton, dryly. ``I gave
the General my second crop, and he sent it down. Mr.
Ritchie, I have to this day never received a piastre for
my merchandise, nor am I the only planter in this
situation. Yet General Wilkinson is prosperous.''

My astonishment somewhat prevented me from replying
to this, too. Was it possible that Mr. Wharton
meant to sue the General? I reflected while he paused.
I remembered how inconspicuous he had named me, and
hope died. Mr. Wharton did not look at me, but stared
into the fire, for he was plainly not a man to rail and rant.

``Mr. Ritchie, you are young, but mark my words, that
man Wilkinson will bring Kentucky to ruin if he is not
found out. The whole district from Crab Orchard to
Bear Grass is mad about him. Even Clark makes a fool
of himself--''

``Colonel Clark, sir!'' I cried.

He put up a hand.

``So you have some hot blood,'' he said. ``I know you
love him. So do I, or I should not have been there
tonight. Do I blame his bitterness? Do I blame--anything
he does? The treatment he has had would bring a
blush of shame to the cheek of any nation save a republic.
Republics are wasteful, sir. In George Rogers Clark they
have thrown away a general who might some day have
decided the fate of this country, they have left to stagnate
a man fit to lead a nation to war. And now he is ready
to intrigue against the government with any adventurer
who may have convincing ways and a smooth tongue.''

``Mr. Wharton,'' I said, rising, ``did you come here to
tell me this?''

But Mr. Wharton continued to stare into the fire.

``I like you the better for it, my dear sir,'' said he, ``and
I assure you that I mean no offence. Colonel Clark is
enshrined in our hearts, Democrats and Federalists alike.
Whatever he may do, we shall love him always. But
this other man,--pooh!'' he exclaimed, which was as
near a vigorous expression as he got. ``Now, sir, to the
point. I, too, am a Federalist, a friend of Mr. Humphrey
Marshall, and, as you know, we are sadly in the minority
in Kentucky now. I came here to-night to ask you to
undertake a mission in behalf of myself and certain other
gentlemen, and I assure you that my motives are not
wholly mercenary.''  He paused, smiled, and put the tips
of his fingers together. ``I would willingly lose every
crop for the next ten years to convict this Wilkinson of
treason against the Federal government.''

``Treason!'' I repeated involuntarily.

``Mr. Ritchie,'' answered the planter, ``I gave you
credit for some shrewdness. Do you suppose the Federal
government does not realize the danger of this situation
in Kentucky. They have tried in vain to open the
Mississippi, and are too weak to do it. This man Wilkinson
goes down to see Miro, and Miro straightway opens the
river to us through him. How do you suppose Wilkinson
did it? By his charming personality?''

I said something, I know not what, as the light began
to dawn on me. And then I added, ``I had not thought
about the General.''

``Ah,'' replied Mr. Wharton, ``just so. And now you
may easily imagine that General Wilkinson has come to
a very pretty arrangement with Miro. For a certain
stipulated sum best known to Wilkinson and Miro, General
Wilkinson agrees gradually to detach Kentucky from the
Union and join it to his Catholic Majesty's dominion of
Louisiana. The bribe--the opening of the river. What
the government could not do Wilkinson did by the lifting
of his finger.''

Still Mr. Wharton spoke without heat.

``Mind you,'' he said, ``we have no proof of this, and
that is my reason for coming here to-night, Mr. Ritchie.
I want you to get proof of it if you can.''

``You want me--'' I said, bewildered.

``I repeat that you are not handsome,''--I think he
emphasized this unduly,--``that you are self-effacing,
inconspicuous; in short, you are not a man to draw suspicion.
You might travel anywhere and scarcely be noticed,--I
have observed that about you. In addition to this you
are wary, you are discreet, you are painstaking. I ask
you to go first to St. Louis, in Louisiana territory, and
this for two reasons. First, because it will draw any
chance suspicion from your real objective, New Orleans;
and second, because it is necessary to get letters to New
Orleans from such leading citizens of St. Louis as Colonel
Chouteau and Monsieur Gratiot, and I will give you
introductions to them. You are then to take passage to
New Orleans in a barge of furs which Monsieur Gratiot
is sending down. Mind, we do not expect that you will
obtain proof that Miro is paying Wilkinson money. If
you do, so much the better; but we believe that both are
too sharp to leave any tracks. You will make a report,
however, upon the conditions under which our tobacco
is being received, and of all other matters which you may
think germane to the business in hand. Will you go?''

I had made up my mind.

``Yes, I will go,'' I answered.

``Good,'' said Mr. Wharton, but with no more
enthusiasm than he had previously shown; ``I thought I had
not misjudged you. Is your law business so onerous that
you could not go to-morrow?''

I laughed.

``I think I could settle what affairs I have by noon, Mr.
Wharton,'' I replied.

``Egad, Mr. Ritchie, I like your manner,'' said he; ``and
now for a few details, and you may go to bed.''

He sat with me half an hour longer, carefully reviewing
his instructions, and then he left me to a night of
contemplation.

CHAPTER VIII

TO ST. LOUIS

By eleven o'clock the next morning I had wound up
my affairs, having arranged with a young lawyer of my
acquaintance to take over such cases as I had, and I was
busy in my room packing my saddle-bags for the journey.
The warm scents of spring were wafted through the open
door and window, smells of the damp earth giving forth
the green things, and tender shades greeted my eyes when
I paused and raised my head to think. Purple buds
littered the black ground before my door-step, and against
the living green of the grass I saw the red stain of a
robin's breast as he hopped spasmodically hither and
thither, now pausing immovable with his head raised, now
tossing triumphantly a wriggling worm from the sod.
Suddenly he flew away, and I heard a voice from the
street side that brought me stark upright.

``Hold there, neighbor; can you direct me to the
mansion of that celebrated barrister, Mr. Ritchie?''

There was no mistaking that voice--it was Nicholas
Temple's. I heard a laugh and an answer, the gate
slammed, and Mr. Temple himself in a long gray riding-
coat, booted and spurred, stood before me.

``Davy,'' he cried, ``come out here and hug me. Why,
you look as if I were your grandmother's ghost.''

``And if you were,'' I answered, ``you could not have
surprised me more. Where have you been?''

``At Jonesboro, acting the gallant with the widow,
winning and losing skins and cow-bells and land at rattle-
and-snap, horse-racing with that wild Mr. Jackson. Faith,
he near shot the top of my head off because I beat him at
Greasy Cove.''

I laughed, despite my anxiety.

``And Sevier?'' I demanded.

``You have not heard how Sevier got off?'' exclaimed
Nick. ``Egad, that was a crowning stroke of genius!
Cozby and Evans, Captains Greene and Gibson, and
Sevier's two boys whom you met on the Nollichucky rode
over the mountains to Morganton. Greene and Gibson
and Sevier's boys hid themselves with the horses in a
clump outside the town, while Cozby and Evans, disguised
as bumpkins in hunting shirts, jogged into the town with
Sevier's racing mare between them. They jogged into the
town, I say, through the crowds of white trash, and rode up
to the court-house where Sevier was being tried for his life.
Evans stood at the open door and held the mare and
gaped, while (Cozby stalked in and shouldered his way to
the front within four feet of the bar, like a big, awkward
countryman. Jack Sevier saw him, and he saw Evans
with the mare outside. Then, by thunder, Cozby takes a
step right up to the bar and cries out, `Judge, aren't you
about done with that man?'  Faith, it was like judgment
day, such a mix-up as there was after that, and Nollichucky
Jack made three leaps and got on the mare, and in the
confusion Cozby and Evans were off too, and the whole
State of North Carolina couldn't catch 'em then.''  Nick
sighed. ``I'd have given my soul to have been there,'' he
said.

``Come in,'' said I, for lack of something better.

``Cursed if you haven't given me a sweet reception,
Davy,'' said he. ``Have you lost your practice, or is
there a lady here, you rogue,'' and he poked into the
cupboard with his stick. ``Hullo, where are you going
now?'' he added, his eye falling on the saddle-bags.

I had it on my lips to say, and then I remembered Mr.
Wharton's injunction.

``I'm going on a journey,'' said I.

``When?'' said Nick.

``I leave in about an hour,'' said I.

He sat down. ``Then I leave too,'' he said.

``What do you mean, Nick?'' I demanded.

``I mean that I will go with you,'' said he.

``But I shall be gone three months or more,'' I protested.

``I have nothing to do,'' said Nick, placidly.

A vague trouble had been working in my mind, but
now the full horror of it dawned upon me. I was going
to St. Louis. Mrs. Temple and Harry Riddle were gone
there, so Polly Ann had avowed, and Nick could not help
meeting Riddle. Sorely beset, I bent over to roll up a
shirt, and refrained from answering.

He came and laid a hand on my shoulder.

``What the devil ails you, Davy?'' he cried. ``If it is
an elopement, of course I won't press you. I'm hanged
if I'll make a third.''

``It is no elopement,'' I retorted, my face growing hot
in spite of myself.

``Then I go with you,'' said he, ``for I vow you need
taking care of. You can't put me off, I say. But never
in my life have I had such a reception, and from my own
first cousin, too.''

I was in a quandary, so totally unforeseen was this
situation. And then a glimmer of hope came to me that
perhaps his mother and Riddle might not be in St. Louis
after all. I recalled the conversation in the cabin, and
reflected that this wayward pair had stranded on so many
beaches, had drifted off again on so many tides, that one
place could scarce hold them long. Perchance they had
sunk,--who could tell? I turned to Nick, who stood
watching me.

``It was not that I did not want you,'' I said, ``you
must believe that. I have wanted you ever since that
night long ago when I slipped out of your bed and ran
away. I am going first to St. Louis and then to New
Orleans on a mission of much delicacy, a mission that
requires discretion and secrecy. You may come, with all
my heart, with one condition only--that you do not ask
my business.''

``Done!'' cried Nick. ``Davy, I was always sure of
you; you are the one fixed quantity in my life. To St.
Louis, eh, and to New Orleans? Egad, what havoc we'll
make among the Creole girls. May I bring my nigger?
He'll do things for you too.''

``By all means,'' said I, laughing, ``only hurry.''

``I'll run to the inn,'' said Nick, ``and be back in ten
minutes.''  He got as far as the door, slapped his thigh,
and looked back. ``Davy, we may run across--''

``Who?'' I asked, with a catch of my breath.

``Harry Riddle,'' he answered; ``and if so, may God
have mercy on his soul!''

He ran down the path, the gate clicked, and I heard
him whistling in the street on his way to the inn.

After dinner we rode down to the ferry, Nick on the
thoroughbred which had beat Mr. Jackson's horse, and
his man, Benjy, on a scraggly pony behind. Benjy was a
small, black negro with a very squat nose, alert and
talkative save when Nick turned on him. Benjy had been
born at Temple Bow; he worshipped his master and all
that pertained to him, and he showered upon me all the
respect and attention that was due to a member of the
Temple family. For this I was very grateful. It would
have been an easier journey had we taken a boat down to
Fort Massac, but such a proceeding might have drawn too
much attention to our expedition. I have no space to
describe that trip overland, which reminded me at every
stage of the march against Kaskaskia, the woods, the
chocolate streams, the coffee-colored swamps flecked with
dead leaves,--and at length the prairies, the grass not
waist-high now, but young and tender, giving forth the
acrid smell of spring. Nick was delighted. He made me
recount every detail of my trials as a drummer boy, or
kept me in continuous spells of laughter over his own
escapades. In short, I began to realize that we were as
near to each other as though we had never been parted.

We looked down upon Kaskaskia from the self-same
spot where I had stood on the bluff with Colonel Clark,
and the sounds were even then the same,--the sweet
tones of the church bell and the lowing of the cattle. We
found a few Virginians and Pennsylvanians scattered in
amongst the French, the forerunners of that change which
was to come over this country. And we spent the night
with my old friend, Father Gibault, still the faithful
pastor of his flock; cheerful, though the savings of his lifetime
had never been repaid by that country to which he had
given his allegiance so freely. Travelling by easy stages,
on the afternoon of the second day after leaving Kaskaskia
we picked our way down the high bluff that rises above
the American bottom, and saw below us that yellow monster
among the rivers, the Mississippi. A blind monster
he seemed, searching with troubled arms among the
islands for his bed, swept onward by an inexorable force,
and on his heaving shoulders he carried great trees pilfered
from the unknown forests of the North.

Down in the moist and shady bottom we came upon the
log hut of a half-breed trapper, and he agreed to ferry us
across. As for our horses, a keel boat must be sent after
these, and Monsieur Gratiot would no doubt easily
arrange for this. And so we found ourselves, about five
o'clock on that Saturday evening, embarked in a wide
pirogue on the current, dodging the driftwood, avoiding
the eddies, and drawing near to a village set on a low
bluff on the Spanish side and gleaming white among the
trees. And as I looked, the thought came again like a
twinge of pain that Mrs. Temple and Riddle might be
there, thinking themselves secure in this spot, so removed
from the world and its doings.

``How now, my man of mysterious affairs?'' cried Nick,
from the bottom of the boat; ``you are as puckered as a
sour persimmon. Have you a treaty with Spain in your
pocket or a declaration of war? What can trouble you?''

``Nothing, if you do not,'' I answered, smiling.

``Lord send we don't admire the same lady, then,'' said
Nick. ``Pierrot,'' he cried, turning to one of the boatmen,
``il y a des belles demoiselles la, n'est-ce pas?''

The man missed a stroke in his astonishment, and the
boat swung lengthwise in the swift current.

``Dame, Monsieur, il y en a,'' he answered.

``Where did you learn French, Nick?'' I demanded.

``Mr. Mason had it hammered into me,'' he answered
carelessly, his eyes on the line of keel boats moored along
the shore. Our guides shot the canoe deftly between two
of these, the prow grounded in the yellow mud, and we
landed on Spanish territory.

We looked about us while our packs were being
unloaded, and the place had a strange flavor in that
year of our Lord, 1789. A swarthy boatman in a tow
shirt with a bright handkerchief on his head stared at
us over the gunwale of one of the keel boats, and spat
into the still, yellow water; three high-cheeked Indians,
with smudgy faces and dirty red blankets, regarded us
in silent contempt; and by the water-side above us was a
sled loaded with a huge water cask, a bony mustang
pony between the shafts, and a chanting negro dipping
gourdfuls from the river. A road slanted up the little
limestone bluff, and above and below us stone houses
could be seen nestling into the hill, houses higher on the
river side, and with galleries there. We climbed the
bluff, Benjy at our heels with the saddle-bags, and found
ourselves on a yellow-clay street lined with grass and
wild flowers. A great peace hung over the village, an
air of a different race, a restfulness strange to a
Kentuckian. Clematis and honeysuckle climbed the high
palings, and behind the privacy of these, low, big-chimneyed
houses of limestone, weathered gray, could be seen,
their roofs sloping in gentle curves to the shaded porches
in front; or again, houses of posts set upright in the
ground and these filled between with plaster, and so
immaculately whitewashed that they gleamed against the
green of the trees which shaded them. Behind the
houses was often a kind of pink-and-cream paradise of
flowering fruit trees, so dear to the French settlers.
There were vineyards, too, and thrifty patches of vegetables,
and lines of flowers set in the carefully raked mould.

We walked on, enraptured by the sights around us, by
the heavy scent of the roses and the blossoms. Here was
a quaint stone horse-mill, a stable, or a barn set uncouthly
on the street; a baker's shop, with a glimpse of the white-
capped baker through the shaded doorway, and an appetizing
smell of hot bread in the air. A little farther on we
heard the tinkle of the blacksmith's hammer, and the man
himself looked up from where the hoof rested on his leather
apron to give us a kindly ``Bon soir, Messieurs,'' as we
passed. And here was a cabaret, with the inevitable porch,
from whence came the sharp click of billiard balls.

We walked on, stopping now and again to peer between
the palings, when we heard, amidst the rattling of a cart
and the jingling of bells, a chorus of voices:--

   ``A cheval, a cheval, pour aller voir ma mie,
                 Lon, lon, la!''

A shaggy Indian pony came ambling around the corner
between the long shafts of a charette. A bareheaded
young man in tow shirt and trousers was driving, and
three laughing girls were seated on the stools in the cart
behind him. Suddenly, before I quite realized what had
happened, the young man pulled up the pony, the girls
fell silent, and Nick was standing in the middle of the
road, with his hat in his hand, bowing elaborately.

``Je vous salue, Mesdemoiselles,'' he cried, ``mes anges
a char-a-banc. Pouvez-vous me diriger chez Monsieur
Gratiot?''

``Sapristi!'' exclaimed the young man, but he laughed.
The young women stood up, giggling, and peered at Nick
over the young man's shoulder. One of them wore a fresh
red-and-white calamanco gown. She had a complexion of
ivory tinged with red, raven hair, and dusky, long-lashed,
mischievous eyes brimming with merriment.

``Volontiers, Monsieur,'' she answered, before the others
could catch their breath, ``premiere droite et premiere
gauche. Allons, Gaspard!'' she cried, tapping the young
man sharply on the shoulder, ``es tu fou?''

Gaspard came to himself, flicked the pony, and they
went off down the road with shouts of laughter, while
Nick stood waving his hat until they turned the corner.

``Egad,'' said he, ``I'd take to the highway if I could
be sure of holding up such a cargo every time. Off
with you, Benjy, and find out where she lives,'' he cried,
and the obedient Benjy dropped the saddle-bags as though
such commands were not uncommon.

``Pick up those bags, Benjy,'' said I, laughing.

Benjy glanced uncertainly at his master.

``Do as I tell you, you black scalawag,'' said Nick, ``or
I'll tan you. What are you waiting for?''

``Marse Dave--'' began Benjy, rolling his eyes in discomfiture.

``Look you, Nick Temple,'' said I, ``when you shipped
with me you promised that I should command. I can't
afford to have the town about our ears.

``Oh, very well, if you put it that way,'' said Nick.
``A little honest diversion--  Pick up the bags, Benjy,
and follow the parson.''

Obeying Mademoiselle's directions, we trudged on until
we came to a comfortable stone house surrounded by
trees and set in a half-block bordered by a seven-foot
paling. Hardly had we opened the gate when a tall
gentleman of grave demeanor and sober dress rose from his
seat on the porch, and I recognized my friend of Cahokia
days, Monsieur Gratiot. He was a little more portly, his
hair was dressed now in an eelskin, and he looked every
inch the man of affairs that he was. He greeted us kindly
and bade us come up on the porch, where he read my letter
of introduction.

``Why,'' he exclaimed immediately, giving me a
cordial grasp of the hand, ``of course. The strategist, the
John Law, the reader of character of Colonel Clark's
army. Yes, and worse, the prophet, Mr. Ritchie.''

``And why worse, sir?'' I asked.

``You predicted that Congress would never repay me
for the little loan I advanced to your Colonel.''

``It was not such a little loan, Monsieur,'' I said.

``N'importe,'' said he; ``I went to Richmond with my
box of scrip and promissory notes, but I was not ill
repaid. If I did not get my money, I acquired, at least, a
host of distinguished acquaintances. But, Mr. Ritchie,
you must introduce me to your friend;

``My cousin. Mr. Nicholas Temple,'' I said.

Monsieur Gratiot looked at him fixedly.

``Of the Charlestown Temples?'' he asked, and a
sudden vague fear seized me.

``Yes,'' said Nick, ``there was once a family of that name.''

``And now?'' said Monsieur Gratiot, puzzled.

``Now,'' said Nick, ``now they are become a worthless
lot of refugees and outlaws, who by good fortune have
escaped the gallows.''

Before Monsieur Gratiot could answer, a child came
running around the corner of the house and stood, surprised,
staring at us. Nick made a face, stooped down, and
twirled his finger. Shouting with a terrified glee, the boy
fled to the garden path, Nick after him.

``I like Mr. Temple,'' said Monsieur Gratiot, smiling.
``He is young, but he seems to have had a history.''

``The Revolution ruined many families--his was one,''
I answered, with what firmness of tone I could muster.
And then Nick came back, carrying the shouting youngster
on his shoulders. At that instant a lady appeared
in the doorway, leading another child, and we were
introduced to Madame Gratiot.

``Gentlemen,'' said Monsieur Gratiot, ``you must make
my house your home. I fear your visit will not be as
long as I could wish, Mr. Ritchie,'' he added, turning to
me, ``if Mr. Wharton correctly states your business.
I have an engagement to have my furs in New Orleans
by a certain time. I am late in loading, and as there is a
moon I am sending off my boats to-morrow night. The
men will have to work on Sunday.''

``We were fortunate to come in such good season,''
I answered.

After a delicious supper of gumbo, a Creole dish,
of fricassee, of creme brule, of red wine and fresh wild
strawberries, we sat on the porch. The crickets chirped
in the garden, the moon cast fantastic shadows from the
pecan tree on the grass, while Nick, struggling with his
French, talked to Madame Gratiot; and now and then
their gay laughter made Monsieur Gratiot pause and
smile as he talked to me of my errand. It seemed strange
to me that a man who had lost so much by his espousal of
our cause should still be faithful to the American
republic. Although he lived in Louisiana, he had never
renounced the American allegiance which he had taken
at Cahokia. He regarded with no favor the pretensions
of Spain toward Kentucky. And (remarkably enough)
he looked forward even then to the day when Louisiana
would belong to the republic. I exclaimed at this.

``Mr. Ritchie,'' said he, ``the most casual student of
your race must come to the same conclusion. You have
seen for yourself how they have overrun and conquered
Kentucky and the Cumberland districts, despite a hideous
warfare waged by all the tribes. Your people will not be
denied, and when they get to Louisiana, they will take it,
as they take everything else.''

He was a man strong in argument, was Monsieur
Gratiot, for he loved it. And he beat me fairly.

``Nay,'' he said finally, ``Spain might as well try to
dam the Mississippi as to dam your commerce on it. As
for France, I love her, though my people were exiled to
Switzerland by the Edict of Nantes. But France is rotten
through the prodigality of her kings and nobles, and she
cannot hold Louisiana. The kingdom is sunk in debt.''
He cleared his throat. ``As for this Wilkinson of whom
you speak, I know something of him. I have no doubt
that Miro pensions him, but I know Miro likewise, and
you will obtain no proof of that. You will, however,
discover in New Orleans many things of interest to your
government and to the Federal party in Kentucky.
Colonel Chouteau and I will give you letters to certain
French gentlemen in New Orleans who can be trusted.
There is Saint-Gre, for instance, who puts a French
Louisiana into his prayers. He has never forgiven
O'Reilly and his Spaniards for the murder of his father in
sixty-nine. Saint-Gre is a good fellow,--a cousin of the
present Marquis in France,--and his ancestors held many
positions of trust in the colony under the French regime.
He entertains lavishly at Les Iles, his plantation on the
Mississippi. He has the gossip of New Orleans at his
tongue's tip, and you will be suspected of nothing save a
desire to amuse yourselves if you go there.''  He paused
interrupted by the laughter of the others. ``When
strangers of note or of position drift here and pass on to
New Orleans, I always give them letters to Saint-Gre. He
has a charming daughter and a worthless son.''

Monsieur Gratiot produced his tabatiere and took a
pinch of snuff. I summoned my courage for the topic
which had trembled all the evening on my lips.

``Some years ago, Monsieur Gratiot, a lady and a
gentleman were rescued on the Wilderness Trail in
Kentucky. They left us for St. Louis. Did they come here?''

Monsieur Gratiot leaned forward quickly.

``They were people of quality?'' he demanded.

``Yes.''

``And their name?''

``They--they did not say.''

``It must have been the Clives,'' he cried ``it can have
been no other. Tell me--a woman still beautiful,
commanding, of perhaps eight and thirty? A woman who
had a sorrow?--a great sorrow, though we have never
learned it. And Mr. Clive, a man of fashion, ill content
too, and pining for the life of a capital?''

``Yes,'' I said eagerly, my voice sinking near to a
whisper, ``yes--it is they. And are they here?''

Monsieur Gratiot took another pinch of snuff. It
seemed an age before he answered:--

``It is curious that you should mention them, for I gave
them letters to New Orleans,--amongst others, to Saint-
Gre. Mrs. Clive was--what shall I say?--haunted.
Monsieur Clive talked of nothing but Paris, where they
had lived once. And at last she gave in. They have
gone there.''

``To Paris?'' I said, taking breath.

``Yes. It is more than a year ago,'' he continued,
seeming not to notice my emotion; ``they went by way of
New Orleans, in one of Chouteau's boats. Mrs. Clive
seemed a woman with a great sorrow.''

CHAPTER IX

``CHERCHEZ LA FEMME''

Sunday came with the soft haziness of a June morning,
and the dew sucked a fresh fragrance from the blossoms
and the grass. I looked out of our window at the orchard,
all pink and white in the early sun, and across a patch of
clover to the stone kitchen. A pearly, feathery smoke
was wafted from the chimney, a delicious aroma of Creole
coffee pervaded the odor of the blossoms, and a cotton-
clad negro a pieds nus came down the path with two
steaming cups and knocked at our door. He who has
tasted Creole coffee will never forget it. The effect of it
was lost upon Nick, for he laid down the cup, sighed, and
promptly went to sleep again, while I dressed and went
forth to make his excuses to the family. I found Monsieur
and Madame with their children walking among the
flowers. Madame laughed.

``He is charming, your cousin,'' said she. ``Let him
sleep, by all means, until after Mass. Then you must
come with us to Madame Chouteau's, my mother's. Her
children and grandchildren dine with her every Sunday.''

``Madame Chouteau, my mother-in-law, is the queen
regent of St. Louis, Mr. Ritchie,'' said Monsieur Gratiot,
gayly. ``We are all afraid of her, and I warn you that
she is a very determined and formidable personage. She
is the widow of the founder of St. Louis, the Sieur
Laclede, although she prefers her own name. She rules us
with a strong hand, dispenses justice, settles disputes, and
--sometimes indulges in them herself. It is her right.''

``You will see a very pretty French custom of submission
to parents,'' said Madame Gratiot. ``And afterwards
there is a ball.''

``A ball!'' I exclaimed involuntarily.

``It may seem very strange to you, Mr. Ritchie, but we
believe that Sunday was made to enjoy. They will have
time to attend the ball before you send them down the
river?'' she added mischievously, turning to her husband.

``Certainly,'' said he, ``the loading will not be finished
before eight o'clock.''

Presently Madame Gratiot went off to Mass, while I
walked with Monsieur Gratiot to a storehouse near the
river's bank, whence the skins, neatly packed and
numbered, were being carried to the boats on the sweating
shoulders of the negroes, the half-breeds, and the
Canadian boatmen,--bulky bales of yellow elk, from the
upper plains of the Missouri, of buffalo and deer and bear,
and priceless little packages of the otter and the beaver
trapped in the green shade of the endless Northern forests,
and brought hither in pirogues down the swift river by
the red tribesmen and Canadian adventurers.

Afterwards I strolled about the silent village. Even
the cabarets were deserted. A private of the Spanish
Louisiana Regiment in a dirty uniform slouched behind
the palings in front of the commandant's quarters,--a
quaint stone house set against the hill, with dormer
windows in its curving roof, with a wide porch held by eight
sturdy hewn pillars; here and there the muffled figure
of a prowling Indian loitered, or a barefooted negress
shuffled along by the fence crooning a folk-song. All
the world had obeyed the call of the church bell save
these--and Nick. I bethought myself of Nick, and made
my way back to Monsieur Gratiot's.

I found my cousin railing at Benjy, who had extracted
from the saddle-bags a wondrous gray suit of London cut
in which to array his master. Clothes became Nick's
slim figure remarkably. This coat was cut away smartly,
like a uniform, towards the tails, and was brought in at
the waist with an infinite art.

``Whither now, my conquistador?'' I said.

``To Mass,'' said he.

``To Mass!'' I exclaimed; ``but you have slept through
the greater part of it.''

``The best part is to come,'' said Nick, giving a final
touch to his neck-band. Followed by Benjy's adoring
eyes, he started out of the door, and I followed him
perforce. We came to the little church, of upright logs and
plaster, with its crudely shingled, peaked roof, with its
tiny belfry crowned by a cross, with its porches on each
side shading the line of windows there. Beside the
church, a little at the back, was the cure's modest house
of stone, and at the other hand, under spreading trees, the
graveyard with its rough wooden crosses. And behind
these graves rose the wooded hill that stretched away
towards the wilderness.

What a span of life had been theirs who rested here!
Their youth, perchance, had been spent amongst the
crooked streets of some French village, streets lined by
red-tiled houses and crossing limpid streams by quaint
bridges. Death had overtaken them beside a monster
tawny river of which their imaginations had not
conceived, a river which draws tribute from the remote
places of an unknown land,--a river, indeed, which,
mixing all the waters, seemed to symbolize a coming race
which was to conquer the land by its resistless flow, even
as the Mississippi bore relentlessly towards the sea.

These were my own thoughts as I listened to the tones
of the priest as they came, droningly, out of the door,
while Nick was exchanging jokes in doubtful French with
some half-breeds leaning against the palings. Then we
heard benches scraping on the floor, and the congregation
began to file out.

Those who reached the steps gave back, respectfully,
and there came an elderly lady in a sober turban, a black
mantilla wrapped tightly about her shoulders, and I made
no doubt that she was Monsieur Gratiot's mother-in-law,
Madame Chouteau, she whom he had jestingly called the
queen regent. I was sure of this when I saw Madame
Gratiot behind her. Madame Chouteau indeed had the
face of authority, a high-bridged nose, a determined chin,
a mouth that shut tightly. Madame Gratiot presented
us to her mother, and as she passed on to the gate
Madame Chouteau reminded us that we were to dine with
her at two.

After her the congregation, the well-to-do and the poor
alike, poured out of the church and spread in merry
groups over the grass: keel boatmen in tow shirts and
party-colored worsted belts, the blacksmith, the shoemaker,
the farmer of a small plot in the common fields in large
cotton pantaloons and light-wove camlet coat, the more
favored in skull-caps, linen small-clothes, cotton stockings,
and silver-buckled shoes,--every man pausing, dipping
into his tabatiere, for a word with his neighbor. The
women, too, made a picture strange to our eyes, the matrons
in jacket and petticoat, a Madras handkerchief flung about
their shoulders, the girls in fresh cottonade or calamanco.

All at once cries of `` 'Polyte! 'Polyte!'' were heard,
and a nimble young man with a jester-like face hopped
around the corner of the church, trundling a barrel. Behind
'Polyte came two rotund little men perspiring freely,
and laden down with various articles,--a bird-cage with
two yellow birds, a hat-trunk, an inlaid card box, a roll of
scarlet cloth, and I know not what else. They deposited
these on the grass beside the barrel, which 'Polyte had set
on end and proceeded to mount, encouraged by the shouts
of his friends, who pressed around the barrel

``It's an auction,'' I said.

But Nick did not hear me. I followed his glance to
the far side of the circle, and my eye was caught by a red
ribbon, a blush that matched it. A glance shot from
underneath long lashes,--but not for me. Beside the girl,
and palpably uneasy, stood the young man who had been
called Gaspard.

``Ah,'' said I, ``your angel of the tumbrel.''

But Nick had pulled off his hat and was sweeping her a
bow. The girl looked down, smoothing her ribbon,
Gaspard took a step forward, and other young women near us
tittered with delight. The voice of Hippolyte rolling his
r's called out in a French dialect:--

``M'ssieurs et Mesdames, ce sont des effets d'un pauvre
officier qui est mort. Who will buy?''  He opened the
hat-trunk, produced an antiquated beaver with a gold
cord, and surveyed it with a covetousness that was admirably
feigned. For 'Polyte was an actor. ``M'ssieurs, to
own such a hat were a patent of nobility. Am I bid
twenty livres?''

There was a loud laughter, and he was bid four.

``Gaspard,'' cried the auctioneer, addressing the young
man of the tumbrel, ``Suzanne would no longer hesitate if
she saw you in such a hat. And with the trunk, too.
Ah, mon Dieu, can you afford to miss it?''

The crowd howled, Suzanne simpered, and Gaspard
turned as pink as clover. But he was not to be bullied.
The hat was sold to an elderly person, the red cloth
likewise; a pot of grease went to a housewife, and there was
a veritable scramble for the box of playing cards; and at
last Hippolyte held up the wooden cage with the fluttering
yellow birds.

``Ha!'' he cried, his eyes on Gaspard once more, ``a
gentle present--a present to make a heart relent. And
Monsieur Leon, perchance you will make a bid, although
they are not gamecocks.''

Instantly, from somewhere under the barrel, a cock crew.
Even the yellow birds looked surprised, and as for 'Polyte,
he nearly dropped the cage. One elderly person crossed
himself. I looked at Nick. His face was impassive, but
suddenly I remembered his boyhood gift, how he had
imitated the monkeys, and I began to shake with inward
laughter. There was an uncomfortable silence.

``Peste, c'est la magie!'' said an old man at last,
searching with an uncertain hand for his snuff.

``Monsieur,'' cried Nick to the auctioneer, ``I will make
a bid. But first you must tell me whether they are cocks
or yellow birds.''

``Parbleu,'' answered the puzzled Hippolyte, ``that I do
not know, Monsieur.''

Everybody looked at Nick, including Suzanne.

``Very well,'' said he, ``I will make a bid. And if they
turn out to be gamecocks, I will fight them with Monsieur
Leon behind the cabaret. Two livres!''

There was a laugh, as of relief.

``Three!'' cried Gaspard, and his voice broke.

Hippolyte looked insulted.

``M'ssieurs,'' he shouted, ``they are from the Canaries.
Diable, un berger doit etre genereux.''

Another laugh, and Gaspard wiped the perspiration
from his face.

``Five!'' said he.

``Six!'' said Nick, and the villagers turned to him in
wonderment. What could such a fine Monsieur want
with two yellow birds?

``En avant, Gaspard,'' said Hippolyte, and Suzanne shot
another barbed glance in our direction.

``Seven,'' muttered Gaspard.

``Eight!'' said Nick, immediately.

``Nine,'' said Gaspard.

``Ten,'' said Nick.

``Ten,'' cried Hippolyte, ``I am offered ten livres for the
yellow birds. Une bagatelle! Onze, Gaspard! Onze!
onze livres, pour l'amour de Suzanne!''

But Gaspard was silent. No appeals, entreaties, or
taunts could persuade him to bid more. And at length
Hippolyte, with a gesture of disdain, handed Nick the cage,
as though he were giving it away.

``Monsieur,'' he said, ``the birds are yours, since there
are no more lovers who are worthy of the name. They
do not exist.''

``Monsieur,'' answered Nick, ``it is to disprove that
statement that I have bought the birds. Mademoiselle,''
he added, turning to the flushing Suzanne, ``I pray that
you will accept this present with every assurance of my
humble regard.''

Mademoiselle took the cage, and amidst the laughter
of the village at the discomfiture of poor Gaspard, swept
Nick a frightened courtesy,--one that nevertheless was
full of coquetry. And at that instant, to cap the situation,
a rotund little man with a round face under a linen biretta
grasped Nick by the hand, and cried in painful but sincere
English:--

``Monsieur, you mek my daughter ver' happy. She want
those bird ever sence Captain Lopez he die. Monsieur, I
am Jean Baptiste Lenoir, Colonel Chouteau's miller, and
we ver' happy to see you at the pon'.''

``If Monsieur will lead the way,'' said Nick, instantly,
taking the little man by the arm.

``But you are to dine at Madame Chouteau's,'' I expostulated.

``To be sure,'' said he. ``Au revoir, Monsieur. Au revoir,
Mademoiselle. Plus tard, Mademoiselle; nous danserons plus
tard.''

``What devil inhabits you?'' I said, when I had got him
started on the way to Madame Chouteau's.

``Your own, at present, Davy,'' he answered, laying a
hand on my shoulder, ``else I should be on the way to the
pon' with Lenoir. But the ball is to come,'' and he
executed several steps in anticipation. ``Davy, I am sorry
for you.''

``Why?'' I demanded, though feeling a little self-
commiseration also.

``You will never know how to enjoy yourself,'' said he,
with conviction.

Madame Chouteau lived in a stone house, wide and low,
surrounded by trees and gardens. It was a pretty tribute
of respect her children and grandchildren paid her that day,
in accordance with the old French usage of honoring the
parent. I should like to linger on the scene, and tell how
Nick made them all laugh over the story of Suzanne Lenoir
and the yellow birds, and how the children pressed around
him and made him imitate all the denizens of wood and
field, amid deafening shrieks of delight.

``You have probably delayed Gaspard's wooing another
year, Mr. Temple. Suzanne is a sad coquette,'' said Colonel
Auguste Chouteau, laughing, as we set out for the ball.

The sun was hanging low over the western hills as we
approached the barracks, and out of the open windows
came the merry, mad sounds of violin, guitar, and flageolet,
the tinkle of a triangle now and then, the shouts of
laughter, the shuffle of many feet over the puncheons.
Within the door, smiling and benignant, unmindful of the
stifling atmosphere, sat the black-robed village priest
talking volubly to an elderly man in a scarlet cap, and several
stout ladies ranged along the wall: beyond them, on a
platform, Zeron, the baker, fiddled as though his life
depended on it, the perspiration dripping from his brow,
frowning, gesticulating at them with the flageolet and the
triangle. And in a dim, noisy, heated whirl the whole
village went round and round and round under the low
ceiling in the valse, young and old, rich and poor, high
and low, the sound of their laughter and the scraping of
their feet cut now and again by an agonized squeak from
Zeron's fiddle. From time to time a staggering, panting
couple would fling themselves out, help themselves liberally
to pink sirop from the bowl on the side table, and
then fling themselves in once more, until Zeron stopped
from sheer exhaustion, to tune up for a pas de deux.

Across the room, by the sirop bowl, a pair of red ribbons
flaunted, a pair of eyes sent a swift challenge, Zeron and
his assistants struck up again, and there in a corner was
Nick Temple, with characteristic effrontery attempting a
pas de deux with Suzanne. Though Nick was ignorant,
he was not ungraceful, and the village laughed and admired.
And when Zeron drifted back into a valse he seized Suzanne's
plump figure in his arms and bore her, unresisting,
like a prize among the dancers, avoiding alike the fat and
unwieldy, the clumsy and the spiteful. For a while the
tune held its mad pace, and ended with a shriek and a snap
on a high note, for Zeron had broken a string. Amid a
burst of laughter from the far end of the room I saw Nick
stop before an open window in which a prying Indian was
framed, swing Suzanne at arm's length, and bow abruptly
at the brave with a grunt that startled him into life.

``Va-t'en, mechant!'' shrieked Suzanne, excitedly.

Poor Gaspard! Poor Hippolyte! They would gain
Suzanne for a dance only to have her snatched away at
the next by the slim and reckless young gentleman in the
gray court clothes. Little Nick cared that the affair soon
became the amusement of the company. From time to
time, as he glided past with Suzanne on his shoulder, he
nodded gayly to Colonel Chouteau or made a long face at
me, and to save our souls we could not help laughing.

``The girl has met her match, for she has played shuttle-
cock with all the hearts in the village,'' said Monsieur
Chouteau. ``But perhaps it is just as well that Mr. Temple
is leaving to-night. I have signed a bon, Mr. Ritchie, by
which you can obtain money at New Orleans. And do
not forget to present our letter to Monsieur de Saint Gre.
He has a daughter, by the way, who will be more of a
match for your friend's fascinations than Suzanne.''

The evening faded into twilight, with no signs of
weariness from the dancers. And presently there stood beside
us Jean Baptiste Lenoir, the Colonel's miller.

``B'soir, Monsieur le Colonel,'' he said, touching his skull-
cap, ``the water is very low. You fren','' he added, turning
to me, ``he stay long time in St. Louis?''

``He is going away to-night,--in an hour or so,'' I
answered, with thanksgiving in my heart.

``I am sorry,'' said Monsieur Lenoir, politely, but his
looks belied his words. ``He is ver' fond Suzanne. Peut etre
he marry her, but I think not. I come away from
France to escape the fine gentlemen; long time ago they
want to run off with my wife. She was like Suzanne.''

``How long ago did you come from France, Monsieur?''
I asked, to get away from an uncomfortable subject.

``It is twenty years,'' said he, dreamily, in French. ``I
was born in the Quartier Saint Jean, on the harbor of the
city of Marseilles near Notre Dame de la Nativite.''  And
he told of a tall, uneven house of four stories, with a high
pitched roof, and a little barred door and window at the
bottom giving out upon the rough cobbles. He spoke of
the smell of the sea, of the rollicking sailors who surged
through the narrow street to embark on his Majesty's men-
of-war, and of the King's white soldiers in ranks of four
going to foreign lands. And how he had become a farmer,
the tenant of a country family. Excitement grew on
him, and he mopped his brow with his blue rumal
handkerchief.

``They desire all, the nobles,'' he cried, ``I make the
land good, and they seize it. I marry a pretty wife, and
Monsieur le Comte he want her. L'bon Dieu,'' he added
bitterly, relapsing into French. ``France is for the King
and the nobility, Monsieur. The poor have but little chance
there. In the country I have seen the peasants eat roots,
and in the city the poor devour the refuse from the houses
of the rich. It was we who paid for their luxuries, and
with mine own eyes I have seen their gilded coaches ride
down weak men and women in the streets. But it cannot
last. They will murder Louis and burn the great
chateaux. I, who speak to you, am of the people, Monsieur,
I know it.''

The sun had long set, and with flint and tow they were
touching the flame to the candles, which flickered transparent
yellow in the deepening twilight. So absorbed had
I become in listening to Lenoir's description that I had
forgotten Nick. Now I searched for him among the promenading
figures, and missed him. In vain did I seek for
a glimpse of Suzanne's red ribbons, and I grew less and
less attentive to the miller's reminiscences and arraignments
of the nobility. Had Nick indeed run away with
his daughter?

The dancing went on with unabated zeal, and through
the open door in the fainting azure of the sky the summer
moon hung above the hills like a great yellow orange.
Striving to hide my uneasiness, I made my farewells to
Madame Chouteau's sons and daughters and their friends,
and with Colonel Chouteau I left the hall and began to
walk towards Monsieur Gratiot's, hoping against hope that
Nick had gone there to change. But we had scarce reached
the road before we could see two figures in the distance,
hazily outlined in the mid-light of the departed sun and
the coming moon. The first was Monsieur Gratiot himself,
the second Benjy. Monsieur Gratiot took me by the
hand.

``I regret to inform you, Mr. Ritchie,'' said he, politely,
``that my keel boats are loaded and ready to leave. Were
you on any other errand I should implore you to stay with
us.''

``Is Temple at your house?'' I asked faintly.

``Why, no,'' said Monsieur Gratiot; ``I thought he was
with you at the ball.''

``Where is your master?'' I demanded sternly of Benjy.

``I ain't seed him, Marse Dave, sence I put him inter
dem fine clothes 'at he w'ars a-cou'tin'.''

``He has gone off with the girl,'' put in Colonel
Chouteau, laughing.

``But where?'' I said, with growing anger at this lack
of consideration on Nick's part.

``I'll warrant that Gaspard or Hippolyte Beaujais will
know, if they can be found,'' said the Colonel. ``Neither
of them willingly lets the girl out of his sight.''

As we hurried back towards the throbbing sounds of
Zeron's fiddle I apologized as best I might to Monsieur
Gratiot, declaring that if Nick were not found within the
half-hour I would leave without him. My host protested
that an hour or so would make no difference. We were
about to pass through the group of loungers that loitered
by the gate when the sound of rapid footsteps
arrested us, and we turned to confront two panting and
perspiring young men who halted beside us. One was
Hippolyte Beaujais, more fantastic than ever as he faced
the moon, and the other was Gaspard. They had plainly
made a common cause, but it was Hippolyte who spoke.

``Monsieur,'' he cried, ``you seek your friend? Ha, we
have found him,--we will lead you to him.''

``Where is he?'' said Colonel Chouteau, repressing
another laugh.

``On the pond, Monsieur,--in a boat, Monsieur, with
Suzanne, Monsieur le Colonel! And, moreover, he will
come ashore for no one.''

``Parbleu,'' said the Colonel, ``I should think not for
any arguments that you two could muster. But we will
go there.''

``How far is it?'' I asked, thinking of Monsieur Gratiot.

``About a mile,'' said Colonel Chouteau, ``a pleasant
walk.''

We stepped out, Hippolyte and Gaspard running in
front, the Colonel and Monsieur Gratiot and myself
following; and a snicker which burst out now and then told us
that Benjy was in the rear. On any other errand I should
have thought the way beautiful, for the country road, rutted
by wooden wheels, wound in and out through pleasant
vales and over gentle rises, whence we caught glimpses
from time to time of the Mississippi gleaming like molten
gold to the eastward. Here and there, nestling against
the gentle slopes of the hillside clearing, was a low-thatched
farmhouse among its orchards. As we walked, Nick's
escapade, instead of angering Monsieur Gratiot, seemed
to present itself to him in a more and more ridiculous
aspect, and twice he nudged me to call my attention to the
two vengefully triumphant figures silhouetted against the
moon ahead of us. From time to time also I saw Colonel
Chouteau shaking with laughter. As for me, it was
impossible to be angry at Nick for any space. Nobody else
would have carried off a girl in the face of her rivals for
a moonlight row on a pond a mile away.

At length we began to go down into the valley where
Chouteau's pond was, and we caught glimpses of the
shimmering of its waters through the trees, ay, and
presently heard them tumbling lightly over the mill-dam.
The spot was made for romance,--a sequestered vale, clad
with forest trees, cleared a little by the water-side, where
Monsieur Lenoir raised his maize and his vegetables. Below
the mill, so Monsieur Gratiot told me, where the creek lay
in pools on its limestone bed, the village washing was
done; and every Monday morning bare-legged negresses
strode up this road, the bundles of clothes balanced on
their heads, the paddles in their hands, followed by a stream
of black urchins who tempted Providence to drown them.

Down in the valley we came to a path that branched
from the road and led under the oaks and hickories towards
the pond, and we had not taken twenty paces in it before
the notes of a guitar and the sound of a voice reached our
ears. And then, when the six of us stood huddled in the
rank growth at the water's edge, we saw a boat floating
idly in the forest shadow on the far side.

I put my hand to my mouth.

``Nick!'' I shouted.

There came for an answer, with the careless and
unskilful thrumming of the guitar, the end of the verse:--

   ``Thine eyes are bright as the stars at night,
   Thy cheeks like the rose of the dawning, oh!''

``Helas!'' exclaimed Hippolyte, sadly, ``there is no
other boat.''

``Nick!'' I shouted again, reenforced vociferously by
the others.

The music ceased, there came feminine laughter across
the water, then Nick's voice, in French that dared everything:--

``Go away and amuse yourselves at the dance. Peste,
it is scarce an hour ago I threatened to row ashore and
break your heads. Allez vous en, jaloux!''

A scream of delight from Suzanne followed this sally,
which was received by Gaspard and Hippolyte with a rattle
of sacres, and--despite our irritation--the Colonel,
Monsieur Gratiot, and myself with a burst of involuntary
laughter.

``Parbleu,'' said the Colonel, choking, ``it is a pity to
disturb such a one. Gratiot, if it was my boat, I'd delay
the departure till morning.''

``Indeed, I shall have had no small entertainment as a
solace,'' said Monsieur Gratiot. ``Listen!''

The tinkle of the guitar was heard again, and Nick's
voice, strong and full and undisturbed:--

   ``S'posin' I was to go to N' O'leans an' take sick an' die,
     Like a bird into the country my spirit would fly.
        Go 'way, old man, and leave me alone,
        For I am a stranger and a long way from home.''

There was a murmur of voices in the boat, the sound of
a paddle gurgling as it dipped, and the dugout shot out
towards the middle of the pond and drifted again.

I shouted once more at the top of my lungs:--

``Come in here, Nick, instantly!''

There was a moment's silence.

``By gad, it's Parson Davy!'' I heard Nick exclaim.
``Halloo, Davy, how the deuce did you get there?''

``No thanks to you,'' I retorted hotly. ``Come in.''

``Lord,'' said he, ``is it time to go to New Orleans?''

``One might think New Orleans was across the street,''
said Monsieur Gratiot. ``What an attitude of mind!''

The dugout was coming towards us now, propelled by
easy strokes, and Nick could be heard the while talking
in low tones to Suzanne. We could only guess at the
tenor of his conversation, which ceased entirely as they
drew near. At length the prow slid in among the rushes,
was seized vigorously by Gaspard and Hippolyte, and the
boat hauled ashore.

``Thank you very much, Messieurs; you are most
obliging,'' said Nick. And taking Suzanne by the hand, he
helped her gallantly over the gunwale. ``Monsieur,'' he
added, turning in his most irresistible manner to Monsieur
Gratiot, ``if I have delayed the departure of your boat, I
am exceedingly sorry. But I appeal to you if I have not
the best of excuses.''

And he bowed to Suzanne, who stood beside him coyly,
looking down. As for 'Polyte and Gaspard, they were
quite breathless between rage and astonishment. But
Colonel Chouteau began to laugh.

``Diable, Monsieur, you are right,'' he cried, ``and
rather than have missed this entertainment I would pay
Gratiot for his cargo.''

``Au revoir, Mademoiselle,'' said Nick, ``I will return
when I am released from bondage. When this terrible
mentor relaxes vigilance, I will escape and make my way
back to you through the forests.''

``Oh!'' cried Mademoiselle to me, ``you will let him
come back, Monsieur.''

``Assuredly, Mademoiselle,'' I said, ``but I have known
him longer than you, and I tell you that in a month he
will not wish to come back.''

Hippolyte gave a grunt of approval to this plain speech.
Suzanne exclaimed, but before Nick could answer footsteps
were heard in the path and Lenoir himself, perspiring,
panting, exhausted, appeared in the midst of us.

``Suzanne!'' he cried, ``Suzanne!''  And turning to
Nick, he added quite simply, ``So, Monsieur, you did not
run off with her, after all?''

``There was no place to run, Monsieur,'' answered Nick.

``Praise be to God for that!'' said the miller, heartily,
``there is some advantage in living in the wilderness,
when everything is said.''

``I shall come back and try, Monsieur,'' said Nick.

The miller raised his hands.

``I assure you that he will not, Monsieur,'' I put in.

He thanked me profusely, and suddenly an idea seemed
to strike him.

``There is the priest,'' he cried; ``Monsieur le cure
retires late. There is the priest, Monsieur.''

There was an awkward silence, broken at length by an
exclamation from Gaspard. Colonel Chouteau turned his
back, and I saw his shoulders heave. All eyes were on
Nick, but the rascal did not seem at all perturbed.

``Monsieur,'' he said, bowing, ``marriage is a serious
thing, and not to be entered into lightly. I thank you
from my heart, but I am bound now with Mr. Ritchie on
an errand of such importance that I must make a sacrifice
of my own interests and affairs to his.''

``If Mr. Temple wishes--'' I began, with malicious
delight. But Nick took me by the shoulder.

``My dear Davy,'' he said, giving me a vicious kick, ``I
could not think of it. I will go with you at once. Adieu,
Mademoiselle,'' said he, bending over Suzanne's unresisting
hand. ``Adieu, Messieurs, and I thank you for your
great interest in me.''  (This to Gaspard and Hippolyte.)

``And now, Monsieur Gratiot, I have already presumed
too much on your patience. I will follow you, Monsieur.''

We left them, Lenoir, Suzanne, and her two suitors,
standing at the pond, and made our way through the path
in the forest. It was not until we reached the road and
had begun to climb out of the valley that the silence was
broken between us.

``Monsieur,'' said Colonel Chouteau, slyly, ``do you
have many such escapes?''

``It might have been closer,'' said Nick.

``Closer?'' ejaculated the Colonel.

``Assuredly,'' said Nick, ``to the extent of abducting
Monsieur le cure. As for you, Davy,'' he added, between
his teeth, ``I mean to get even with you.''

It was well for us that the Colonel and Monsieur
Gratiot took the escapade with such good nature. And
so we walked along through the summer night, talking
gayly, until at length the lights of the village twinkled
ahead of us, and in the streets we met many parties
making merry on their homeward way. We came to Monsieur
Gratiot's, bade our farewells to Madame, picked up our
saddle-bags, the two gentlemen escorting us down to the
river bank where the keel boat was tugging at the ropes that
held her, impatient to be off. Her captain, a picturesque
Canadian by the name of Xavier Paret, was presented to
us; we bade our friends farewell, and stepped across the
plank to the deck. As we were casting off, Monsieur
Gratiot called to us that he would take the first occasion
to send our horses back to Kentucky. The oars were
manned, the heavy hulk moved, and we were shot out
into the mighty current of the river on our way to New
Orleans.

Nick and I stood for a long time on the deck, and the
windows of the little village gleamed like stars among the
trees. We passed the last of its houses that nestled
against the hill, and below that the forest lay like velvet
under the moon. The song of our boatmen broke the
silence of the night:--
   ``Voici le temps et la saison,
     Voici le temps et la saison,
     Ah! vrai, que les journees sont longues,
     Ah! vrai, que les journees sont longues!''

CHAPTER X

THE KEEL BOAT

We were embarked on a strange river, in a strange boat,
and bound for a strange city. To us Westerners a halo
of romance, of unreality, hung over New Orleans. To us
it had an Old World, almost Oriental flavor of mystery and
luxury and pleasure, and we imagined it swathed in the
moisture of the Delta, built of quaint houses, with courts
of shining orange trees and magnolias, and surrounded by
flowering plantations of unimagined beauty. It was most
fitting that such a place should be the seat of dark intrigues
against material progress, and this notion lent added zest
to my errand thither. As for Nick, it took no great sagacity
on my part to predict that he would forget Suzanne
and begin to look forward to the Creole beauties of the
Mysterious City.

First, there was the fur-laden keel boat in which we
travelled, gone forever now from Western navigation. It
had its rude square sail to take advantage of the river
winds, its mast strongly braced to hold the long tow-ropes.
But tow-ropes were for the endless up-river journey, when
a numerous crew strained day after day along the bank,
chanting the voyageurs' songs. Now we were light-manned,
two half-breeds and two Canadians to handle the oars in
time of peril, and Captain Xavier, who stood aft on the
cabin roof, leaning against the heavy beam of the long,
curved tiller, watching hawklike for snag and eddy and
bar. Within the cabin was a great fireplace of stones,
where our cooking was done, and bunks set round for the
men in cold weather and rainy. But in these fair nights
we chose to sleep on deck.

Far into the night we sat, Nick and I, our feet dangling
over the forward edge of the cabin, looking at the glory of
the moon on the vast river, at the endless forest crown, at
the haze which hung like silver dust under the high bluffs
on the American side. We slept. We awoke again as
the moon was shrinking abashed before the light that
glowed above these cliffs, and the river was turned from
brown to gold and then to burnished copper, the forest to a
thousand shades of green from crest to the banks where the
river was licking the twisted roots to nakedness. The
south wind wafted the sharp wood-smoke from the chimney
across our faces. In the stern Xavier stood immovable
against the tiller, his short pipe clutched between his
teeth, the colors of his new worsted belt made gorgeous
by the rising sun.

``B'jour, Michie,'' he said, and added in the English he
had picked up from the British traders, ``the breakfas'
he is ready, and Jean make him good. Will you have
the grace to descen'?''

We went down the ladder into the cabin, where the odor
of the furs mingled with the smell of the cooking. There
was a fricassee steaming on the crane, some of Zeron's bread,
brought from St. Louis, and coffee that Monsieur Gratiot
had provided for our use. We took our bowls and cups
on deck and sat on the edge of the cabin.

``By gad,'' cried Nick, ``it lacks but the one element
to make it a paradise.''

``And what is that?'' I demanded.

``A woman,'' said he.

Xavier, who overheard, gave a delighted laugh.

``Parbleu, Michie, you have right,'' he said, ``but Michie
Gratiot, he say no. In Nouvelle Orleans we find some.''

Nick got to his feet, and if anything he did could have
surprised me, I should have been surprised when he put
his arm coaxingly about Xavier's neck. Xavier himself
was surprised and correspondingly delighted.

``Tell me, Xavier,'' he said, with a look not to be
resisted, ``do you think I shall find some beauties there?''

``Beauties!'' exclaimed Xavier, ``La Nouvelle Orleans
--it is the home of beauty, Michie. They promenade
themselves on the levee, they look down from ze gallerie,
mais--''

``But what, Xavier?''

``But, mon Dieu, Michie, they are vair' difficile. They
are not like Englis' beauties, there is the father and the
mother, and--the convent.''  And Xavier, who had a
wen under his eye, laid his finger on it.

``For shame, Xavier,'' cried Nick; ``and you are balked
by such things?''

Xavier thought this an exceedingly good joke, and he
took his pipe out of his mouth to laugh the better.

``Me? Mais non, Michie. And yet ze Alcalde, he mek
me afraid. Once he put me in ze calaboose when I tried
to climb ze balcon'.''

Nick roared.

``I will show you how, Xavier,'' he said; ``as to climbing
the balconies, there is a convenance in it, as in all else.
For instance, one must be daring, and discreet, and nimble,
and ready to give the law a presentable answer, and lacking
that, a piastre. And then the fair one must be a fair one
indeed.''

``Diable, Michie,'' cried Xavier, ``you are ze mischief.''

``Nay,'' said Nick, ``I learned it all and much more
from my cousin, Mr. Ritchie.''

Xavier stared at me for an instant, and considering that
he knew nothing of my character, I thought it extremely
impolite of him to laugh. Indeed, he tried to control
himself, for some reason standing in awe of my appearance,
and then he burst out into such loud haw-haws that the
crew poked their heads above the cabin hatch.

``Michie Reetchie,'' said Xavier, and again he burst into
laughter that choked further speech. He controlled himself
and laid his finger on his wen.

``You don't believe it,'' said Nick, offended.

``Michie Reetchie a gallant!'' said Xavier.

``An incurable,'' said Nick, ``an amazingly clever rogue
at device when there is a petticoat in it. Davy, do I do
you justice?''

Xavier roared again.

``Quel maitre!'' he said.

``Xavier,'' said Nick, gently taking the tiller out of his
hand, ``I will teach you how to steer a keel boat.''

``Mon Dieu,'' said Xavier, ``and who is to pay Michie
Gratiot for his fur? The river, she is full of things.''

``Yes, I know, Xavier, but you will teach me to steer.''

``Volontiers, Michie, as we go now. But there come a
time when I, even I, who am twenty year on her, do not
know whether it is right or left. Ze rock--he vair'
hard. Ze snag, he grip you like dat,'' and Xavier twined
his strong arms around Nick until he was helpless. ``Ze
bar--he hol' you by ze leg. An' who is to tell you how
far he run under ze yellow water, Michie? I, who speak
to you, know. But I know not how I know. Ze water,
sometime she tell, sometime she say not'ing.''

``A bas, Xavier!'' said Nick, pushing him away, ``I
will teach you the river.''

Xavier laughed, and sat down on the edge of the cabin.
Nick took easily to accomplishments, and he handled the
clumsy tiller with a certainty and distinction that made
the boatmen swear in two languages and a patois. A
great water-logged giant of the Northern forests loomed
ahead of us. Xavier sprang to his feet, but Nick had
swung his boat swiftly, smoothly, into the deeper water
on the outer side.

``Saint Jacques, Michie,'' cried Xavier, ``you mek him
better zan I thought.''

Fascinated by a new accomplishment, Nick held to the
tiller, while Xavier with a trained eye scanned the troubled,
yellow-glistening surface of the river ahead. The wind
died, the sun beat down with a moist and venomous sting,
and northeastward above the edge of the bluff a bank of
cloud like sulphur smoke was lifted. Gradually Xavier
ceased his jesting and became quiet.

``Looks like a hurricane,'' said Nick.

``Mon Dieu,'' said Xavier, ``you have right, Michie,''
and he called in his rapid patois to the crew, who lounged
forward in the cabin's shade. There came to my mind
the memory of that hurricane at Temple Bow long ago, a
storm that seemed to have brought so much sorrow into
my life. I glanced at Nick, but his face was serene.

The cloud-bank came on in black and yellow masses,
and the saffron light I recalled so well turned the living
green of the forest to a sickly pallor and the yellow river
to a tinge scarce to be matched on earth. Xavier had the
tiller now, and the men were straining at the oars to send
the boat across the current towards the nearer western
shore. And as my glance took in the scale of things, the
miles of bluff frowning above the bottom, the river that
seemed now like a lake of lava gently boiling, and the
wilderness of the western shore that reached beyond the
ken of man, I could not but shudder to think of the conflict
of nature's forces in such a place. A grim stillness
reigned over all, broken only now and again by a sharp
command from Xavier. The men were rowing for their
lives, the sweat glistening on their red faces.

``She come,'' said Xavier.

I looked, not to the northeast whence the banks of
cloud had risen, but to the southwest, and it seemed as
though a little speck was there against the hurrying film
of cloud. We were drawing near the forest line, where a
little creek made an indentation. I listened, and from
afar came a sound like the strumming of low notes on a
guitar, and sad. The terrified scream of a panther broke
the silence of the forest, and then the other distant note
grew stronger, and stronger yet, and rose to a high hum like
unto no sound on this earth, and mingled with it now was a
lashing like water falling from a great height. We
grounded, and Xavier, seizing a great tow-rope, leaped into
the shallow water and passed the bight around a trunk.
I cried out to Nick, but my voice was drowned. He seized
me and flung me under the cabin's lee, and then above
the fearful note of the storm came cracklings like gunshots
of great trees snapping at their trunk. We saw
the forest wall burst out--how far away I know not--
and the air was filled as with a flock of giant birds, and
boughs crashed on the roof of the cabin and tore the
water in the darkness. How long we lay clutching each
other in terror on the rocking boat I may not say, but
when the veil first lifted there was the river like an angry
sea, and limitless, the wind in its fury whipping the foam
from the crests and bearing it off into space. And
presently, as we stared, the note lowered and the wind was
gone again, and there was the water tossing foolishly, and
we lay safe amidst the green wreckage of the forest as by a
miracle.

It was Nick who moved first. With white face he
climbed to the roof of the cabin and idly seizing the great
limb that lay there tried to move it. Xavier, who lay on
his face on the bank, rose to a sitting posture and crossed
himself. Beyond me crowded the four members of the
crew, unhurt. Then we heard Xavier's voice, in French,
thanking the Blessed Virgin for our escape.

Further speech was gone from us, for men do not talk
after such a matter. We laid hold of the tree across the
cabin and, straining, flung it over into the water. A great
drop of rain hit me on the forehead, and there came a
silver-gray downpour that blotted out the scene and drove
us down below. And then, from somewhere in the depths
of the dark cabin, came a sound to make a man's blood run
cold.

``What's that?'' I said, clutching Nick.

``Benjy,'' said he; ``thank God he did not die of fright.''
We lighted a candle, and poking around, found the negro
where he had crept into the farthest corner of a bunk
with his face to the wall. And when we touched him he
gave vent to a yell that was blood-curdling.

``I'se a bad nigger, Lo'd, yes, I is,'' he moaned. ``I
ain't fit fo' jedgment, Lo'd.''

Nick shook him and laughed.

``Come out of that, Benjy,'' he said; ``you've got another
chance.

Benjy turned, perforce, the whites of his eyes gleaming
in the candle-light, and stared at us.

``You ain't gone yit, Marse,'' he said.

``Gone where?'' said Nick.

``I'se done been tole de quality 'll be jedged fust, Marse,''

Nick hauled him out on the floor. Climbing to the
deck, we found that the boat was already under way,
running southward in the current through the misty rain.
And gazing shoreward, a sight met my eyes which I
shall never forget. A wide vista, carpeted with wreckage,
was cut through the forest to the river's edge, and
the yellow water was strewn for miles with green boughs.
We stared down it, overwhelmed, until we had passed
beyond its line.

``It is as straight,'' said Nick, ``as straight as one of her
Majesty's alleys I saw cut through the forest at Saint-Cloud.''

   *    *   *    *     *    *    *

Had I space and time to give a faithful account of this
journey it would be chiefly a tribute to Xavier's skill, for
they who have not put themselves at the mercy of the
Mississippi in a small craft can have no idea of the
dangers of such a voyage. Infinite experience, a keen eye, a
steady hand, and a nerve of iron are required. Now, when
the current swirled almost to a rapid, we grazed a rock
by the width of a ripple; and again, despite the effort of
Xavier and the crew, we would tear the limbs from a huge
tree, which, had we hit it fair, would have ripped us from
bow to stern. Once, indeed, we were fast on a sand-bar,
whence (as Nick said) Xavier fairly cursed us off. We
took care to moor at night, where we could be seen as little
as possible from the river, and divided the watches lest we
should be surprised by Indians. And, as we went southward,
our hands and faces became blotched all over by
the bites of mosquitoes and flies, and we smothered
ourselves under blankets to get rid of them. At times we
fished, and one evening, after we had passed the expanse
of water at the mouth of the Ohio, Nick pulled a hideous
thing from the inscrutable yellow depths,--a slimy, scaleless
catfish. He came up like a log, and must have weighed
seventy pounds. Xavier and his men and myself made two
good meals of him, but Nick would not touch the meat.

The great river teemed with life. There were flocks
of herons and cranes and water pelicans, and I know not
what other birds, and as we slipped under the banks we
often heard the paroquets chattering in the forests. And
once, as we drifted into an inlet at sunset, we caught sight
of the shaggy head of a bear above the brown water, and
leaping down into the cabin I primed the rifle that stood
there and shot him. It took the seven of us to drag him
on board, and then I cleaned and skinned him as Tom had
taught me, and showed Jean how to put the caul fat
and liver in rows on a skewer and wrap it in the bear's
handkerchief and roast it before the fire. Nick found
no difficulty in eating this--it was a dish fit for any
gourmand.

We passed the great, red Chickasaw Bluff, which sits
facing westward looking over the limitless Louisiana forests,
where new and wondrous vines and flowers grew, and came
to the beautiful Walnut Hills crowned by a Spanish fort.
We did not stop there to exchange courtesies, but pressed
on to the Grand Gulf, the grave of many a keel boat before
and since. This was by far the most dangerous place on
the Mississippi, and Xavier was never weary of recounting
many perilous escapes there, or telling how such and such
a priceless cargo had sunk in the mud by reason of the
lack of skill of particular boatmen he knew of. And
indeed, the Canadian's face assumed a graver mien after the
Walnut Hills were behind us.

``You laugh, Michie,'' he said to Nick, a little
resentfully. ``I who speak to you say that there is four foot on
each side of ze bateau. Too much tafia, a little too much
excite--'' and he made a gesture with his hand expressive
of total destruction; ``ze tornado, I would sooner have
him--''

Bah!'' said Nick, stroking Xavier's black beard, ``give
me the tiller. I will see you through safely, and we will
not spare the tafia either.''  And he began to sing a song
of Xavier's own:--

   `` `Marianson, dame jolie,
       Ou est alle votre mari?' ''

``Ah, toujours les dames!'' said Xavier. ``But I tell
you, Michie, le diable,--he is at ze bottom of ze Grand
Gulf and his mouth open--so.''  And he suited the action
to the word.

At night we tied up under the shore within earshot of
the mutter of the place, and twice that night I awoke with
clinched hands from a dream of being spun fiercely against
the rock of which Xavier had told, and sucked into the
devil's mouth under the water. Dawn came as I was
fighting the mosquitoes,--a still, sultry dawn with thunder
muttering in the distance.

We breakfasted in silence, and with the crew standing
ready at the oars and Xavier scanning the wide expanse
of waters ahead, seeking for that unmarked point whence
to embark on this perilous journey, we floated down the
stream. The prospect was sufficiently disquieting on that
murky day. Below us, on the one hand, a rocky bluff
reached out into the river, and on the far side was a timber-
clad point round which the Mississippi doubled and flowed
back on itself. It needed no trained eye to guess at the
perils of the place. On the one side the mighty current
charged against the bluff and, furious at the obstacle, lashed
itself into a hundred sucks and whirls, their course marked
by the flotsam plundered from the forests above. Woe
betide the boat that got into this devil's caldron! And
on the other side, near the timbered point, ran a counter
current marked by forest wreckage flowing up-stream.
To venture too far on this side was to be grounded or at
least to be sent back to embark once more on the trial.

But where was the channel? We watched Xavier with
bated breath. Not once did he take his eyes from the
swirling water ahead, but gave the tiller a touch from time
to time, now right, now left, and called in a monotone for
the port or starboard oars. Nearer and nearer we sped,
dodging the snags, until the water boiled around us, and
suddenly the boat shot forward as in a mill-race, and we
clutched the cabin's roof. A triumphant gleam was in
Xavier's eyes, for he had hit the channel squarely. And
then, like a monster out of the deep, the scaly, black
back of a great northern pine was flung up beside us and
sheered us across the channel until we were at the very
edge of the foam-specked, spinning water. But Xavier
saw it, and quick as lightning brought his helm over and
laughed as he heard it crunching along our keel. And so
we came swiftly around the bend and into safety once
more. The next day there was the Petite Gulf, which
bothered Xavier very little, and the day after that we
came in sight of Natchez on her heights and guided our
boat in amongst the others that lined the shore, scowled
at by lounging Indians there, and eyed suspiciously by a
hatchet-faced Spaniard in a tawdry uniform who represented
his Majesty's customs. Here we stopped for a day
and a night that Xavier and his crew might get properly
drunk on tafia, while Nick and I walked about the town
and waited until his Excellency, the commandant, had
finished dinner that we might present our letters and
obtain his passport. Natchez at that date was a sufficiently
unkempt and evil place of dirty, ramshackle houses and
gambling dens, where men of the four nations gamed and
quarrelled and fought. We were glad enough to get
away the following morning, Xavier somewhat saddened
by the loss of thirty livres of which he had no memory, and
Nick and myself relieved at having the passports in our
pockets. I have mine yet among my papers.

                 ``Natchez, 29 de Junio, de 1789.

``Concedo libre y seguro paeaporte a Don David Ritchie
para que pase a la Nueva Orleans por Agna. Pido y encargo
no se le ponga embarazo.''

A few days more and we were running between low
shores which seemed to hold a dark enchantment. The
rivers now flowed out of, and not into the Mississippi, and
Xavier called them bayous, and often it took much skill
and foresight on his part not to be shot into the lane they
made in the dark forest of an evening. And the forest,
--it seemed an impenetrable mystery, a strange tangle of
fantastic growths: the live-oak (chene vert), its wide-
spreading limbs hung funereally with Spanish moss and
twined in the mistletoe's death embrace; the dark cypress
swamp with the conelike knees above the yellow back-
waters; and here and there grew the bridelike magnolia
which we had known in Kentucky, wafting its perfume
over the waters, and wondrous flowers and vines and trees
with French names that bring back the scene to me even
now with a whiff of romance, bois d'arc, lilac, grande
volaille (water-lily). Birds flew hither and thither (the
names of every one of which Xavier knew),--the whistling
papabot, the mournful bittern (garde-soleil), and the
night-heron (grosbeck), who stood like a sentinel on the
points.

One night I awoke with the sweat starting from
my brow, trying to collect my senses, and I lay on my
blanket listening to such plaintive and heart-rending
cries as I had never known. Human cries they were,
cries as of children in distress, and I rose to a sitting
posture on the deck with my hair standing up straight, to
discover Nick beside me in the same position.

``God have mercy on us,'' I heard him mutter, ``what's
that? It sounds like the wail of all the babies since the
world began.''

We listened together, and I can give no notion of the
hideous mournfulness of the sound. We lay in a swampy
little inlet, and the forest wall made a dark blur against
the star-studded sky. There was a splash near the boat
that made me clutch my legs, the wails ceased and began
again with redoubled intensity. Nick and I leaped to our
feet and stood staring, horrified, over the gunwale into
the black water. Presently there was a laugh behind us,
and we saw Xavier resting on his elbow.

``What devil-haunted place is this?'' demanded Nick.

``Ha, ha,'' said Xavier, shaking with unseemly mirth,
``you have never heard ze alligator sing, Michie?''

``Alligator!'' cried Nick; ``there are babies in the water,
I tell you.''

``Ha, ha,'' laughed Xavier, flinging off his blanket and
searching for his flint and tinder. He lighted a pine knot,
and in the red pulsing flare we saw what seemed to be a
dozen black logs floating on the surface. And then
Xavier flung the cresset at them, fire and all. There was
a lashing, a frightful howl from one of the logs, and the
night's silence once more.

Often after that our slumbers were disturbed, and we
would rise with maledictions in our mouths to fling the
handiest thing at the serenaders. When we arose in the
morning we would often see them by the dozens, basking
in the shallows, with their wide mouths flapped open waiting
for their prey. Sometimes we ran upon them in the
water, where they looked like the rough-bark pine logs
from the North, and Nick would have a shot at them.
When he hit one fairly there would be a leviathan-like
roar and a churning of the river into suds.

At length there were signs that we were drifting out of
the wilderness, and one morning we came in sight of a
rich plantation with its dark orange trees and fields of
indigo, with its wide-galleried manor-house in a grove.
And as we drifted we heard the negroes chanting at their
work, the plaintive cadence of the strange song adding
to the mystery of the scene. Here in truth was a new
world, a land of peaceful customs, green and moist. The
soft-toned bells of it seemed an expression of its life,--so
far removed from our own striving and fighting existence
in Kentucky. Here and there, between plantations, a
belfry could be seen above the cluster of the little white
village planted in the green; and when we went ashore
amongst these simple French people they treated us with
such gentle civility and kindness that we would fain have
lingered there. The river had become a vast yellow
lake, and often as we drifted of an evening the wail of a
slave dance and monotonous beating of a tom-tom would
float to us over the water.

At last, late one afternoon, we came in sight of that
strange city which had filled our thoughts for many days.

CHAPTER XI

THE STRANGE CITY

Nick and I stood by the mast on the forward part of
the cabin, staring at the distant, low-lying city, while
Xavier sought for the entrance to the eddy which here
runs along the shore. If you did not gain this entrance,
--so he explained,--you were carried by a swift current
below New Orleans and might by no means get back save
by the hiring of a crew. Xavier, however, was not to be
caught thus, and presently we were gliding quietly along
the eastern bank, or levee, which held back the river from
the lowlands. Then, as we looked, the levee became an
esplanade shaded by rows of willows, and through them
we caught sight of the upper galleries and low, curving
roofs of the city itself. There, cried Xavier, was the
Governor's house on the corner, where the great Miro
lived, and beyond it the house of the Intendant; and
then, gliding into an open space between the keel boats
along the bank, stared at by a score of boatmen and idlers
from above, we came to the end of our long journey. No
sooner had we made fast than we were boarded by a
shabby customs officer who, when he had seen our passports,
bowed politely and invited us to land. We leaped
ashore, gained the gravelled walk on the levee, and looked
about us.

Squalidity first met our eyes. Below us, crowded
between the levee and the row of houses, were dozens of
squalid market-stalls tended by cotton-clad negroes. Beyond,
across the bare Place d'Armes, a blackened gap in
the line of houses bore witness to the devastation of the
year gone by, while here and there a roof, struck by the
setting sun, gleamed fiery red with its new tiles. The
levee was deserted save for the negroes and the river
men.

``Time for siesta, Michie,'' said Xavier, joining us; ``I
will show you ze inn of which I spik. She is kep' by my
fren', Madame Bouvet.''

``Xavier,'' said Nick, looking at the rolling flood of the
river, ``suppose this levee should break?''

``Ah,'' said Xavier, ``then some Spaniard who never
have a bath--he feel what water is lak.''

Followed by Benjy with the saddle-bags, we went down
the steps set in the levee into this strange, foreign city.
It was like unto nothing we had ever seen, nor can I give
an adequate notion of how it affected us,--such a mixture
it seemed of dirt and poverty and wealth and romance.
The narrow, muddy streets ran with filth, and on each
side along the houses was a sun-baked walk held up by
the curved sides of broken flatboats, where two men might
scarcely pass. The houses, too, had an odd and foreign
look, some of wood, some of upright logs and plaster, and
newer ones, Spanish in style, of adobe, with curving
roofs of red tiles and strong eaves spreading over the
banquette (as the sidewalk was called), casting shadows
on lemon-colored walls. Since New Orleans was in a
swamp, the older houses for the most part were lifted
some seven feet above the ground, and many of these
houses had wide galleries on the street side. Here and
there a shop was set in the wall; a watchmaker was to be
seen poring over his work at a tiny window, a shoemaker
cross-legged on the floor. Again, at an open wicket, we
caught a glimpse through a cool archway into a flowering
court-yard. Stalwart negresses with bright kerchiefs
made way for us on the banquette. Hands on hips, they
swung along erect, with baskets of cakes and sweetmeats
on their heads, musically crying their wares.

At length, turning a corner, we came to a white wooden
house on the Rue Royale, with a flight of steps leading up
to the entrance. In place of a door a flimsy curtain
hung in the doorway, and, pushing this aside, we followed
Xavier through a darkened hall to a wide gallery that
overlooked a court-yard. This court-yard was shaded by
several great trees which grew there, the house and
gallery ran down one other side of it; and the two remaining
sides were made up of a series of low cabins, these
forming the various outhouses and the kitchen. At the
far end of this gallery a sallow, buxom lady sat sewing at
a table, and Xavier saluted her very respectfully.

``Madame,'' he said, ``I have brought you from St. Louis
with Michie Gratiot's compliments two young American
gentlemen, who are travelling to amuse themselves.''

The lady rose and beamed upon us.

``From Monsieur Gratiot,'' she said; ``you are very
welcome, gentlemen, to such poor accommodations as I
have. It is not unusual to have American gentlemen in
New Orleans, for many come here first and last. And I
am happy to say that two of my best rooms are vacant.
Zoey!''

There was a shrill answer from the court below, and a
negro girl in a yellow turban came running up, while
Madame Bouvet bustled along the gallery and opened the
doors of two darkened rooms. Within I could dimly see
a walnut dresser, a chair, and a walnut bed on which was
spread a mosquito bar.

``Voila!, Messieurs,'' cried Madame Bouvet, ``there is
still a little time for a siesta. No siesta!'' cried Madame,
eying us aghast; ``ah, the Americans they never rest--
never.''

We bade farewell to the good Xavier, promising to see
him soon; and Nick, shouting to Benjy to open the saddle-
bags, proceeded to array himself in the clothes which had
made so much havoc at St. Louis. I boded no good from
this proceeding, but I reflected, as I watched him dress,
that I might as well try to turn the Mississippi from its
course as to attempt to keep my cousin from the search
for gallant adventure. And I reflected that his indulgence
in pleasure-seeking would serve the more to divert
any suspicions which might fall upon my own head. At
last, when the setting sun was flooding the court-yard, he
stood arrayed upon the gallery, ready to venture forth to
conquest.

Madame Bouvet's tavern, or hotel, or whatever she was
pleased to call it, was not immaculately clean. Before
passing into the street we stood for a moment looking
into the public room on the left of the hallway, a long
saloon, evidently used in the early afternoon for a dining
room, and at the back of it a wide, many-paned
window, capped by a Spanish arch, looked out on the
gallery. Near this window was a gay party of young men
engaged at cards, waited on by the yellow-turbaned Zoey,
and drinking what evidently was claret punch. The sounds
of their jests and laughter pursued us out of the house.

The town was waking from its siesta, the streets filling,
and people stopped to stare at Nick as we passed. But
Nick, who was plainly in search of something he did
not find, hurried on. We soon came to the quarter
which had suffered most from the fire, where new houses
had gone up or were in the building beside the blackened
logs of many of Bienville's time. Then we came to a
high white wall that surrounded a large garden, and within
it was a long, massive building of some beauty and
pretension, with a high, latticed belfry and heavy walls and
with arched dormers in the sloping roof. As we stood
staring at it through the iron grille set in the archway
of the lodge, Nick declared that it put him in mind of
some of the chateaux he had seen in France, and he
crossed the street to get a better view of the premises.
An old man in coarse blue linen came out of the lodge
and spoke to me.

``It is the convent of the good nuns, the Ursulines,
Monsieur, he said in French, ``and it was built long ago
in the Sieur de Bienville's time, when the colony was
young. For forty-five years, Monsieur, the young ladies
of the city have come here to be educated.''

``What does he say?'' demanded Nick, pricking up his
ears as he came across the street.

``That young men have been sent to the mines of
Brazil for climbing the walls,'' I answered.

``Who wants to climb the walls?'' said Nick, disgusted.

``The young ladies of the town go to school here,'' I
answered; ``it is a convent.''

``It might serve to pass the time,'' said Nick, gazing
with a new interest at the latticed windows. ``How much
would you take, my friend, to let us in at the back way
this evening?'' he demanded of the porter in French.

The good man gasped, lifted his hands in horror, and
straightway let loose upon Nick a torrent of French
invectives that had not the least effect except to cause a
blacksmith's apprentice and two negroes to stop and stare
at us.

``Pooh!'' exclaimed Nick, when the man had paused
for want of breath, ``it is no trick to get over that wall.''

``Bon Dieu!'' cried the porter, ``you are Kentuckians,
yes? I might have known that you were Kentuckians,
and I shall advise the good sisters to put glass on the wall
and keep a watch.''

``The young ladies are beautiful, you say?'' said Nick.

At this juncture, with the negroes grinning and the
porter near bursting with rage, there came out of the lodge
the fattest woman I have ever seen for her size. She
seized her husband by the back of his loose frock and
pulled him away, crying out that he was losing time by
talking to vagabonds, besides disturbing the good sisters.
Then we went away, Nick following the convent wall
down to the river. Turning southward under the bank
past the huddle of market-stalls, we came suddenly upon
a sight that made us pause and wonder.

New Orleans was awake. A gay and laughing throng
paced the esplanade on the levee under the willows, with
here and there a cavalier on horseback on the Royal Road
below. Across the Place d'Armes the spire of the parish
church stood against the fading sky, and to the westward
the mighty river stretched away like a gilded floor. It
was a strange throng. There were grave Spaniards in
long cloaks and feathered beavers; jolly merchants and
artisans in short linen jackets, each with his tabatiere, the
wives with bits of finery, the children laughing and
shouting and dodging in and out between fathers and mothers
beaming with quiet pride and contentment; swarthy boat-
men with their worsted belts, gaudy negresses chanting
in the soft patois, and here and there a blanketed Indian.
Nor was this all. Some occasion (so Madame Bouvet
had told us) had brought a sprinkling of fashion to
town that day, and it was a fashion to astonish me.
There were fine gentlemen with swords and silk waistcoats
and silver shoe-buckles, and ladies in filmy summer
gowns. Greuze ruled the mode in France then, but New
Orleans had not got beyond Watteau. As for Nick and
me, we knew nothing of Greuze and Watteau then, and we
could only stare in astonishment. And for once we saw
an officer of the Louisiana Regiment resplendent in a
uniform that might have served at court.

Ay, and there was yet another sort. Every flatboatman
who returned to Kentucky was full of tales of the
marvellous beauty of the quadroons and octoroons, stories
which I had taken with a grain of salt; but they had not
indeed been greatly overdrawn. For here were these
ladies in the flesh, their great, opaque, almond eyes
consuming us with a swift glance, and each walking with a
languid grace beside her duenna. Their faces were like
old ivory, their dress the stern Miro himself could scarce
repress. In former times they had been lavish in their
finery, and even now earrings still gleamed and color
broke out irrepressibly.

Nick was delighted, but he had not dragged me twice
the length of the esplanade ere his eye was caught by a
young lady in pink who sauntered between an elderly
gentleman in black silk and a young man more gayly
dressed.

``Egad,'' said Nick, ``there is my divinity, and I need
not look a step farther.''

I laughed.

``You have but to choose, I suppose, and all falls your
way,'' I answered.

``But look!'' he cried, halting me to stare after the
girl, ``what a face, and what a form! And what a carriage,
by Jove! There is breeding for you! And Davy, did
you mark the gentle, rounded arm? Thank heaven these
short sleeves are the fashion.''

``You are mad, Nick,'' I answered, pulling him on,
``these people are not to be stared at so. And once I
present our letters to Monsieur de Saint-Gre, it will not
be difficult to know any of them.''

``Look!'' said he, ``that young man, lover or husband,
is a brute. On my soul, they are quarrelling.''

The three had stopped by a bench under a tree. The
young man, who wore claret silk and a sword, had one
of those thin faces of dirty complexion which show the
ravages of dissipation, and he was talking with a rapidity
and vehemence of which only a Latin tongue will admit.
We could see, likewise, that the girl was answering with
spirit,--indeed, I should write a stronger word than
spirit,--while the elderly gentleman, who had a good-
humored, fleshy face and figure, was plainly doing his best
to calm them both. People who were passing stared curiously
at the three.

``Your divinity evidently has a temper, ``I remarked.

``For that scoundel--certainly,'' said Nick; ``but come,
they are moving on.''

``You mean to follow them?'' I exclaimed.

``Why not?'' said he. ``We will find out where they
live and who they are, at least.''

``And you have taken a fancy to this girl?''

``I have looked them all over, and she's by far the best
I've seen. I can say so much honestly.''

``But she may be married,'' I said weakly.

``Tut, Davy,'' he answered, ``it's more than likely, from
the violence of their quarrel. But if so, we will try again.''

``We!'' I exclaimed.

``Oh, come on!'' he cried, dragging me by the sleeve,
``or we shall lose them.''

I resisted no longer, but followed him down the levee,
in my heart thanking heaven that he had not taken a
fancy to an octoroon. Twilight had set in strongly, the
gay crowd was beginning to disperse, and in the distance
the three figures could be seen making their way across
the Place d'Armes, the girl hanging on the elderly
gentleman's arm, and the young man following with seeming
sullenness behind. They turned into one of the narrower
streets, and we quickened our steps. Lights
gleamed in the houses; voices and laughter, and once the
tinkle of a guitar, came to us from court-yard and gallery.
But Nick, hurrying on, came near to bowling more than
one respectable citizen we met on the banquette, into the
ditch. We reached a corner, and the three were nowhere
to be seen.

``Curse the luck!'' cried Nick, ``we have lost them.
The next time I'll stop for no explanations.''

There was no particular reason why I should have been
penitent, but I ventured to say that the house they had
entered could not be far off.

``And how the devil are we to know it?'' demanded
Nick.

This puzzled me for a moment, but presently I began
to think that the two might begin quarrelling again, and
said so. Nick laughed and put his arm around my neck.

``You have no mean ability for intrigue when you put
your mind to it, Davy,'' he said; ``I vow I believe you are
in love with the girl yourself.''

I disclaimed this with some vehemence. Indeed, I had
scarcely seen her.

``They can't be far off,'' said Nick; ``we'll pitch on a
likely house and camp in front of it until bedtime.''

``And be flung into a filthy calaboose by a constable,''
said I. ``No, thank you.''

We walked on, and halfway down the block we came
upon a new house with more pretensions than its neighbors.
It was set back a little from the street, and there
was a high adobe wall into which a pair of gates were
set, and a wicket opening in one of them. Over the wall
hung a dark fringe of magnolia and orange boughs. On
each of the gate-posts a crouching lion was outlined dimly
against the fainting light, and, by crossing the street, we
could see the upper line of a latticed gallery under the
low roof. We took our stand within the empty doorway
of a blackened house, nearly opposite, and there we waited,
Nick murmuring all sorts of ridiculous things in my ear.
But presently I began to reflect upon the consequences of
being taken in such a situation by a constable and dragged
into the light of a public examination. I put this to Nick
as plainly as I could, and was declaring my intention of
going back to Madame Bouvet's, when the sound of voices
arrested me. The voices came from the latticed gallery,
and they were low at first, but soon rose to such an angry
pitch that I made no doubt we had hit on the right house
after all. What they said was lost to us, but I could
distinguish the woman's voice, low-pitched and vibrant as
though insisting upon a refusal, and the man's scarce adult
tones, now high as though with balked passion, now shaken
and imploring. I was for leaving the place at once, but
Nick clutched my arm tightly; and suddenly, as I stood
undecided, the voices ceased entirely, there were the sounds
of a scuffle, and the lattice of the gallery was flung open.
In the all but darkness we saw a figure climb over the
railing, hang suspended for an instant, and drop lightly to the
ground. Then came the light relief of a woman's gown
in the opening of the lattice, the cry ``Auguste, Auguste!''
the wicket in the gate opened and slammed, and
a man ran at top speed along the banquette towards the
levee.

Instinctively I seized Nick by the arm as he started out
of the doorway.

``Let me go,'' he cried angrily, ``let me go, Davy.''

But I held on.

``Are you mad?'' I said.

He did not answer, but twisted and struggled, and
before I knew what he was doing he had pushed me off
the stone step into a tangle of blackened beams behind.
I dropped his arm to save myself, and it was mere good
fortune that I did not break an ankle in the fall. When I
had gained the step again he was gone after the man, and
a portly citizen stood in front of me, looking into the doorway.

``Qu'est-ce-qu'il-y-a la dedans?'' he demanded sharply.

It was a sufficiently embarrassing situation. I put on
a bold front, however, and not deigning to answer, pushed
past him and walked with as much leisure as possible
along the banquette in the direction which Nick had
taken. As I turned the corner I glanced over my shoulder,
and in the darkness I could just make out the man
standing where I had left him. In great uneasiness I
pursued my way, my imagination summing up for Nick
all kinds of adventures with disagreeable consequences.
I walked for some time--it may have been half an hour
--aimlessly, and finally decided it would be best to go
back to Madame Bouvet's and await the issue with as
much calmness as possible. He might not, after all, have
caught the fellow.

There were few people in the dark streets, but at length
I met a man who gave me directions, and presently found
my way back to my lodging place. Talk and laughter
floated through the latticed windows into the street, and
when I had pushed back the curtain and looked into the
saloon I found the same gaming party at the end of it,
sitting in their shirt-sleeves amidst the moths and insects
that hovered around the candles.

``Ah, Monsieur,'' said Madame Bouvet's voice behind
me, ``you must excuse them. They will come here and
play, the young gentlemen, and I cannot find it in my
heart to drive them away, though sometimes I lose a
respectable lodger by their noise. But, after all, what would
you?'' she added with a shrug; ``I love them, the young
men. But, Monsieur,'' she cried, ``you have had no
supper! And where is Monsieur your companion?
Comme il est beau garcon!''

``He will be in presently,'' I answered with
unwarranted assumption.

Madame shot at me the swiftest of glances and laughed,
and I suspected that she divined Nick's propensity for
adventure. However, she said nothing more than to bid
me sit down at the table, and presently Zoey came in with
lights and strange, highly seasoned dishes, which I ate
with avidity, notwithstanding my uneasiness of mind,
watching the while the party at the far end of the room.
There were five young gentlemen playing a game I
knew not, with intervals of intense silence, and boisterous
laughter and execrations while the cards were being
shuffled and the money rang on the board and glasses were
being filled from a stand at one side. Presently Madame
Bouvet returned, and placing before me a cup of wondrous
coffee, advanced down the room towards them.

``Ah, Messieurs,'' she cried, ``you will ruin my poor
house.''

The five rose and bowed with marked profundity.
One of them, with a puffy, weak, good-natured face,
answered her briskly, and after a little raillery she came
back to me. I had a question not over discreet on my
tongue's tip.

``There are some fine residences going up here, Madame,''
I said.

``Since the fire, Monsieur, the dreadful fire of Good
Friday a year ago. You admire them?''

``I saw one,'' I answered with indifference, ``with a
wall and lions on the gate-posts--''

``Mon Dieu, that is a house,'' exclaimed Madame; ``it
belongs to Monsieur de Saint-Gre.''

``To Monsieur de Saint-Gre!'' I repeated.

She shot a look at me. She had bright little eyes like
a bird's, that shone in the candlelight.

``You know him, Monsieur?''

``I heard of him in St. Louis,'' I answered.

``You will meet him, no doubt,'' she continued. ``He
is a very fine gentleman. His grandfather was Commissary-
general of the colony, and he himself is a cousin of
the Marquis de Saint-Gre, who has two chateaux, a house
in Paris, and is a favorite of the King.''  She paused, as
if to let this impress itself upon me, and added archly,
``Tenez, Monsieur, there is a daughter--''

She stopped abruptly.

I followed her glance, and my first impression--of
claret-color--gave me a shock. My second confirmed
it, for in the semi-darkness beyond the rays of the candle
was a thin, eager face, prematurely lined, with coal-black,
lustrous eyes that spoke eloquently of indulgence. In an
instant I knew it to be that of the young man whom I
had seen on the levee.

``Monsieur Auguste?'' stammered Madame.

``Bon soir, Madame,'' he cried gayly, with a bow;
``diable, they are already at it, I see, and the punch in
the bowl. I will win back to-night what I have lost by
a week of accursed luck.''

``Monsieur your father has relented, perhaps,'' said
Madame, deferentially.

``Relented!'' cried the young man, ``not a sou. C'est
egal! I have the means here,'' and he tapped his pocket,
``I have the means here to set me on my feet again,
Madame.''

He spoke with a note of triumph, and Madame took a
curious step towards him.

``Qu'est-ce-que c'est, Monsieur Auguste?'' she inquired.

He drew something that glittered from his pocket and
beckoned to her to follow him down the room, which
she did with alacrity.

``Ha, Adolphe,'' he cried to the young man of the puffy
face, ``I will have my revenge to-night. Voila!!'' and
he held up the shining thing, ``this goes to the highest
bidder, and you will agree that it is worth a pretty
sum.''

They rose from their chairs and clustered around him
at the table, Madame in their midst, staring with bent
heads at the trinket which he held to the light. It
was Madame's voice I heard first, in a kind of frightened
cry.

``Mon Dieu, Monsieur Auguste, you will not part with
that!'' she exclaimed.

``Why not?'' demanded the young man, indifferently.
``It was painted by Boze, the back is solid gold, and the
Jew in the Rue Toulouse will give me four hundred livres
for it to-morrow morning.''

There followed immediately such a chorus of questions,
exclamations, and shrill protests from Madame Bouvet,
that I (being such a laborious French scholar) could
distinguish but little of what they said. I looked in
wonderment at the gesticulating figures grouped against the
light, Madame imploring, the youthful profile of the
newcomer marked with a cynical and scornful refusal. More
than once I was for rising out of my chair to go over and
see for myself what the object was, and then, suddenly, I
perceived Madame Bouvet coming towards me in evident
agitation. She sank into the chair beside me.

``If I had four hundred livres,'' she said, ``if I had four
hundred livres!''

``And what then?'' I asked.

``Monsieur,'' she said, ``a terrible thing has happened.
Auguste de Saint-Gre--''

``Auguste de Saint-Gre!'' I exclaimed.

``He is the son of that Monsieur de Saint-Gre of whom
we spoke,'' she answered, ``a wild lad, a spendthrift, a
gambler, if you like. And yet he is a Saint-Gre, Monsieur,
and I cannot refuse him. It is the miniature of Mademoiselle
Helene de Saint-Gre, the daughter of the Marquis,
sent to Mamselle 'Toinette, his sister, from France. How
he has obtained it I know not.''

``Ah!'' I exclaimed sharply, the explanation of the
scene of which I had been a witness coming to me swiftly.
The rascal had wrenched it from her in the gallery and
fled.

``Monsieur,'' continued Madame, too excited to notice
my interruption, ``if I had four hundred livres I would
buy it of him, and Monsieur de Saint-Gre pere would
willingly pay it back in the morning.''

I reflected. I had a letter in my pocket to Monsieur de
Saint-Gre, the sum was not large, and the act of Monsieur
Auguste de Saint-Gre in every light was detestable. A
rising anger decided me, and I took a wallet from my
pocket.

``I will buy the miniature, Madame,'' I said.

She looked at me in astonishment.

``God bless you, Monsieur,'' she cried; ``if you could see
Mamselle 'Toinette you would pay twice the sum. The
whole town loves her. Monsieur Auguste, Monsieur
Auguste!'' she shouted, ``here is a gentleman who will
buy your miniature.''

The six young men stopped talking and stared at me
With one accord. Madame arose, and I followed her
down the room towards them, and, had it not been for
my indignation, I should have felt sufficiently ridiculous.
Young Monsieur de Saint-Gre came forward with the
good-natured, easy insolence to which he had been born,
and looked me over.

``Monsieur is an American,'' he said.

``I understand that you have offered this miniature for
four hundred livres,'' I said.

``It is the Jew's price,'' he answered; ``mais pardieu,
what will you?'' he added with a shrug, ``I must have
the money. Regardez, Monsieur, you have a bargain.
Here is Mademoiselle Helene de Saint-Gre, daughter of
my lord the Marquis of whom I have the honor to be a
cousin,'' and he made a bow. ``It is by the famous court
painter, Joseph Boze, and Mademoiselle de Saint-Gre
herself is a favorite of her Majesty.''  He held the
portrait close to the candle and regarded it critically.
``Mademoiselle Helene Victoire Marie de Saint-Gre, painted
in a costume of Henry the Second's time, with a ruff, you
notice, which she wore at a ball given by his Highness
the Prince of Conde at Chantilly. A trifle haughty, if
you like, Monsieur, but I venture to say you will be
hopelessly in love with her within the hour.''

At this there was a general titter from the young
gentlemen at the table.

``All of which is neither here nor there, Monsieur,'' I
answered sharply. ``The question is purely a commercial
one, and has nothing to do with the lady's character or
position.''

``It is well said, Monsieur,'' Madame Bouvet put in.

Monsieur Auguste de Saint-Gre shrugged his slim
shoulders and laid down the portrait on the walnut
table.

``Four hundred livres, Monsieur,'' he said.

I counted out the money, scrutinized by the curious
eyes of his companions, and pushed it over to him. He
bowed carelessly, sat him down, and began to shuffle the
cards, while I picked up the miniature and walked out of
the room. Before I had gone twenty paces I heard them
laughing at their game and shouting out the stakes.
Suddenly I bethought myself of Nick. What if he should
come in and discover the party at the table? I stopped
short in the hallway, and there Madame Bouvet overtook
me.

``How can I thank you, Monsieur?'' she said. And
then, ``You will return the portrait to Monsieur de
Saint-Gre?''

``I have a letter from Monsieur Gratiot to that gentleman,
which I shall deliver in the morning,'' I answered.
``And now, Madame, I have a favor to ask of you.''

``I am at Monsieur's service,'' she answered simply.

``When Mr. Temple comes in, he is not to go into that
room,'' I said, pointing to the door of the saloon; ``I have
my reasons for requesting it.''

For answer Madame went to the door, closed it, and
turned the key. Then she sat down beside a little table
with a candlestick and took up her knitting.

``It will be as Monsieur says,'' she answered.

I smiled.

``And when Mr. Temple comes in will you kindly say
that I am waiting for him in his room?'' I asked.

``As Monsieur says,'' she answered. ``I wish Monsieur
a good-night and pleasant dreams.''

She took a candlestick from the table, lighted the candle,
and handed it me with a courtesy. I bowed, and made
my way along the gallery above the deserted court-yard.
Entering my room and closing the door after me, I drew
the miniature from my pocket and stood gazing at it for I
know not how long.

CHAPTER XII

LES ILES

I stood staring at the portrait, I say, with a kind of
fascination that astonished me, seeing that it had come to
me in such a way. It was no French face of my imagination,
and as I looked it seemed to me that I knew Mademoiselle
Helene de Saint-Gre. And yet I smile as I write
this, realizing full well that my strange and foreign
surroundings and my unforeseen adventure had much to do
with my state of mind. The lady in the miniature might
have been eighteen, or thirty-five. Her features were of
the clearest cut, the nose the least trifle aquiline, and by
a blurred outline the painter had given to the black hair
piled high upon the head a suggestion of waviness. The
eyebrows were straight, the brown eyes looked at the world
with an almost scornful sense of humor, and I marked that
there was determination in the chin. Here was a face that
could be infinitely haughty or infinitely tender, a mouth
of witty--nay, perhaps cutting--repartee of brevity and
force. A lady who spoke quickly, moved quickly, or
reposed absolutely. A person who commanded by nature
and yet (dare I venture the thought?) was capable of a
supreme surrender. I was aroused from this odd revery
by footsteps on the gallery, and Nick burst into the room.
Without pausing to look about him, he flung himself
lengthwise on the bed on top of the mosquito bar.

``A thousand curses on such a place,'' he cried; ``it is
full of rat holes and rabbit warrens.''

``Did you catch your man?'' I asked innocently.

``Catch him!'' said Nick, with a little excusable
profanity; ``he went in at one end of such a warren and came
out at another. I waited for him in two streets until an
officious person chanced along and threatened to take me
before the Alcalde. What the devil is that you have got
in your hand, Davy?'' he demanded, raising his head.

``A miniature that took my fancy, and which I bought.''

He rose from the bed, yawned, and taking it in his hand,
held it to the light. I watched him curiously.

``Lord,'' he said, ``it is such a passion as I might have
suspected of you, Davy.''

``There was nothing said about passion,'' I answered

``Then why the deuce did you buy it?'' he said with
some pertinence.

This staggered me.

``A man may fancy a thing, without indulging in a
passion, I suppose,'' I replied.

Nick held the picture at arm's length in the palm of his
hand and regarded it critically.

``Faith,'' said he, ``you may thank heaven it is only a
picture. If such a one ever got hold of you, Davy, she
would general you even as you general me. Egad,'' he
added with a laugh, ``there would be no more walking
the streets at night in search of adventure for you. Consider
carefully the masterful features of that lady and
thank God you haven't got her.''

I was inclined to be angry, but ended by laughing.

``There will be no rivalry between us, at least,'' I said.

``Rivalry!'' exclaimed Nick. ``Heaven forbid that I
should aspire to such abject slavery. When I marry, it
will be to command.''

``All the more honor in such a conquest,'' I suggested.

``Davy,'' said he, ``I have long been looking for some
such flaw in your insuperable wisdom. But I vow I can
keep my eyes open no longer. Benjy!

A smothered response came from the other side of the
wall, and Benjy duly appeared in the doorway, blinking
at the candlelight, to put his master to bed.

We slept that night with no bed covering save the
mosquito bar, as was the custom in New Orleans. Indeed, the
heat was most oppressive, but we had become to some
extent inured to it on the boat, and we were both in such
sound health that our slumbers were not disturbed. Early
in the morning, however, I was awakened by a negro song
from the court-yard, and I lay pleasantly for some minutes
listening to the early sounds, breathing in the aroma of
coffee which mingled with the odor of the flowers of the
court, until Zoey herself appeared in the doorway, holding
a cup in her hand. I arose, and taking the miniature from
the table, gazed at it in the yellow morning light; and
then, having dressed myself, I put it carefully in my
pocket and sat down at my portfolio to compose a letter
to Polly Ann, knowing that a description of what I had
seen in New Orleans would amuse her. This done, I went
out into the gallery, where Madame was already seated at
her knitting, in the shade of the great tree that stood in
the corner of the court and spread its branches over the
eaves. She arose and courtesied, with a questioning smile.

``Madame,'' I asked, ``is it too early to present myself
to Monsieur de Saint-Gre?''

``Pardieu, no, Monsieur, we are early risers in the South
for we have our siesta. You are going to return the portrait,
Monsieur?''

I nodded.

``God bless you for the deed,'' said she. ``Tenez,
Monsieur,'' she added, stepping closer to me, ``you will tell his
father that you bought it from Monsieur Auguste?''

I saw that she had a soft spot in her heart for the rogue.

``I will make no promises, Madame,'' I answered.

She looked at me timidly, appealingly, but I bowed
and departed. The sun was riding up into the sky, the
walls already glowing with his heat, and a midsummer
languor seemed to pervade the streets as I walked along.
The shadows now were sharply defined, the checkered
foliage of the trees was flung in black against the yellow-
white wall of the house with the lions, and the green-
latticed gallery which we had watched the night before
seemed silent and deserted. I knocked at the gate, and
presently a bright-turbaned gardienne opened it.

Was Monsieur de Saint-Gre at home. The gardienne
looked me over, and evidently finding me respectable,
replied with many protestations of sorrow that he was not,
that he had gone with Mamselle very early that morning
to his country place at Les Iles. This information I
extracted with difficulty, for I was not by any means versed
in the negro patois.

As I walked back to Madame Bouvet's I made up my
mind that there was but the one thing to do, to go at once
to Monsieur de Saint-Gre's plantation. Finding Madame
still waiting in the gallery, I asked her to direct me thither.

``You have but to follow the road that runs southward
along the levee, and some three leagues will bring you to it,
Monsieur. You will inquire for Monsieur de Saint-Gre.''

``Can you direct me to Mr. Daniel Clark's?'' I asked.

``The American merchant and banker, the friend and
associate of the great General Wilkinson whom you sent
down to us last year? Certainly, Monsieur. He will no
doubt give you better advice than I on this matter.''

I found Mr. Clark in his counting-room, and I had not
talked with him five minutes before I began to suspect
that, if a treasonable understanding existed between
Wilkinson and the Spanish government, Mr. Clark was
innocent of it. He being the only prominent American in the
place, it was natural that Wilkinson should have formed
with him a business arrangement to care for the cargoes
he sent down. Indeed, after we had sat for some time
chatting together, Mr. Clark began himself to make
guarded inquiries on this very subject. Did I know
Wilkinson? How was his enterprise of selling Kentucky
products regarded at home? But I do not intend to burden
this story with accounts of a matter which, though it
has never been wholly clear, has been long since fairly
settled in the public mind. Mr. Clark was most amiable,
accepted my statement that I was travelling for pleasure,
and honored Monsieur Chouteau's bon (for my purchase
of the miniature had deprived me of nearly all my ready
money), and said that Mr. Temple and I would need
horses to get to Les Iles.

``And unless you purpose going back to Kentucky by
keel boat, or round by sea to Philadelphia or New York,
and cross the mountains,'' he said, ``you will need good
horses for your journey through Natchez and the Cumberland
country. There is a consignment of Spanish horses
from the westward just arrived in town,'' he added, ``and
I shall be pleased to go with you to the place where they
are sold. I shall not presume to advise a Kentuckian on
such a purchase.''

The horses were crowded together under a dirty shed
near the levee, and the vessel from which they had been
landed rode at anchor in the river. They were the scrawny,
tough ponies of the plains, reasonably cheap, and it took no
great discernment on my part to choose three of the strongest
and most intelligent looking. We went next to a saddler's,
where I selected three saddles and bridles of Spanish
workmanship, and Mr. Clark agreed to have two of his
servants meet us with the horses before Madame Bouvet's
within the hour. He begged that we would dine with him
when we returned from Les Iles.

``You will not find an island, Mr. Ritchie,'' he said;
``Saint-Gre's plantation is a huge block of land between
the river and a cypress swamp behind. Saint-Gre is a
man with a wonderful quality of mind, who might, like his
ancestors, have made his mark if necessity had probed him
or opportunity offered. He never forgave the Spanish
government for the murder of his father, nor do I blame
him. He has his troubles. His son is an incurable rake
and degenerate, as you may have heard.''

I went back to Madame Bouvet's, to find Nick emerging
from his toilet.

``What deviltry have you been up to, Davy?'' he
demanded.

``I have been to the House of the Lions to see your
divinity,'' I answered, ``and in a very little while horses
will be here to carry us to her.''

``What do you mean?'' he asked, grasping me by
both shoulders.

``I mean that we are going to her father's plantation,
some way down the river.''

``On my honor, Davy, I did not suspect you of so much
enterprise,'' he cried. ``And her husband--?''

``Does not exist,'' I replied. ``Perhaps, after all, I
might be able to give you instruction in the conduct of
an adventure. The man you chased with such futility
was her brother, and he stole from her the miniature of
which I am now the fortunate possessor.

He stared at me for a moment in rueful amazement.

``And her name?'' he demanded.

``Antoinette de Saint-Gre,'' I answered; ``our letter is
to her father.''

He made me a rueful bow.

``I fear that I have undervalued you, Mr. Ritchie,'' he
said. ``You have no peer. I am unworthy to accompany
you, and furthermore, it would be useless.''

``And why useless!'' I inquired, laughing.

``You have doubtless seen the lady, and she is yours,
said he.

``You forget that I am in love with a miniature,'' I
said.

In half an hour we were packed and ready, the horses
had arrived, we bade good-by to Madame Bouvet and
rode down the miry street until we reached the road
behind the levee. Turning southward, we soon left
behind the shaded esplanade and the city's roofs below
us, and came to the first of the plantation houses set back
amidst the dark foliage. No tremor shook the fringe
of moss that hung from the heavy boughs, so still was
the day, and an indefinable, milky haze stretched between
us and the cloudless sky above. The sun's rays pierced
it and gathered fire; the mighty-river beside us rolled
listless and sullen, flinging back the heat defiantly. And
on our left was a tropical forest in all its bewildering
luxuriance, the live-oak, the hackberry, the myrtle, the
Spanish bayonet in bristling groups, and the shaded places
gave out a scented moisture like an orangery; anon we
passed fields of corn and cotton, swamps of rice, stretches
of poverty-stricken indigo plants, gnawed to the stem by
the pest. Our ponies ambled on, unmindful; but Nick
vowed that no woman under heaven would induce him to
undertake such a journey again.

Some three miles out of the city we descried two
figures on horseback coming towards us, and quickly
perceived that one was a gentleman, the other his black
servant. They were riding at a more rapid pace than
the day warranted, but the gentleman reined in his
sweating horse as he drew near to us, eyed us with a
curiosity tempered by courtesy, bowed gravely, and put
his horse to a canter again.

``Phew!'' said Nick, twisting in his saddle, ``I thought
that all Creoles were lazy.''

``We have met the exception, perhaps,'' I answered.
``Did you take in that man?''

``His looks were a little remarkable, come to think
of it,'' answered Nick, settling down into his saddle
again.

Indeed, the man's face had struck me so forcibly that I
was surprised out of an inquiry which I had meant to
make of him, namely, how far we were from the Saint-Gre
plantation. We pursued our way slowly, from time to
time catching a glimpse of a dwelling almost hid in the
distant foliage, until at length we came to a place a little
more pretentious than those which we had seen. From
the road a graceful flight of wooden steps climbed the
levee and descended on the far side to a boat landing, and
a straight vista cut through the grove, lined by wild
orange trees, disclosed the white pillars and galleries of a
far-away plantation house. The grassy path leading
through the vista was trimly kept, and on either side of
it in the moist, green shade of the great trees flowers
bloomed in a profusion of startling colors,--in splotches
of scarlet and white and royal purple.

Nick slipped from his horse.

``Behold the mansion of Mademoiselle de Saint-Gre,''
said he, waving his hand up the vista.

``How do you know?'' I asked.

``I am told by a part of me that never lies, Davy,'' he
answered, laying his hand upon his heart; ``and besides,''
he added, ``I should dislike devilishly to go too far on
such a day and have to come back again.''

``We will rest here,'' I said, laughing, ``and send in
Benjy to find out.''

``Davy,'' he answered, with withering contempt, ``you
have no more romance in you than a turnip. We will go
ourselves and see what befalls.''

``Very well, then,'' I answered, falling in with his
humor, ``we will go ourselves.''

He brushed his face with his handkerchief, gave
himself a pull here and a pat there, and led the way down the
alley. But we had not gone far before he turned into a
path that entered the grove on the right, and to this
likewise I made no protest. We soon found ourselves in a
heavenly spot,--sheltered from the sun's rays by a dense
verdure,--and no one who has not visited these Southern
country places can know the teeming fragrance there.
One shrub (how well I recall it!) was like unto the perfume
of all the flowers and all the fruits, the very essence
of the delicious languor of the place that made our steps
to falter. A bird shot a bright flame of color through the
checkered light ahead of us. Suddenly a sound brought
us to a halt, and we stood in a tense and wondering
silence. The words of a song, sung carelessly in a clear,
girlish voice, came to us from beyond.

``Je voudrais bien me marier,
   Je voudrais bien me marier,
   Mais j'ai qrand' peur de me tromper:
   Mais j'ai grand' peur de me tromper:
        Ils sont si malhonnetes!
        Ma luron, ma lurette,
        Ils sont si malhonnetes!
        Ma luron, ma lure.''

``We have come at the very zenith of opportunity,'' I
whispered.

``Hush!'' he said.

``Je ne veux pas d'un avocat,
   Je ne veux pas d'un avocat,
   Car ils aiment trop les ducats,
   Car ils aiment trop les ducats,
        Ils trompent les fillettes,
        Ma luron, ma lurette,
        Ils trompent les fillettes,
        Ma luron, ma lure.''

``Eliminating Mr. Ritchie, I believe,'' said Nick,
turning on me with a grimace. ``But hark again!''

``Je voudrais bien d'un officier:
   Je voudrais bien d'un officier:
   Je marcherais a pas carres,
   Je marcherais a pas carres,
        Dans ma joli' chambrette,
        Ma luron, ma lurette
        Dans ma joli' chambrette,
        Ma luron, ma lure.''

The song ceased with a sound that was half laughter,
half sigh. Before I realized what he was doing, Nick,
instead of retracing his steps towards the house, started
forward. The path led through a dense thicket which
became a casino hedge, and suddenly I found myself peering
over his shoulder into a little garden bewildering in color.
In the centre of the garden a great live-oak spread its
sheltering branches. Around the gnarled trunk was a
seat. And on the seat,--her sewing fallen into her lap,
her lips parted, her eyes staring wide, sat the young lady
whom we had seen on the levee the evening before. And
Nick was making a bow in his grandest manner.

``Helas, Mademoiselle,'' he said, ``je ne suis pas
officier, mais on peut arranger tout cela, sans doute.''

My breath was taken away by this unheard-of audacity,
and I braced myself against screams, flight, and other
feminine demonstrations of terror. The young lady did
nothing of the kind. She turned her back to us, leaned
against the tree, and to my astonishment I saw her slim
shoulders shaken with laughter. At length, very slowly,
she looked around, and in her face struggled curiosity
and fear and merriment. Nick made another bow, worthy
of Versailles, and she gave a frightened little laugh.

``You are English, Messieurs--yes?'' she ventured.

``We were once!'' cried Nick, ``but we have changed,
Mademoiselle.''

``Et quoi donc?'' relapsing into her own language.

``Americans,'' said he. ``Allow me to introduce to you
the Honorable David Ritchie, whom you rejected a few
moments ago.''

``Whom I rejected?'' she exclaimed.

``Alas,'' said Nick, with a commiserating glance at me,
``he has the misfortune to be a lawyer.''

Mademoiselle shot at me the swiftest and shyest of
glances, and turned to us once more her quivering shoulders.
There was a brief silence.

``Mademoiselle?'' said Nick, taking a step on the garden
path.

``Monsieur?'' she answered, without so much as looking around.

``What, now, would you take this gentleman to be?''
he asked with an insistence not to be denied.

Again she was shaken with laughter, and suddenly to
my surprise she turned and looked full at me.

``In English, Monsieur, you call it--a gallant?''

My face fairly tingled, and I heard Nick laughing with
unseemly merriment.

``Ah, Mademoiselle,'' he cried, ``you are a judge of
character, and you have read him perfectly.''

``Then I must leave you, Messieurs,'' she answered,
with her eyes in her lap. But she made no move to go.

``You need have no fear of Mr. Ritchie, Mademoiselle,''
answered Nick, instantly. ``I am here to protect you
against his gallantry.''

This time Nick received the glance, and quailed
before it.

``And who--par exemple--is to protect me against--
you, Monsieur?'' she asked in the lowest of voices.

``You forget that I, too, am unprotected--and
vulnerable, Mademoiselle,'' he answered.

Her face was hidden again, but not for long.

``How did you come?'' she demanded presently.

``On air,'' he answered, ``for we saw you in New
Orleans yesterday.''

``And--why?''

``Need you ask, Mademoiselle?'' said the rogue, and
then, with more effrontery than ever, he began to sing:--

   `` `Je voudrais bien me marier,
       Je voudrais bien me marier,
       Mais j'ai grand' peur de me tromper.' ''

She rose, her sewing falling to the ground, and took a
few startled steps towards us.

``Monsieur! you will be heard,'' she cried.

``And put out of the Garden of Eden,'' said Nick.

``I must leave you,'' she said, with the quaintest of
English pronunciation.

Yet she stood irresolute in the garden path, a picture
against the dark green leaves and the flowers. Her age
might have been seventeen. Her gown was of some soft
and light material printed in buds of delicate color, her
slim arms bare above the elbow. She had the ivory
complexion of the province, more delicate than I had yet seen,
and beyond that I shall not attempt to describe her, save
to add that she was such a strange mixture of innocence
and ingenuousness and coquetry as I had not imagined.
Presently her gaze was fixed seriously on me.

``Do you think it very wrong, Monsieur?'' she asked.

I was more than taken aback by this tribute.

``Oh,'' cried Nick, ``the arbiter of etiquette!''

``Since I am here, Mademoiselle,'' I answered, with
anything but readiness, ``I am not a proper judge.''

Her next question staggered me.

``You are well-born?'' she asked.

``Mr. Ritchie's grandfather was a Scottish earl,'' said
Nick, immediately, a piece of news that startled me into
protest. ``It is true, Davy, though you may not know
it,'' he added.

``And you, Monsieur?'' she said to Nick.

``I am his cousin,--is it not honor enough?'' said he.

``Yet you do not resemble one another.''

``Mr. Ritchie has all the good looks in the family,'' said
Nick.

``Oh!'' cried the young lady, and this time she gave
us her profile.

``Come, Mademoiselle,'' said Nick, ``since the fates have
cast the die, let us all sit down in the shade. The place
was made for us.''

``Monsieur!'' she cried, giving back, ``I have never in
my life been alone with gentlemen.''

``But Mr. Ritchie is a duenna to satisfy the most
exacting,'' said Nick; ``when you know him better you will
believe me.''

She laughed softly and glanced at me. By this time we
were all three under the branches.

``Monsieur, you do not understand the French customs.
Mon Dieu, if the good Sister Lorette could see me now--''

``But she is safe in the convent,'' said Nick. ``Are
they going to put glass on the walls?''

``And why?'' asked Mademoiselle, innocently.

``Because,'' said Nick, ``because a very bad man has
come to New Orleans,--one who is given to climbing
walls.''

``You?''

``Yes. But when I found that a certain demoiselle had
left the convent, I was no longer anxious to climb them.''

``And how did you know that I had left it?''

I was at a loss to know whether this were coquetry or
innocence.

``Because I saw you on the levee,'' said Nick.

``You saw me on the levee?'' she repeated, giving
back.

``And I had a great fear,'' the rogue persisted.

``A fear of what?''

``A fear that you were married,'' he said, with a
boldness that made me blush. As for Mademoiselle, a color
that vied with the June roses charged through her cheeks.
She stooped to pick up her sewing, but Nick was before
her.

``And why did you think me married?'' she asked in a
voice so low that we scarcely heard.

``Faith,'' said Nick, ``because you seemed to be
quarrelling with a man.''

She turned to him with an irresistible seriousness.

``And is that your idea of marriage, Monsieur?''

This time it was I who laughed, for he had been hit
very fairly.

``Mademoiselle,'' said he, ``I did not for a moment think
it could have been a love match.''

Mademoiselle turned away and laughed.

``You are the very strangest man I have ever seen,''
she said.

``Shall I give you my notion of a love match,
Mademoiselle?'' said Nick.

``I should think you might be well versed in the subject,
Monsieur,'' she answered, speaking to the tree, ``but here
is scarcely the time and place.''  She wound up her sewing,
and faced him. ``I must really leave you,'' she said.

He took a step towards her and stood looking down into
her face. Her eyes dropped.

``And am I never to see you again?'' he asked.

Monsieur!'' she cried softly, ``I do not know who
you are.''  She made him a courtesy, took a few steps in
the opposite path, and turned. ``That depends upon your
ingenuity,'' she added; ``you seem to have no lack of it,
Monsieur.''

Nick was transported.

``You must not go,'' he cried.

``Must not? How dare you speak to me thus,
Monsieur?''  Then she tempered it. ``There is a lady here
whom I love, and who is ill. I must not be long from her
bedside.''

``She is very ill?'' said Nick, probably for want of
something better.

``She is not really ill, Monsieur, but depressed--is not
that the word? She is a very dear friend, and she has
had trouble--so much, Monsieur,--and my mother
brought her here. We love her as one of the family.''

This was certainly ingenuous, and it was plain that the
girl gave us this story through a certain nervousness, for
she twisted her sewing in her fingers as she spoke.

``Mademoiselle,'' said Nick, ``I would not keep you
from such an errand of mercy.''

She gave him a grateful look, more dangerous than any
which had gone before.

``And besides,'' he went on, ``we have come to stay
awhile with you, Mr. Ritchie and myself.''

``You have come to stay awhile?'' she said.

I thought it time that the farce were ended.

``We have come with letters to your father, Monsieur
de Saint-Gre, Mademoiselle,'' I said, ``and I should like
very much to see him, if he is at leisure.''

Mademoiselle stared at me in unfeigned astonishment.

``But did you not meet him, Monsieur?'' she demanded.

``He left an hour ago for New Orleans. You must have
met a gentleman riding very fast.''

It was my turn to be astonished.

``But that was not your father!'' I exclaimed.

``Et pourquoi non?'' she said.

``Is not your father the stout gentleman whom I saw
with you on the levee last evening?'' I asked.

She laughed.

``You have been observing, Monsieur,'' she said.

``That was my uncle, Monsieur de Beausejour. You
saw me quarrelling with my brother, Auguste,'' she went
on a little excitedly. ``Oh, I am very much ashamed of
it. I was so angry. My cousin, Mademoiselle Helene
de Saint-Gre, has just sent me from France such a
beautiful miniature, and Auguste fell in love with it.''

``Fell in love with it!'' I exclaimed involuntarily.

``You should see it, Monsieur, and I think you also
would fall in love with it.''

``I have not a doubt of it,'' said Nick.

Mademoiselle made the faintest of moues.

``Auguste is very wild, as you say,'' she continued,
addressing me, ``he is a great care to my father. He
intrigues, you know, he wishes Louisiane to become French
once more,--as we all do. But I should not say this,
Monsieur,'' she added in a startled tone. ``You will not
tell? No, I know you will not. We do not like the
Spaniards. They killed my grandfather when they came
to take the province. And once, the Governor-general
Miro sent for my father and declared he would put
Auguste in prison if he did not behave himself. But I
have forgotten the miniature. When Auguste saw that
he fell in love with it, and now he wishes to go to France
and obtain a commission through our cousin, the Marquis
of Saint-Gre, and marry Mademoiselle Helene.''

``A comprehensive programme, indeed,'' said Nick.

``My father has gone back to New Orleans,'' she said,
``to get the miniature from Auguste. He took it from
me, Monsieur.''  She raised her head a little proudly.
``If my brother had asked it, I might have given it to
him, though I treasured it. But Auguste is so--
impulsive. My uncle told my father, who is very angry. He
will punish Auguste severely, and--I do not like to
have him punished. Oh, I wish I had the miniature.''

``Your wish is granted, Mademoiselle,'' I answered,
drawing the case from my pocket and handing it to her.

She took it, staring at me with eyes wide with wonder,
and then she opened it mechanically.

``Monsieur,'' she said with great dignity, ``do you mind
telling me where you obtained this?''

``I found it, Mademoiselle,'' I answered; and as I spoke
I felt Nick's fingers on my arm.

``You found it? Where? How, Monsieur?''

``At Madame Bouvet's, the house where we stayed.''

``Oh,'' she said with a sigh of relief, ``he must have
dropped it. It is there where he meets his associates,
where they talk of the French Louisiane.''

Again I felt Nick pinching me, and I gave a sigh of
relief. Mademoiselle was about to continue, but I
interrupted her.

``How long will your father be in New Orleans,
Mademoiselle?'' I asked.

``Until he finds Auguste,'' she answered. ``It may be
days, but he will stay, for he is very angry. But will
you not come into the house, Messieurs, and be presented
to my mother?'' she asked. ``I have been very--
inhospitable,'' she added with a glance at Nick.

We followed her through winding paths bordered by
shrubs and flowers, and presently came to a low house
surrounded by a wide, cool gallery, and shaded by
spreading trees. Behind it were clustered the kitchens and
quarters of the house servants. Mademoiselle, picking
up her dress, ran up the steps ahead of us and turned
to the left in the hall into a darkened parlor. The floor
was bare, save for a few mats, and in the corner was a
massive escritoire of mahogany with carved feet, and there
were tables and chairs of a like pattern. It was a room
of more distinction than I had seen since I had been in
Charlestown, and reflected the solidity of its owners.

``If you will be so kind as to wait here, Messieurs,''
said Mademoiselle, ``I will call my mother.''

And she left us.

I sat down, rather uncomfortably, but Nick took a stand
and stood staring down at me with folded arms.

``How I have undervalued you, Davy,'' he said.

``I am not proud of it,'' I answered shortly.

``What the deuce is to do now!'' he asked.

``I cannot linger here,'' I answered; ``I have business
with Monsieur de Saint-Gre, and I must go back to New
Orleans at once.''

``Then I will wait for you,'' said Nick. ``Davy, I have
met my fate.''

I laughed in spite of myself.

``It seems to me that I have heard that remark before,''
I answered.

He had not time to protest, for we heard footsteps in
the hall, and Mademoiselle entered, leading an older lady
by the hand. In the light of the doorway I saw that she
was thin and small and yellow, but her features had a
regularity and her mien a dignity which made her impressing,
which would have convinced a stranger that she was
a person of birth and breeding. Her hair, tinged with
gray, was crowned by a lace cap.

``Madame,'' I said, bowing and coming forward, ``I am
David Ritchie, from Kentucky, and this is my cousin, Mr.
Temple, of Charlestown. Monsieur Gratiot and Colonel
Chouteau, of St. Louis, have been kind enough to give us
letters to Monsieur de Saint-Gre.''  And I handed her
one of the letters which I had ready.

``You are very welcome, Messieurs,'' she answered, with
the same delightful accent which her daughter had used,
``and you are especially welcome from such a source.
The friends of Colonel Chouteau and of Monsieur Gratiot
are our friends. You will remain with us, I hope,
Messieurs,'' she continued. ``Monsieur de Saint-Gre will
return in a few days at best.''

``By your leave, Madame, I will go to New Orleans at
once and try to find Monsieur,'' I said, ``for I have
business with him.''

``You will return with him, I hope,'' said Madame.

I bowed.

``And Mr. Temple will remain?'' she asked, with a
questioning look at Nick.

``With the greatest pleasure in the world, Madame,''
he answered, and there was no mistaking his sincerity.
As he spoke, Mademoiselle turned her back on him.

I would not wait for dinner, but pausing only for a sip
of cool Madeira and some other refreshment, I made my
farewells to the ladies. As I started out of the door to
find Benjy, who had been waiting for more than an hour,
Mademoiselle gave me a neatly folded note.

``You will be so kind as to present that to my father,
Monsieur,'' she said.

CHAPTER XIII

MONSIEUR AUGUSTE ENTRAPPED

It may be well to declare here and now that I do not
intend to burden this story with the business which had
brought me to New Orleans. While in the city during
the next few days I met a young gentleman named Daniel
Clark, a nephew of that Mr. Clark of whom I have spoken.
Many years after the time of which I write this Mr.
Daniel Clark the younger, who became a rich merchant
and an able man of affairs, published a book which sets
forth with great clearness proofs of General Wilkinson's
duplicity and treason, and these may be read by any who
would satisfy himself further on the subject. Mr. Wharton
had not believed, nor had I flattered myself that I
should be able to bring such a fox as General Wilkinson
to earth. Abundant circumstantial evidence I obtained:
Wilkinson's intimacy with Miro was well known, and I
likewise learned that a cipher existed between them. The
permit to trade given by Miro to Wilkinson was made no
secret of. In brief, I may say that I discovered as much
as could be discovered by any one without arousing
suspicion, and that the information with which I returned to
Kentucky was of some material value to my employers.

I have to thank Monsieur Philippe de St. Gre for a
great deal. And I take this opportunity to set down the
fact that I have rarely met a more remarkable man.

As I rode back to town alone a whitish film was spread
before the sun, and ere I had come in sight of the
fortifications the low forest on the western bank was a dark
green blur against the sky. The esplanade on the levee
was deserted, the willow trees had a mournful look, while
the bright tiles of yesterday seemed to have faded to a
sombre tone. I spied Xavier on a bench smoking with
some friends of his.

``He make much rain soon, Michie,'' he cried. ``You
hev good time, I hope, Michie.''

I waved my hand and rode on, past the Place d'Armes
with its white diagonal bands strapping its green like
a soldiers front, and as I drew up before the gate of
the House of the Lions the warning taps of the storm
were drumming on the magnolia leaves. The same gardienne
came to my knock, and in answer to her shrill cry
a negro lad appeared to hold my horse. I was ushered
into a brick-paved archway that ran under the latticed
gallery toward a flower-filled court-yard, but ere we reached
this the gardienne turned to the left up a flight of steps
with a delicate balustrade which led to an open gallery
above. And there stood the gentleman whom we had
met hurrying to town in the morning. A gentleman he
was, every inch of him. He was dressed in black silk,
his hair in a cue, and drawn away from a face of remarkable
features. He had a high-bridged nose, a black
eye that held an inquiring sternness, a chin indented, and
a receding forehead. His stature was indeterminable.
In brief, he might have stood for one of those persons of
birth and ability who become prime ministers of France.

``Monsieur de St. Gre?'' I said.

He bowed gracefully, but with a tinge of condescension.
I was awed, and considering the relations which
I had already had with his family, I must admit that I
was somewhat frightened.

``Monsieur,'' I said, ``I bring letters to you from
Monsieur Gratiot and Colonel Chouteau of St. Louis. One of
these I had the honor to deliver to Madame de St. Gre,
and here is the other.''

``Ah,'' he said, with another keen glance, ``I met you
this morning, did I not?''

``You did, Monsieur.''

He broke the seal, and, going to the edge of the gallery,
held the letter to the light. As he read a peal of thunder
broke distantly, the rain came down in a flood. Then he
folded the paper carefully and turned to me again.

``You will make my house your home, Mr. Ritchie,
he said; ``recommended from such a source, I will do all
I can to serve you. But where is this Mr. Temple of
whom the letter speaks? His family in Charlestown is
known to me by repute.''

``By Madame de St. Gre's invitation he remained at
Les Iles,'' I answered, speaking above the roar of the rain.

``I was just going to the table,'' said Monsieur de St.
Gre; ``we will talk as we eat.''

He led the way into the dining room, and as I stood on
the threshold a bolt of great brilliancy lighted its yellow-
washed floor and walnut furniture of a staid pattern. A
deafening crash followed as we took our seats, while
Monsieur de St. Gre's man lighted four candles of green
myrtle-berry wax.

``Monsieur Gratiot's letter speaks vaguely of politics,
Mr. Ritchie,'' began Monsieur de St. Gre. He spoke
English perfectly, save for an occasional harsh aspiration which
I cannot imitate.

Directing his man to fetch a certain kind of Madeira, he
turned to me with a look of polite inquiry which was
scarcely reassuring. And I reflected, the caution with
which I had been endowed coming uppermost, that the
man might have changed since Monsieur Gratiot had seen
him. He had, moreover, the air of a man who gives a
forced attention, which seemed to me the natural consequences
of the recent actions of his son.

``I fear that I am intruding upon your affairs,
Monsieur,'' I answered.

``Not at all, sir,'' he said politely. ``I have met that
charming gentleman, Mr. Wilkinson, who came here to
brush away the causes of dissension, and cement a friendship
between Kentucky and Louisiana.''

It was most fortunate that the note of irony did not
escape me.

``Where governments failed, General Wilkinson
succeeded,'' I answered dryly.

Monsieur de St. Gre glanced at me, and an enigmatical
smile spread over his face. I knew then that the ice was
cracked between us. Yet he was too much a man of the
world not to make one more tentative remark.

``A union between Kentucky and Louisiana would be a
resistless force in the world, Mr. Ritchie,'' he said.

``It was Nebuchadnezzar who dreamed of a composite
image, Monsieur,'' I answered; ``and Mr. Wilkinson forgets
one thing,--that Kentucky is a part of the United
States.''

At that Monsieur St. Gre laughed outright. He became
a different man, though he lost none of his dignity.

``I should have had more faith in my old friend Gratiot,
he said; ``but you will pardon me if I did not recognize
at once the statesman he had sent me, Mr. Ritchie.''

It was my turn to laugh.

``Monsieur,'' he went on, returning to that dignity of
mien which marked him, ``my political opinions are too
well known that I should make a mystery of them to you.
I was born a Frenchman, I shall die a Frenchman, and I
shall never be happy until Louisiana is French once more.
My great-grandfather, a brother of the Marquis de St.
Gre of that time, and a wild blade enough, came out with
D'Iberville. His son, my grandfather, was the Commissary-
general of the colony under the Marquis de Vaudreuil.
He sent me to France for my education, where I was introduced
at court by my kinsman, the old Marquis, who took
a fancy to me and begged me to remain. It was my father's
wish that I should return, and I did not disobey him. I
had scarcely come back, Monsieur, when that abominable
secret bargain of Louis the Fifteenth became known, ceding
Louisiana to Spain. You may have heard of the revolution
which followed here. It was a mild affair, and the
remembrance of it makes me smile to this day, though with
bitterness. I was five and twenty, hot-headed, and French.
Que voulez-vous?'' and Monsieur de St. Gre shrugged his
shoulders. ``O'Reilly, the famous Spanish general, came
with his men-of-war. Well I remember the days we waited
with leaden hearts for the men-of-war to come up from the
English turn; and I can see now the cannon frowning
from the ports, the grim spars, the high poops crowded
with officers, the great anchors splashing the yellow water.
I can hear the chains running. The ships were in line of
battle before the town, their flying bridges swung to the
levee, and they loomed above us like towering fortresses.
It was dark, Monsieur, such as this afternoon, and we poor
French colonists stood huddled in the open space below,
waiting for we knew not what.''

He paused, and I started, for the picture he drew had
carried me out of myself.

``On the 18th of August, 1769,--well I remember
the day,'' Monsieur de St. Gre continued, ``the Spanish
troops landed late in the afternoon, twenty-six hundred
strong, the artillery rumbling over the bridges, the horses
wheeling and rearing. And they drew up as in line of
battle in the Place d'Armes,--dragoons, fusileros de
montanas, light and heavy infantry. Where were our white
cockades then? Fifty guns shook the town, the great
O'Reilly limped ashore through the smoke, and Louisiana
was lost to France. We had a cowardly governor, Monsieur,
whose name is written in the annals of the province
in letters of shame. He betrayed Monsieur de St. Gre
and others into O'Reilly's hands, and when my father was
cast into prison he was seized with such a fit of anger
that he died.''

Monsieur de St. Gre was silent. Without, under the
eaves of the gallery, a white rain fell, and a steaming
moisture arose from the court-yard.

``What I have told you, Monsieur, is common
knowledge. Louisiana has been Spanish for twenty years. I
no longer wear the white cockade, for I am older now.''
He smiled. ``Strange things are happening in France, and
the old order to which I belong'' (he straightened
perceptibly) ``seems to be tottering. I have ceased to intrigue,
but thank God I have not ceased to pray. Perhaps--
who knows?--perhaps I may live to see again the lily of
France stirred by the river breeze.''

He fell into a revery, his fine head bent a little, but
presently aroused himself and eyed me curiously. I need
not say that I felt a strange liking for Monsieur de St. Gre.

``And now, Mr. Ritchie,'' he said, ``will you tell me
who you are, and how I can serve you?''

The servant had put the coffee on the table and left the
room. Monsieur de St. Gre himself poured me a cup
from the dainty, quaintly wrought Louis Quinze coffeepot,
graven with the coat of arms of his family. As we
sat talking, my admiration for my host increased, for I
found that he was familiar not only with the situation in
Kentucky, but that he also knew far more than I of the
principles and personnel of the new government of which
General Washington was President. That he had little
sympathy with government by the people was natural,
for he was a Creole, and behind that a member of an order
which detested republics. When we were got beyond these
topics the rain had ceased, the night had fallen, the green
candles had burned low. And suddenly, as he spoke of
Les Isles, I remembered the note Mademoiselle had given
me for him, and I apologized for my forgetfulness. He
read it, and dropped it with an exclamation.

``My daughter tells me that you have returned to her a
miniature which she lost, Monsieur,'' he said.

``I had that pleasure,'' I answered.

``And that--you found this miniature at Madame
Bouvet's. Was this the case?''  And he stared hard at me.

I nodded, but for the life of me I could not speak. It
seemed an outrage to lie to such a man. He did not
answer, but sat lost in thought, drumming with his fingers
on the tables until the noise of the slamming of a door
aroused him to a listening posture. The sound of subdued
voices came from the archway below us, and one of
these, from an occasional excited and feminine note, I
thought to be the gardienne's. Monsieur de St. Gre
thrust back his chair, and in three strides was at the edge
of the gallery.

``Auguste!'' he cried.

Silence.

``Auguste, come up to me at once,'' he said in French.

Another silence, then something that sounded like
``Sapristi!'' a groan from the gardienne, and a step was
heard on the stairway. My own discomfort increased,
and I would have given much to be in any other place in
the world. Auguste had arrived at the head of the steps
but was apparently unable to get any farther.

``Bon soir, mon pere,'' he said.

``Like a dutiful son,'' said Monsieur de St. Gre, ``you
heard I was in town, and called to pay your respects, I am
sure. I am delighted to find you. In fact, I came to
town for that purpose.''

``Lisette--'' began Auguste.

``Thought that I did not wish to be disturbed, no
doubt,'' said his father. ``Walk in, Auguste.''

Monsieur Auguste's slim figure appeared in the
doorway. He caught sight of me, halted, backed, and stood
staring with widened eyes. The candles threw their light
across his shoulder on the face of the elder Monsieur de
St. Gre. Auguste was a replica of his father, with the
features minimized to regularity and the brow narrowed.
The complexion of the one was a clear saffron, while the
boy's skin was mottled, and he was not twenty.

``What is the matter?'' said Monsieur de St. Gre.

``You--you have a visitor!'' stammered Auguste, with
a tact that savored of practice. Yet there was a sorry
difference between this and the haughty young patrician
who had sold me the miniature.

``Who brings me good news,'' said Monsieur de St. Gre,
in English. ``Mr. Ritchie, allow me to introduce my son,
Auguste.''

I felt Monsieur de St. Gre's eyes on me as I bowed, and
I began to think I was in near as great a predicament as
Auguste. Monsieur de St. Gre was managing the matter
with infinite wisdom.

``Sit down, my son,'' he said; ``you have no doubt been
staying with your uncle.''  Auguste sat down, still staring.

``Does your aunt's health mend?''

``She is better to-night, father,'' said the son, in English
which might have been improved.

``I am glad of it,'' said Monsieur de St. Gre, taking a
chair. ``Andre, fill the glasses.''

The silent, linen-clad mulatto poured out the Madeira,
shot a look at Auguste, and retired softly.

``There has been a heavy rain, Monsieur,'' said
Monsieur de St. Gre to me, ``but I think the air is not yet
cleared. I was about to say, Mr. Ritchie, when my son
called to pay his respects, that the miniature of which we
were speaking is one of the most remarkable paintings I
have ever seen.''  Auguste's thin fingers were clutching
the chair. ``I have never beheld Mademoiselle Helene
de St. Gre, for my cousin, the Marquis, was not married
when I left France. He was a captain in a regiment of his
Majesty's Mousquetaires, since abolished. But I am sure
that the likeness of Mademoiselle must be a true one, for it
has the stamp of a remarkable personality, though Helene
can be only eighteen. Women, with us, mature quickly,
Monsieur. And this portrait tallies with what I have heard
of her character. You no doubt observed the face,
Monsieur,--that of a true aristocrat. But I was speaking of
her character. When she was twelve, she said something
to a cardinal for which her mother made her keep her
room a whole day. For Mademoiselle would not retract,
and, pardieu, I believe his Eminence was wrong. The
Marquise is afraid of her. And when first Helene was
presented formally she made such a witty retort to the
Queen's sally that her Majesty insisted upon her coming to
court. On every New Year's day I have always sent a
present of coffee and perique to my cousin the Marquis,
and it is Mademoiselle who writes to thank us. Parole
d'honneur, her letters make me see again the people
amongst whom she moves,--the dukes and duchesses,
the cardinals, bishops, and generals. She draws them to
the life, Monsieur, with a touch that makes them all
ridiculous. His Majesty does not escape. God forgive
him, he is indeed an amiable, weak person for calling a
States General. And the Queen, a frivolous lady, but
true to those whom she loves, and beginning now to
realize the perils of the situation.''  He paused. ``Is
it any wonder that Auguste has fallen in love with his
cousin, Monsieur? That he loses his head, forgets that
he is a gentleman, and steals her portrait from his
sister!''

Had I not been so occupied with my own fate in the
outcome of this inquisition, I should have been sorry for
Auguste. And yet this feeling could not have lasted, for
the young gentleman sprang to his feet, cast a glance
at me which was not without malignance, and faced his
father, his lips twitching with anger and fear. Monsieur
de St. Gre sat undisturbed.

``He is so much in love with the portrait, Monsieur,
that he loses it.''

``Loses it!'' cried Auguste.

``Precisely,'' said his father, dryly, ``for Mr. Ritchie
tells me he found it--at Madame Bouvet's, was it not,
Monsieur?''

Auguste looked at me.

``Mille diables!'' he said, and sat down again heavily.

``Mr. Ritchie has returned it to your sister, a service
which puts him heavily in our debt,'' said Monsieur de
St. Gre. ``Now, sir,'' he added to me, rising, ``you have
had a tiresome day. I will show you to your room, and
in the morning we will begin our--investigations.''

He clapped his hands, the silent mulatto appeared with
a new candle, and I followed my host down the gallery
to a room which he flung open at the far end. A great
four-poster bedstead was in one corner, and a polished
mahogany dresser in the other.

``We have saved some of our family furniture from
the fire, Mr. Ritchie,'' said Monsieur de St. Gre; ``that
bed was brought from Paris by my father forty years ago.
I hope you will rest well.''

He set the candle on the table, and as he bowed there
was a trace of an enigmatical smile about his mouth. How
much he knew of Auguste's transaction I could not
fathom, but the matter and the scarcely creditab]e part
I had played in it kept me awake far into the night. I
was just falling into a troubled sleep when a footstep on
the gallery startled me back to consciousness. It was
followed by a light tap on the door.

``Monsieur Reetchie,'' said a voice.

It was Monsieur Auguste. He was not an imposing
figure in his nightrail, and by the light of the carefully
shaded candle he held in his hand I saw that he had
hitherto deceived me in the matter of his calves. He
stood peering at me as I lay under the mosquito bar.

``How is it I can thank you, Monsieur!'' he exclaimed
in a whisper.

``By saying nothing, Monsieur,'' I answered.

``You are noble, you are generous, and--and one day
I will give you the money back,'' he added with a burst
of magniloquence. ``You have behave very well, Monsieur,
and I mek you my friend. Behol' Auguste de St.
Gre, entirely at your service, Monsieur.''  He made a
sweeping bow that might have been impressive save for
the nightrail, and sought my hand, which he grasped in
a fold of the mosquito bar.

``I am overcome, Monsieur,'' I said.

``Monsieur Reetchie, you are my friend, my intimate''
(he put an aspirate on the word). ``I go to tell you one
leetle secret. I find that I can repose confidence in you.
My father does not understan' me, you saw, Monsieur, he
does not appreciate--that is the Engleesh. Mon Dieu,
you saw it this night. I, who spik to you, am made for
a courtier, a noble. I have the gift. La Louisiane--she
is not so big enough for me.''  He lowered his voice still
further, and bent nearer to me. ``Monsieur, I run away
to France. My cousin the Marquis will help me. You
will hear of Auguste de St. Gre at Versailles, at Trianon,
at Chantilly, and peut-etre--''

``It is a worthy campaign, Monsieur,'' I interrupted.

A distant sound broke the stillness, and Auguste was
near to dropping the candle on me.

``Adieu, Monsieur,'' he whispered; ``milles tonneres, I
have done one extraordinaire foolish thing when I am
come to this house to-night.''

And he disappeared, shading his candle, as he had come.

CHAPTER XIV

RETRIBUTION

During the next two days I had more evidence of
Monsieur de St. Gre's ability, and, thanks to his conduct
of my campaign, not the least suspicion of my mission to
New Orleans got abroad. Certain gentlemen were asked
to dine, we called on others, and met still others casually
in their haunts of business or pleasure. I was troubled
because of the inconvenience and discomfort to which my
host put himself, for New Orleans in the dog-days may be
likened in climate to the under side of the lid of a steam
kettle. But at length, on the second evening, after we
had supped on jambalaya and rice cakes and other dainties,
and the last guest had gone, my host turned to me.

``The rest of the burrow is the same, Mr. Ritchie, until
it comes to the light again.''

``And the fox has crawled out of the other end,'' I
said.

``Precisely,'' he answered, laughing; ``in short, if you
were to remain in New Orleans until New Year's, you
would not learn a whit more. To-morrow morning I
have a little business of my own to transact, and we shall
get to Les Iles in time for dinner. No, don't thank me,''
he protested; ``there's a certain rough honesty and earnestness
ingrained in you which I like. And besides,'' he
added, smiling, ``you are poor indeed at thanking, Mr.
Ritchie. You could never do it gracefully. But if ever
I were in trouble, I believe that I might safely call on
you.''

The next day was a rare one, for a wind from somewhere
had blown the moisture away a little, the shadows
were clearer cut, and by noon Monsieur de St. Gre and I
were walking our horses in the shady road behind the
levee. We were followed at a respectful distance by
Andre, Monsieur's mulatto body-servant, and as we rode
my companion gave me stories of the owners of the different
plantations we passed, and spoke of many events of
interest in the history of the colony. Presently he ceased
to talk, and rode in silence for many minutes. And then
he turned upon me suddenly.

``Mr. Ritchie,'' he said, ``you have seen my son. It
may be that in him I am paying the price of my sins.
I have done everything to set him straight, but in vain.
Monsieur, every son of the St. Gre's has awakened sooner
or later to a sense of what becomes him. But Auguste
is a fool,'' he cried bitterly,--a statement which I could
not deny; ``were it not for my daughter, Antoinette, I
should be a miserable man indeed.''

Inasmuch as he was not a person of confidences, I felt
the more flattered that he should speak so plainly to me,
and I had a great sympathy for this strong man who could
not help himself.

``You have observed Antoinette, Mr. Ritchie,'' he
continued; ``she is a strange mixture of wilfulness and
caprice and self-sacrifice, and she has at times a bit of
that wit which has made our house for generations the
intimates--I may say--of sovereigns.''

This peculiar pride of race would have amused me in
another man. I found myself listening to Monsieur de
St. Gre with gravity, and I did not dare to reply
that I had had evidence of Mademoiselle's aptness of
retort.

``She has been my companion since she was a child,
Monsieur. She has disobeyed me, flaunted me, nursed me
in illness, championed me behind my back. I have a little
book which I have kept of her sayings and doings, which
may interest you, Monsieur. I will show it you.''

This indeed was a new side of Monsieur de St. Gre, and
I reflected rather ruefully upon the unvarnished truth of
what Mr. Wharton had told me,--ay, and what Colonel
Clark had emphasized long before. It was my fate never
to be treated as a young man. It struck me that Monsieur
de St. Gre had never even considered me in the
light of a possible suitor for his daughter's hand.

``I should be delighted to see them, Monsieur,'' I
answered.

``Would you?'' he exclaimed, his face lighting up as
he glanced at me. ``Alas, Madame de St. Gre and I have
promised to go to our neighbors', Monsieur and Madame
Bertrand's, for to-night. But, to-morrow, if you have
leisure, we shall look at it together. And not a word
of this to my daughter, Monsieur,'' he added apprehensively;
``she would never forgive me. She dislikes my
talking of her, but at times I cannot help it. It was only
last year that she was very angry with me, and would not
speak to me for days, because I boasted of her having
watched at the bedside of a poor gentleman who came
here and got the fever. You will not tell her?''

``Indeed I shall not, Monsieur,'' I answered.

``It is strange,'' he said abruptly, ``it is strange that
this gentleman and his wife should likewise have had
letters to us from Monsieur Gratiot. They came from
St. Louis, and they were on their way to Paris.''

``To Paris?'' I cried; ``what was their name?''

He looked at me in surprise.

``Clive,'' he said.

``Clive!'' I cried, leaning towards him in my saddle.
``Clive! And what became of them?''

This time he gave me one of his searching looks, and it
was not unmixed with astonishment.

``Why do you ask. Monsieur?'' he demanded. ``Did
you know them?''

I must have shown that I was strangely agitated. For
the moment I could not answer.

``Monsieur Gratiot himself spoke of them to me,'' I said,
after a little; ``he said they were an interesting couple.''

``Pardieu!'' exclaimed Monsieur de St. Gre, ``he put
it mildly.''  He gave me another look. ``There was
something about them, Monsieur, which I could not fathom.
Why were they drifting? They were people of quality
who had seen the world, who were by no means paupers,
who had no cause to travel save a certain restlessness.
And while they were awaiting the sailing of the packet
for France they came to our house--the old one in the
Rue Bourbon that was burned. I would not speak ill of
the dead, but Mr. Clive I did not like. He fell sick of the
fever in my house, and it was there that Antoinette and
Madame de St. Gre took turns with his wife in watching
at his bedside. I could do nothing with Antoinette,
Monsieur, and she would not listen to my entreaties, my prayers,
my commands. We buried the poor fellow in the alien
ground, for he did not die in the Church, and after that my
daughter clung to Mrs. Clive. She would not let her go,
and the packet sailed without her. I have never seen such
affection. I may say,'' he added quickly, ``that Madame
de St. Gre and I share in it, for Mrs. Clive is a lovable
woman and a strong character. And into the great sorrow
that lies behind her life, we have never probed.''

``And she is with you now, Monsieur?'' I asked.

``She lives with us, Monsieur,'' he answered simply,
``and I hope for always. No,'' he said quickly, ``it is not
charity,--she has something of her own. We love her,
and she is the best of companions for my daughter. For
the rest, Monsieur, she seems benumbed, with no desire to
go back or to go farther.''

An entrance drive to the plantation of Les Iles, unknown
to Nick and me, led off from the main road like a green
tunnel arched out of the forest. My feelings as we entered
this may be imagined, for I was suddenly confronted
with the situation which I had dreaded since my meeting
with Nick at Jonesboro. I could scarcely allow myself
even the faint hope that Mrs. Clive might not prove to
be Mrs. Temple after all. Whilst I was in this agony
of doubt and indecision, the drive suddenly came out on
a shaded lawn dotted with flowering bushes. There was
the house with its gallery, its curved dormer roof and its
belvedere; and a white, girlish figure flitted down the
steps. It was Mademoiselle Antoinette, and no sooner
had her father dismounted than she threw herself into
his arms. Forgetful of my presence, he stood murmuring
in her ear like a lover; and as I watched them my
trouble slipped from my mind, and gave place to a vaguer
regret that I had been a wanderer throughout my life.
Presently she turned up to him a face on which was written
something which he could not understand. His own
stronger features reflected a vague disquiet.

``What is it, ma cherie?''

What was it indeed? Something was in her eyes which
bore a message and presentiment to me. She dropped
them, fastening in the lapel of his coat a flaunting red
flower set against a shining leaf, and there was a gentle,
joyous subterfuge in her answer.

``Thou pardoned Auguste, as I commanded?'' she said.
They were speaking in the familiar French.

``Ha, diable! is it that which disquiets thee?'' said her
father. ``We will not speak of Auguste. Dost thou
know Monsieur Ritchie, 'Toinette?''

She disengaged herself and dropped me a courtesy, her
eyes seeking the ground. But she said not a word. At
that instant Madame de St. Gre herself appeared on the
gallery, followed by Nick, who came down the steps with
a careless self-confidence to greet the master. Indeed, a
stranger might have thought that Mr. Temple was the
host, and I saw Antoinette watching him furtively with
a gleam of amusement in her eyes.

``I am delighted to see you at last, Monsieur,'' said my
cousin. ``I am Nicholas Temple, and I have been your
guest for three days.''

Had Monsieur de St. Gre been other than the soul of
hospitality, it would have been impossible not to welcome
such a guest. Our host had, in common with his daughter,
a sense of humor. There was a quizzical expression
on his fine face as he replied, with the barest glance at
Mademoiselle Antoinette:--

``I trust you have been--well entertained, Mr. Temple.
My daughter has been accustomed only to the society of
her brother and cousins.''

``Faith, I should not have supposed it,'' said Nick,
instantly, a remark which caused the color to flush deeply
into Mademoiselle's face. I looked to see Monsieur de
St. Gre angry. He tried, indeed, to be grave, but smiled
irresistibly as he mounted the steps to greet his wife, who
stood demurely awaiting his caress. And in this interval
Mademoiselle shot at Nick a swift and withering look as
she passed him. He returned a grimace.

``Messieurs,'' said Monsieur de St. Gre, turning to us,
``dinner will soon be ready--if you will be so good as to
pardon me until then.''

Nick followed Mademoiselle with his eyes until she had
disappeared beyond the hall. She did not so much as
turn. Then he took me by the arm and led me to a bench
under a magnolia a little distance away, where he seated
himself, and looked up at me despairingly.

``Behold,'' said he, ``what was once your friend and
cousin, your counsellor, sage, and guardian. Behold the
clay which conducted you hither, with the heart neatly
but painfully extracted. Look upon a woman's work,
Davy, and shun the sex. I tell you it is better to go
blindfold through life, to have--pardon me--your own
blunt features, than to be reduced to such a pitiable state.
Was ever such a refinement of cruelty practised before?
Never! Was there ever such beauty, such archness, such
coquetry,--such damned elusiveness? Never! If there
is a cargo going up the river, let me be salted and lie at
the bottom of it. I'll warrant you I'll not come to life.''

``You appear to have suffered somewhat,'' I said,
forgetting for the moment in my laughter the thing that weighed
upon my mind.

``Suffered!'' he cried; ``I have been tossed high in the
azure that I might sink the farther into the depths. I
have been put in a grave, the earth stamped down, resurrected,
and flung into the dust-heap. I have been taken
up to the gate of heaven and dropped a hundred and fifty
years through darkness. Since I have seen you I have
been the round of all the bright places and all the bottomless
pits in the firmament.''

``It seems to have made you literary,'' I remarked
judicially.

``I burn up twenty times a day,'' he continued, with a
wave of the hand to express the completeness of the
process; ``there is nothing left. I see her, I speak to her,
and I burn up.''

``Have you had many tete-a-tetes?'' I asked.

``Not one,'' he retorted fiercely; ``do you think there
is any sense in the damnable French custom? I am an
honorable man, and, besides, I am not equipped for an
elopement. No priest in Louisiana would marry us. I
see her at dinner, at supper. Sometimes we sew on the
gallery,'' he went on, ``but I give you my oath that I have
not had one word with her alone.''

``An oath is not necessary,'' I said. ``But you seem to
have made some progress nevertheless.''

``Do you call that progress?'' he demanded.

``It is surely not retrogression.''

``God knows what it is,'' said Nick, helplessly, ``but
it's got to stop. I have sent her an ultimatum.''

``A what?''

``A summons. Her father and mother are going to the
Bertrands' to-night, and I have written her a note to meet
me in the garden. And you,'' he cried, rising and
slapping me between the shoulders, ``you are to keep
watch, like the dear, careful, canny, sly rascal you
are.''

``And--and has she accepted?'' I inquired.

``That's the deuce of it,'' said he; ``she has not. But I
think she'll come.''

I stood for a moment regarding him.

``And you really love Mademoiselle Antoinette?'' I
asked.

``Have I not exhausted the language?'' he answered.
``If what I have been through is not love, then may the
Lord shield me from the real disease.''

``It may have been merely a light case of--tropical
enthusiasm, let us say. I have seen others, a little
milder because the air was more temperate.''

``Tropical--balderdash,'' he exploded. ``If you are
not the most exasperating, unfeeling man alive--''

``I merely wanted to know if you wished to marry
Mademoiselle de St. Gre,'' I interrupted.

He gave me a look of infinite tolerance.

``Have I not made it plain that I cannot live
without her?'' he said; ``if not, I will go over it all
again.''

``That will not be necessary,'' I said hastily.

``The trouble may be,'' he continued, ``that they have
already made one of their matrimonial contracts with a
Granpre, a Beausejour, a Bernard.''

``Monsieur de St. Gre is a very sensible man,'' I
answered. ``He loves his daughter, and I doubt if he
would force her to marry against her will. Tell me, Nick,''
I asked, laying my hand upon his shoulder, ``do you love
this girl so much that you would let nothing come between
you and her?''

``I tell you, I do; and again I tell you, I do,'' he replied.
He paused, suddenly glancing at my face, and added,
``Why do you ask, Davy?''

I stood irresolute, now that the time had come not daring
to give voice to my suspicions. He had not spoken
to me of his mother save that once, and I had no means
of knowing whether his feeling for the girl might not
soften his anger against her. I have never lacked the
courage to come to the point, but there was still the
chance that I might be mistaken in this after all. Would
it not be best to wait until I had ascertained in some way
the identity of Mrs. Clive? And while I stood debating,
Nick regarding me with a puzzled expression, Monsieur
de St. Gre appeared on the gallery.

``Come, gentlemen,'' he cried; ``dinner awaits us.''

The dining room at Les Iles was at the corner of the
house, and its windows looked out on the gallery, which
was shaded at that place by dense foliage. The room,
like others in the house, seemed to reflect the decorous
character of its owner. Two St. Gre's, indifferently
painted, but rigorous and respectable, relieved the
whiteness of the wall. They were the Commissary-general
and his wife. The lattices were closed on one side, and
in the deep amber light the family silver shone but dimly.
The dignity of our host, the evident ceremony of the meal,
--which was attended by three servants,--would have
awed into a modified silence at least a less irrepressible
person than Nicholas Temple. But Nick was one to carry
by storm a position which another might wait to
reconnoitre. The first sensation of our host was no doubt
astonishment, but he was soon laughing over a vivid
account of our adventures on the keel boat. Nick's imitation
of Xavier, and his description of Benjy's terrors after the
storm, were so perfect that I laughed quite as heartily;
and Madame de St. Gre wiped her eyes and repeated
continually, ``Quel drole monsieur! it is thus he has
entertained us since thou departed, Philippe.''

As for Mademoiselle, I began to think that Nick was
not far wrong in his diagnosis. Training may have had
something to do with it. She would not laugh, not she,
but once or twice she raised her napkin to her face and
coughed slightly. For the rest, she sat demurely, with
her eyes on her plate, a model of propriety. Nick's
sufferings became more comprehensible.

To give the devil his due, Nick had an innate tact which
told him when to stop, and perhaps at this time Mademoiselle's
superciliousness made him subside the more quickly.
After Monsieur de St. Gre had explained to me the horrors
of the indigo pest and the futility of sugar raising, he
turned to his daughter.

`` 'Toinette, where is Madame Clive?'' he asked.
The girl looked up, startled into life and interest at once.

``Oh, papa,'' she cried in French, ``we are so worried
about her, mamma and I. It was the day you went away,
the day these gentlemen came, that we thought she would
take an airing. And suddenly she became worse.''

Monsieur de St. Gre turned with concern to his wife.

``I do not know what it is, Philippe,'' said that lady;
``it seems to be mental. The loss of her husband weighs
upon her, poor lady. But this is worse than ever, and she
will lie for hours with her face turned to the wall, and
not even Antoinette can arouse her.''

``I have always been able to comfort her before,'' said
Antoinette, with a catch in her voice.

I took little account of what was said after that, my
only notion being to think the problem out for myself,
and alone. As I was going to my room Nick stopped me.

``Come into the garden, Davy,'' he said.

``When I have had my siesta,'' I answered.

``When you have had your siesta!'' he cried; ``since
when did you begin to indulge in siestas?''

``To-day,'' I replied, and left him staring after me.

I reached my room, bolted the door, and lay down on
my back to think. Little was needed to convince me
now that Mrs. Clive was Mrs. Temple, and thus the lady's
relapse when she heard that her son was in the house was
accounted for. Instead of forming a plan, my thoughts
drifted from that into pity for her, and my memory ran
back many years to the text of good Mr. Mason's sermon,
``I have refined thee, but not with silver, I have chosen
thee in the furnace of affliction.''  What must Sarah
Temple have suffered since those days! I remembered
her in her prime, in her beauty, in her selfishness, in her
cruelty to those whom she might have helped, and I wondered
the more at the change which must have come over
the woman that she had won the affections of this family,
that she had gained the untiring devotion of Mademoiselle
Antoinette. Her wit might not account for it, for that
had been cruel. And something of the agony of the
woman's soul as she lay in torment, facing the wall,
thinking of her son under the same roof, of a life misspent
and irrevocable, I pictured.

A stillness crept into the afternoon like the stillness of
night. The wide house was darkened and silent, and
without a sunlight washed with gold filtered through the
leaves. There was a drowsy hum of bees, and in the distance
the occasional languishing note of a bird singing
what must have been a cradle-song. My mind wandered,
and shirked the task that was set to it.

Could anything be gained by meddling? I had begun
to convince myself that nothing could, when suddenly I
came face to face with the consequences of a possible
marriage between Nick and Mademoiselle Antoinette. In
that event the disclosure of his mother's identity would
be inevitable. Not only his happiness was involved, but
Mademoiselle's, her father's and her mother's, and lastly
that of this poor hunted woman herself, who thought at
last to have found a refuge.

An hour passed, and it became more and more evident
to me that I must see and talk with Mrs. Temple. But
how was I to communicate with her? At last I took out
my portfolio and wrote these words on a sheet:--

``If Mrs. Clive will consent to a meeting with Mr. David
Ritchie, he will deem it a favor. Mr. Ritchie assures Mrs.
Clive that he makes this request in all friendliness.''

I lighted a candle, folded the note and sealed it,
addressed it to Mrs. Clive, and opening the latticed door I
stepped out. Walking along the gallery until I came to
the rear part of the house which faced towards the out-
buildings, I spied three figures prone on the grass under
a pecan tree that shaded the kitchen roof. One of these
figures was Benjy, and he was taking his siesta. I
descended quietly from the gallery, and making my way to
him, touched him on the shoulder. He awoke and stared
at me with white eyes.

``Marse Dave!'' he cried.

``Hush,'' I answered, ``and follow me.''

He came after me, wondering, a little way into the grove,
where I stopped.

``Benjy,'' I said, ``do you know any of the servants
here?''

``Lawsy, Marse Dave, I reckon I knows 'em,--some of
'em,'' he answered with a grin.

``You talk to them?''

``Shucks, no, Marse Dave,'' he replied with a fine scorn,
``I ain't no hand at dat ar nigger French. But I knows
some on 'em, and right well too.''

``How?'' I demanded curiously.

Benjy looked down sheepishly at his feet. He was
standing pigeon-toed.

``I done c'ressed some on 'em, Marse Dave,'' he said at
length, and there was a note of triumph in his voice.

``You did what?'' I asked.

``I done kissed one of dem yaller gals, Marse Dave.
Yass'r, I done kissed M'lisse.''

``Do you think Melisse would do something for you if
you asked her?'' I inquired.

Benjy seemed hurt.

``Marse Dave--'' he began reproachfully.

``Very well, then,'' I interrupted, taking the letter from
my pocket, ``there is a lady who is ill here, Mrs. Clive--''

I paused, for a new look had come into Benjy's eyes.
He began that peculiar, sympathetic laugh of the negro,
which catches and doubles on itself, and I imagined that
a new admiration for me dawned on his face.

``Yass'r, yass, Marse Dave, I reckon M'lisse 'll git it to
her 'thout any one tekin' notice.''

I bit my lips.

``If Mrs. Clive receives this within an hour, Melisse
shall have one piastre, and you another. There is an
answer.''

Benjy took the note, and departed nimbly to find
Melisse, while I paced up and down in my uneasiness as to
the outcome of the experiment. A quarter of an hour
passed, half an hour, and then I saw Benjy coming through
the trees. He stood before me, chuckling, and drew from
his pocket a folded piece of paper. I gave him the two
piastres, warned him if his master or any one inquired for
me that I was taking a walk, and bade him begone.
Then I opened the note.

``I will meet you at the bayou, at seven this evening. Take
the path that leads through the garden.''

I read it with a catch of the breath, with a certainty
that the happiness of many people depended upon what
I should say at that meeting. And to think of this and
to compose myself a little, I made my way to the garden
in search of the path, that I might know it when the time
came. Entering a gap in the hedge, I caught sight of the
shaded seat under the tree which had been the scene of
our first meeting with Antoinette, and I hurried past it
as I crossed the garden. There were two openings in the
opposite hedge, the one through which Nick and I had
come, and another. I took the second, and with little
difficulty found the path of which the note had spoken.
It led through a dense, semi-tropical forest in the
direction of the swamp beyond, the way being well beaten, but
here and there jealously crowded by an undergrowth of
brambles and the prickly Spanish bayonet. I know not
how far I had walked, my head bent in thought, before I
felt the ground teetering under my feet, and there was the
bayou. It was a narrow lane of murky, impenetrable
water, shaded now by the forest wall. Imaged on its
amber surface were the twisted boughs of the cypresses
of the swamp beyond,--boughs funereally draped, as
though to proclaim a warning of unknown perils in the
dark places. On that side where I stood ancient oaks
thrust their gnarled roots into the water, and these knees
were bridged by treacherous platforms of moss. As I
sought for a safe resting-place a dull splash startled me,
the pink-and-white water lilies danced on the ripples,
and a long, black snout pushed its way to the centre of
the bayou and floated there motionless.

I sat down on a wide knee that seemed to be fashioned
for the purpose, and reflected. It may have been about
half-past five, and I made up my mind that, rather than
return and risk explanations, I would wait where I was
until Mrs. Temple appeared. I had much to think of,
and for the rest the weird beauty of the place, with its
changing colors as the sun fell, held me in fascination.
When the blue vapor stole through the cypress swamp,
my trained ear caught the faintest of warning sounds.
Mrs. Temple was coming.

I could not repress the exclamation that rose to my lips
when she stood before me.

``I have changed somewhat,'' she began quite calmly;
``I have changed since you were at Temple Bow.''

I stood staring at her, at a loss to know whether by
these words she sought to gain an advantage. I knew
not whether to pity or to be angry, such a strange blending
she seemed of former pride and arrogance and later
suffering. There were the features of the beauty still,
the eyes defiant, the lips scornful. Sorrow had set its
brand upon this protesting face in deep, violet marks
under the eyes, in lines which no human power could
erase: sorrow had flecked with white the gold of the
hair, had proclaimed her a woman with a history. For
she had a new and remarkable beauty which puzzled and
astonished me,--a beauty in which maternity had no place.
The figure, gowned with an innate taste in black, still kept
the rounded lines of the young woman, while about the
shoulders and across the open throat a lace mantilla was
thrown. She stood facing me, undaunted, and I knew
that she had come to fight for what was left her. I knew
further that she was no mean antagonist.

``Will you kindly tell me to what circumstance I owe
the honor of this--summons, Mr. Ritchie?'' she asked.
``You are a travelled person for one so young. I might
almost say,'' she added with an indifferent laugh, ``that
there is some method and purpose in your travels.''

``Indeed, you do me wrong, Madame,'' I replied; ``I am
here by the merest chance.''

Again she laughed lightly, and stepping past me took
her seat on the oak from which I had risen. I marvelled
that this woman, with all her self-possession, could be the
same as she who had held her room, cowering, these four
days past. Admiration for her courage mingled with my
other feelings, and for the life of me I knew not where to
begin. My experience with women of the world was,
after all, distinctly limited. Mrs. Temple knew, apparently
by intuition, the advantage she had gained, and she
smiled.

``The Ritchies were always skilled in dealing with
sinners,'' she began; ``the first earl had the habit of hunting
them like foxes, so it is said. I take it for granted that,
before my sentence is pronounced, I shall have the pleasure
of hearing my wrong-doings in detail. I could not ask
you to forego that satisfaction.''

``You seem to know the characteristics of my family,
Mrs. Temple,'' I answered. ``There is one trait of the
Ritchies concerning which I ask your honest opinion.''

``And what is that?'' she said carelessly.

``I have always understood that they have spoken the
truth. Is it not so?''

She glanced at me curiously.

``I never knew your father to lie,'' she answered; ``but
after all he had few chances. He so seldom spoke.''

``Your intercourse with me at Temple Bow was quite
as limited,'' I said.

``Ah,'' she interrupted quickly, ``you bear me that
grudge. It is another trait of the Ritchies.''

``I bear you no grudge, Madame,'' I replied. ``I asked
you a question concerning the veracity of my family, and
I beg that you will believe what I say.''

``And what is this momentous statement?'' she asked.

I had hard work to keep my temper, but I knew that I
must not lose it.

``I declare to you on my honor that my business in New
Orleans in no way concerns you, and that I had not the
slightest notion of finding you here. Will you believe
that?''

``And what then?'' she asked.

``I also declare to you that, since meeting your son, my
chief anxiety has been lest he should run across you.''

``You are very considerate of others,'' she said. ``Let
us admit for the sake of argument that you come here by
accident.''

It was the opening I had sought for, but despaired of
getting.

``Then put yourself for a moment in my place, Madame,
and give me credit for a little kindliness of feeling, and a
sincere affection for your son.''

There was a new expression on her face, and the light
of a supreme effort in her eyes.

``I give you credit at least for a logical mind,'' she
answered. ``In spite of myself you have put me at the
bar and seem to be conducting my trial.''

``I do not see why there should be any rancor between
us,'' I answered. ``It is true that I hated you at Temple
Bow. When my father was killed and I was left a homeless
orphan you had no pity for me, though your husband
was my mother's brother. But you did me a good turn
after all, for you drove me out into a world where I learned
to rely upon myself. Furthermore, it was not in your
nature to treat me well.''

``Not in my nature?'' she repeated.

``You were seeking happiness, as every one must in
their own way. That happiness lay, apparently, with
Mr. Riddle.''

``Ah,'' she cried, with a catch of her breath, ``I thought
you would be judging me.''

``I am stating facts. Your son was a sufficient
embarrassment in this matter, and I should have been an
additional one. I blame you not, Mrs. Temple, for anything
you have done to me, but I blame you for embittering
Nick's life.''

``And he?'' she said. It seemed to me that I detected
a faltering in her voice.

``I will hide nothing from you. He blames you, with
what justice I leave you to decide.''

She did not answer this, but turned her head away
towards the bayou. Nor could I determine what was in
her mind.

``And now I ask you whether I have acted as your friend
in begging you to meet me.''

She turned to me swiftly at that.

``I am at a loss to see how there can be friendship between
us, Mr. Ritchie,'' she said.

``Very good then, Madame; I am sorry,'' I answered.
``I have done all that is in my power, and now events will
have to take their course.''

I had not gone two steps into the wood before I heard
her voice calling my name. She had risen, and leaned
with her hand against the oak.

``Does Nick--know that you are here?'' she cried.

``No,'' I answered shortly. Then I realized suddenly
what I had failed to grasp before,--she feared that I
would pity her.

``David!''

I started violently at the sound of my name, at the new
note in her voice, at the change in the woman as I
turned. And then before I realized what she had done
she had come to me swiftly and laid her hand upon
my arm.

``David, does he hate me?''

All the hope remaining in her life was in that question,
was in her face as she searched mine with a terrible
scrutiny. And never had I known such an ordeal. It seemed
as if I could not answer, and as I stood staring back at her
a smile was forced to her lips.

``I will pay you one tribute, my friend,'' she said; ``you
are honest.''

But even as she spoke I saw her sway, and though I
could not be sure it were not a dizziness in me, I caught
her. I shall always marvel at the courage there was in
her, for she straightened and drew away from me a little
proudly, albeit gently, and sat down on the knee of the
oak, looking across the bayou towards the mist of the
swamp. There was the infinite calmness of resignation in
her next speech.

``Tell me about him,'' she said.

She was changed indeed. Were it not so I should have
heard of her own sufferings, of her poor, hunted life from
place to place, of countless nights made sleepless by the
past. Pride indeed was left, but the fire had burned away
the last vestige of selfishness.

I sat down beside her, knowing full well that I should
be judged by what I said. She listened, motionless, though
something of what that narrative cost her I knew by the
current of sympathy that ran now between us. Unmarked,
the day faded, a new light was spread over the waters, the
mist was spangled with silver points, the Spanish moss
took on the whiteness of lace against the black forest
swamp, and on the yellow face of the moon the star-shaped
leaves of a gum were printed.

At length I paused. She neither spoke, nor moved--
save for the rising and falling of her shoulders. The
hardest thing I had to say I saved for the last, and I was
near lacking the courage to continue.

``There is Mademoiselle Antoinette--'' I began, and
stopped,--she turned on me so quickly and laid a hand
on mine.

``Nick loves her!'' she cried.

``You know it!'' I exclaimed, wondering.

``Ah, David,'' she answered brokenly, ``I foresaw it
from the first. I, too, love the girl. No human being
has ever given me such care and such affection. She--
she is all that I have left. Must I give her up? Have
I not paid the price of my sins?''

I did not answer, knowing that she saw the full cruelty
of the predicament. What happiness remained to her
now of a battered life stood squarely in the way of her
son's happiness. That was the issue, and no advice or
aid of mine could change it. There was another silence
that seemed to me an eternity as I watched, a helpless
witness, the struggle going on within her. At last she
got to her feet, her face turned to the shadow.

``I will go, David,'' she said. Her voice was low and
she spoke with a steadiness that alarmed me. ``I will
go.''

Torn with pity, I thought again, but I could see no
alternative. And then, suddenly, she was clinging to me,
her courage gone, her breast shaken with sobs. ``Where
shall I go?'' she cried. ``God help me! Are there no
remote places where He will not seek me out? I have
tried them all, David.''  And quite as suddenly she
disengaged herself, and looked at me strangely. ``You are
well revenged for Temple Bow,'' she said.

``Hush,'' I answered, and held her, fearing I knew not
what, ``you have not lacked courage. It is not so bad as
you believe. I will devise a plan and help you. Have
you money?

``Yes,'' she answered, with a remnant of her former
pride; ``and I have an annuity paid now to Mr. Clark.''

``Then listen to what I say,'' I answered. ``To-night
I will take you to New Orleans and hide you safely. And
I swear to you, whether it be right or wrong, that I will
use every endeavor to change Nick's feelings towards you.
Come,'' I continued, leading her gently into the path,
``let us go while there is yet time.''

``Stop,'' she said, and I halted fearfully. ``David
Ritchie, you are a good man. I can make no amends to
you,''--she did not finish.

Feeling for the path in the blackness of the wood, I
led her by the hand, and she followed me as trustfully
as a child. At last, after an age of groping, the heavy
scents of shrubs and flowers stole to us on the night air,
and we came out at the hedge into what seemed a blaze
of light that flooded the rows of color. Here we paused,
breathless, and looked. The bench under the great tree
was vacant, and the garden was empty.

It was she who led the way through the hedge, who
halted in the garden path at the sound of voices. She
turned, but there was no time to flee, for the tall figure of
a man came through the opposite hedge, followed by a
lady. One was Nicholas Temple, the other, Mademoiselle
de St. Gre. Mrs. Temple's face alone was in the shadow,
and as I felt her hand trembling on my arm I summoned
all my resources. It was Nick who spoke first.

``It is Davy!'' he cried. ``Oh, the sly rascal! And
this is the promenade of which he left us word, the
solitary meditation! Speak up, man; you are forgiven for
deserting us.

He turned, laughing, to Mademoiselle. But she stood
with her lips parted and her hands dropped, staring at my
companion. Then she took two steps forward and stopped
with a cry.

``Mrs. Clive!''

The woman beside me turned, and with a supreme
courage raised her head and faced the girl.

``Yes, Antoinette, it is I,'' she answered.

And then my eyes sought Nick, for Mrs. Temple had
faced her son with a movement that was a challenge, yet
with a look that questioned, yearned, appealed. He, too,
stared, the laughter fading from his eyes, first astonishment,
and then anger, growing in them, slowly, surely. I shall
never forget him as he stood there (for what seemed an
age) recalling one by one the wrongs this woman had done
him. She herself had taught him to brook no restraint,
to follow impetuously his loves and hates, and endurance
in these things was moulded in every line of his finely cut
features. And when he spoke it was not to her, but to
the girl at his side.

``Do you know who this is?'' he said. ``Tell me, do
you know this woman?''

Mademoiselle de St. Gre did not answer him. She
drew near, gently, to Mrs. Temple, whose head was
bowed, whose agony I could only guess.

``Mrs. Clive,'' she said softly, though her voice was
shaken by a prescience, ``won't you tell me what has
happened? Won't you speak to me--Antoinette?''

The poor lady lifted up her arms, as though to embrace
the girl, dropped them despairingly, and turned away.

``Antoinette,'' she murmured, ``Antoinette!''

For Nick had seized Antoinette by the hand, restraining
her.

``You do not know what you are doing?'' he cried
angrily. ``Listen!''

I had stood bereft of speech, watching the scene
breathlessly. And now I would have spoken had not
Mademoiselle astonished me by taking the lead. I have thought
since that I might have pieced together this much of her
character. Her glance at Nick surprised him momentarily
into silence.

``I know that she is my dearest friend,'' she said, ``that
she came to us in misfortune, and that we love her and
trust her. I do not know why she is here with Mr.
Ritchie, but I am sure it is for some good reason.''  She
laid a hand on Mrs. Temple's shoulder. ``Mrs. Clive,
won't you speak to me?''

``My God, Antoinette, listen!'' cried Nick; ``Mrs. Clive
is not her name. I know her, David knows her. She is
an--adventuress!''

Mrs. Temple gave a cry, and the girl shot at him a
frightened, bewildered glance, in which a new-born love
struggled with an older affection.

``An adventuress!'' she repeated, her hand dropping,
``oh, I do not believe it. I cannot believe it.''

``You shall believe it,'' said Nick, fiercely. ``Her name
is not Clive. Ask David what her name is.''

Antoinette's lips moved, but she shirked the question.
And Nick seized me roughly.

``Tell her,'' he said, ``tell her! My God, how can I do
it? Tell her, David.''

For the life of me I could not frame the speech at
once, my pity and a new-found and surprising respect
for her making it doubly hard to pronounce her sentence.
Suddenly she raised her head, not proudly, but with a
dignity seemingly conferred by years of sorrow and of
suffering. Her tones were even, bereft of every vestige
of hope.

``Antoinette, I have deceived you, though as God is my
witness, I thought no harm could come of it. I deluded
myself into believing that I had found friends and a refuge
at last. I am Mrs. Temple.''

``Mrs. Temple!''  The girl repeated the name sorrowfully,
but perplexedly, not grasping its full significance.

``She is my mother,'' said Nick, with a bitterness I had
not thought in him, ``she is my mother, or I would curse
her. For she has ruined my life and brought shame on a
good name.''

He paused, his breath catching for very anger. Mrs.
Temple hid her face in her hands, while the girl shrank
back in terror. I grasped him by the arm.

``Have you no compassion?'' I cried. But Mrs. Temple
interrupted me.

``He has the right,'' she faltered; ``it is my just
punishment.''

He tore himself away, and took a step to her.

``Where is Riddle?'' he cried. ``As God lives, I will
kill him without mercy!''

His mother lifted her head again.

``God has judged him,'' she said quietly; ``he is beyond
your vengeance--he is dead.''  A sob shook her, but she
conquered it with a marvellous courage. ``Harry Riddle
loved me, he was kind to me, and he was a better man than
John Temple.''

Nick recoiled. The fierceness of his anger seemed to
go, leaving a more dangerous humor.

``Then I have been blessed with parents,'' he said.

At that she swayed, but when I would have caught her
she motioned me away and turned to Antoinette. Twice
Mrs. Temple tried to speak.

``I was going away to-night,'' she said at length,
``and you would never have seen or heard of me more.
My nephew David--Mr. Ritchie--whom I treated cruelly
as a boy, had pity on me. He is a good man, and he was
to have taken me away--  I do not attempt to defend myself,
my dear, but I pray that you, who have so much charity,
will some day think a little kindly of one who has sinned
deeply, of one who will love and bless you and yours to her
dying day.''

She faltered, and Nick would have spoken had not
Antoinette herself stayed him with a gesture.

``I wish--my son to know the little there is on my side.
It is not much. Yet God may not spare him the sorrow
that brings pity. I--I loved Harry Riddle as a girl.
My father was ruined, and I was forced into marriage with
John Temple for his possessions. He was selfish,
overbearing, cruel--unfaithful. During the years I lived
with him he never once spoke kindly to me. I, too, grew
wicked and selfish and heedless. My head was turned by
admiration. Mr. Temple escaped to England in a man-
of-war; he left me without a line of warning, of farewell.
I--I have wandered over the earth, haunted by remorse,
and I knew no moment of peace, of happiness, until you
brought me here and sheltered and loved me. And even
here I have had many sleepless hours. A hundred times
I have summoned my courage to tell you,--I could not.
I am justly punished, Antoinette.''  She moved a little,
timidly, towards the girl, who stood motionless, dazed by
what she heard. She held out a hand, appealingly, and
dropped it. ``Good-by, my dear; God will bless you for
your kindness to an unfortunate outcast.''

She glanced with a kind of terror in her eyes from the
girl to Nick, and what she meant to say concerning their
love I know not, for the flood, held back so long, burst
upon her. She wept as I have never seen a woman weep.
And then, before Nick or I knew what had happened,
Antoinette had taken her swiftly in her arms and was
murmuring in her ear:--

``You shall not go. You shall not. You will live with
me always.''

Presently the sobs ceased, and Mrs. Temple raised her
face, slowly, wonderingly, as if she had not heard aright.
And she tried gently to push the girl away.

``No, Antoinette,'' she said, ``I have done you harm
enough.''

But the girl clung to her strongly, passionately. ``I
do not care what you have done,'' she cried, ``you are
good now. I know that you are good now. I will not
cast you out. I will not.''

I stood looking at them, bewildered and astonished by
Mademoiselle's loyalty. She seemed to have forgotten
Nick, as had I, and then as I turned to him he came
towards them. Almost roughly he took Antoinette by the
arm.

``You do not know what you are saying,'' he cried.
``Come away, Antoinette, you do not know what she has
done--you cannot realize what she is.''

Antoinette shrank away from him, still clinging to
Mrs. Temple. There was a fearless directness in her
look which might have warned him.

``She is your mother,'' she said quietly.

``My mother!'' he repeated; ``yes, I will tell you what
a mother she has been to me--''

``Nick!''

It passes my power to write down the pity of that appeal,
the hopelessness of it, the yearning in it. Freeing herself
from the girl, Mrs. Temple took one step towards
him, her arms held up. I had not thought that his hatred
of her was deep enough to resist it. It was Antoinette
whose intuition divined this ere he had turned away.

``You have chosen between me and her,'' he said; and
before we could get the poor lady to the seat under the
oak, he had left the garden. In my perturbation I glanced
at Antoinette, but there was no other sign in her face save
of tenderness for Mrs. Temple.

Mrs. Temple had mercifully fainted. As I crossed the
lawn I saw two figures in the deep shadow beside the
gallery, and I heard Nick's voice giving orders to Benjy
to pack and saddle. When I reached the garden again
the girl had loosed Mrs. Temple's gown, and was bending
over her, murmuring in her ear.

   *    *   *    *     *    *    *

Many hours later, when the moon was waning towards
the horizon, fearful of surprise by the coming day, I was
riding slowly under the trees on the road to New Orleans.
Beside me, veiled in black, her head bowed, was Mrs. Temple,
and no word had escaped her since she had withdrawn
herself gently from the arms of Antoinette on the gallery
at Les Iles. Nick had gone long before. The hardest
task had been to convince the girl that Mrs. Temple
might not stay. After that Antoinette had busied herself,
with a silent fortitude I had not thought was in her,
making ready for the lady's departure. I shall never
forget her as she stood, a slender figure of sorrow, looking
down at us, the tears glistening on her cheeks. And I
could not resist the impulse to mount the steps once more.

``You were right, Antoinette,'' I whispered; ``whatever
happens, you will remember that I am your friend. And
I will bring him back to you if I can.''

She pressed my hand, and turned and went slowly into
the house.

BOOK III

LOUISIANA

CHAPTER I

THE RIGHTS OF MAN

Were these things which follow to my thinking not
extraordinary, I should not write them down here, nor should
I have presumed to skip nearly five years of time. For
indeed almost five years had gone by since the warm summer
night when I rode into New Orleans with Mrs. Temple.
And in all that time I had not so much as laid eyes on my
cousin and dearest friend, her son. I searched New
Orleans for him in vain, and learned too late that he had
taken passage on a packet which had dropped down the
river the next morning, bound for Charleston and New
York.

I have an instinct that this is not the place to relate in
detail what occurred to me before leaving New Orleans.
Suffice it to say that I made my way back through the
swamps, the forests, the cane-brakes of the Indian country,
along the Natchez trail to Nashville, across the barrens to
Harrodstown in Kentucky, where I spent a week in that
cabin which had so long been for me a haven of refuge.
Dear Polly Ann! She hugged me as though I were still
the waif whom she had mothered, and wept over the little
presents which I had brought the children. Harrodstown
was changed, new cabins and new faces met me at every
turn, and Tom, more disgruntled than ever, had gone
a-hunting with Mr. Boone far into the wilderness.

I went back to Louisville to take up once more the
struggle for practice, and I do not intend to charge so
much as a page with what may be called the even tenor
of my life. I was not a man to get into trouble on my
own account. Louisville grew amazingly; white frame
houses were built, and even brick ones. And ere Kentucky
became a State, in 1792, I had gone as delegate to
more than one of the Danville Conventions.

Among the nations, as you know, a storm raged, and the
great swells from that conflict threatened to set adrift and
wreck the little republic but newly launched. The noise
of the tramping of great armies across the Old World shook
the New, and men in whom the love of fierce fighting was
born were stirred to quarrel among themselves. The
Rights of Man! How many wrongs have been done
under that clause! The Bastille stormed; the Swiss Guard
slaughtered; the Reign of Terror, with its daily procession
of tumbrels through the streets of Paris; the murder
of that amiable and well-meaning gentleman who did his
best to atone for the sins of his ancestors; the fearful
months of waiting suffered by his Queen before she, too,
went to her death. Often as I lighted my candle of an
evening in my little room to read of these things so far
away, I would drop my Kentucky Gazette to think of a
woman whose face I remembered, to wonder sadly whether
Helene de St. Gre were among the lists. In her, I was
sure, was personified that courage for which her order will
go down eternally through the pages of history, and in my
darker moments I pictured her standing beside the guillotine
with a smile that haunted me.

The hideous image of that strife was reflected amongst
our own people. Budget after budget was hurried by the
winds across the sea. And swift couriers carried the news
over the Blue Wall by the Wilderness Trail (widened
now), and thundered through the little villages of the
Blue Grass country to the Falls. What interest, you will
say, could the pioneer lawyers and storekeepers and
planters have in the French Revolution? The Rights of
Man! Down with kings! General Washington and Mr.
Adams and Mr. Hamilton might sigh for them, but they
were not for the free-born pioneers of the West. Citizen
was the proper term now,--Citizen General Wilkinson
when that magnate came to town, resplendent in his
brigadier's uniform. It was thought that Mr. Wilkinson
would plot less were he in the army under the watchful
eye of his superiors. Little they knew him! Thus the
Republic had a reward for adroitness, for treachery, and
treason. But what reward had it for the lonely, embittered,
stricken man whose genius and courage had gained
for it the great Northwest territory? What reward had
the Republic for him who sat brooding in his house above
the Falls--for Citizen General Clark?

In those days you were not a Federalist or a Democrat,
you were an Aristocrat or a Jacobin. The French parties
were our parties; the French issue, our issue. Under the
patronage of that saint of American Jacobinism, Thomas
Jefferson, a Jacobin society was organized in Philadelphia,
--special guardians of Liberty. And flying on the
March winds over the mountains the seed fell on the black
soil of Kentucky: Lexington had its Jacobin society,
Danville and Louisville likewise their patrons and
protectors of the Rights of Mankind. Federalists were not
guillotined in Kentucky in the summer of 1793, but I
might mention more than one who was shot.

In spite of the Federalists, Louisville prospered, and
incidentally I prospered in a mild way. Mr. Crede, behind
whose store I still lived, was getting rich, and happened
to have an affair of some importance in Philadelphia. Mr.
Wharton was kind enough to recommend a young lawyer
who had the following virtues: he was neither handsome
nor brilliant, and he wore snuff-colored clothes. Mr.
Wharton also did me the honor to say that I was cautious
and painstaking, and had a habit of tiring out my adversary.
Therefore, in the early summer of 1793, I went to
Philadelphia. At that time, travellers embarking on such a
journey were prayed over as though they were going to
Tartary. I was absent from Louisville near a year, and
there is a diary of what I saw and felt and heard on this
trip for the omission of which I will be thanked. The
great news of that day which concerns the world--and
incidentally this story--was that Citizen Genet had
landed at Charleston.

Citizen Genet, Ambassador of the great Republic of
France to the little Republic of America, landed at
Charleston, acclaimed by thousands, and lost no time.
Scarcely had he left that city ere American privateers had
slipped out of Charleston harbor to prey upon the commerce
of the hated Mistress of the Sea. Was there ever
such a march of triumph as that of the Citizen Ambassador
northward to the capital? Everywhere toasted and
feasted, Monsieur Genet did not neglect the Rights of
Man, for without doubt the United States was to declare
war on Britain within a fortnight. Nay, the Citizen
Ambassador would go into the halls of Congress and
declare war himself if that faltering Mr. Washington
refused his duty. Citizen Genet organized his legions as he
went along, and threw tricolored cockades from the windows
of his carriage. And at his glorious entry into
Philadelphia (where I afterwards saw the great man with
my own eyes), Mr. Washington and his Federal-Aristocrats
trembled in their boots.

It was late in April, 1794, when I reached Pittsburg on
my homeward journey and took passage down the Ohio
with a certain Captain Wendell of the army, in a Kentucky
boat. I had known the Captain in Louisville, for
he had been stationed at Fort Finney, the army post
across the Ohio from that town, and he had come to
Pittsburg with a sergeant to fetch down the river some dozen
recruits. This was a most fortunate circumstance for me,
and in more ways than one. Although the Captain was a
gruff and blunt man, grizzled and weather-beaten, a
woman-hater, he could be a delightful companion when
once his confidence was gained; and as we drifted in the
mild spring weather through the long reaches between the
passes he talked of Trenton and Brandywine and Yorktown.
There was more than one bond of sympathy between
us, for he worshipped Washington, detested the
French party, and had a hatred for ``filthy Democrats''
second to none I have ever encountered.

We stopped for a few days at Fort Harmar, where the
Muskingum pays its tribute to the Ohio, built by the
Federal government to hold the territory which Clark
had won. And leaving that hospitable place we took up
our journey once more in the very miracle-time of the
spring. The sunlight was like amber-crystal, the tall
cottonwoods growing by the water-side flaunted a proud
glory of green, the hills behind them that formed the first
great swells of the sea of the wilderness were clothed in a
thousand sheens and shaded by the purple budding of the
oaks and walnuts on the northern slopes. On the yellow
sandbars flocks of geese sat pluming in the sun, or rose at
our approach to cast fleeting shadows on the water, their
HONK-HONKS echoing from the hills. Here and there a hawk
swooped down from the azure to break the surface and
bear off a wriggling fish that gleamed like silver, and at
eventide we would see at the brink an elk or doe, with
head poised, watching us as we drifted. We passed here
and there a lonely cabin, to set my thoughts wandering
backwards to my youth, and here and there in the dimples
of the hills little clusters of white and brown houses, one
day to become marts of the Republic.

My joy at coming back at this golden season to a country
I loved was tempered by news I had heard from Captain
Wendell, and which I had discussed with the officers at
Fort Harmar. The Captain himself had broached the
subject one cool evening, early in the journey, as we sat
over the fire in our little cabin. He had been telling me
about Brandywine, but suddenly he turned to me with a
kind of fierce gesture that was natural to the man.

``Ritchie,'' he said, ``you were in the Revolution
yourself. You helped Clark to capture that country,'' and he
waved his hand towards the northern shore; ``why the
devil don't you tell me about it?''

``You never asked me,'' I answered.

He looked at me curiously.

``Well,'' he said, ``I ask you now.''

I began lamely enough, but presently my remembrance
of the young man who conquered all obstacles, who compelled
all men he met to follow and obey him, carried me
strongly into the narrative. I remembered him, quiet,
self-contained, resourceful, a natural leader, at twenty-five
a bulwark for the sorely harried settlers of Kentucky;
the man whose clear vision alone had perceived the value
of the country north of the Ohio to the Republic, who had
compelled the governor and council of Virginia to see it
likewise. Who had guarded his secret from all men, who
in the face of fierce opposition and intrigue had raised a
little army to follow him--they knew not where. Who
had surprised Kaskaskia, cowed the tribes of the North in
his own person, and by sheer force of will drew after him
and kept alive a motley crowd of men across the floods
and through the ice to Vincennes.

We sat far into the night, the Captain listening as I
had never seen a man listen. And when at length I had
finished he was for a long time silent, and then he sprang
to his feet with an oath that woke the sleeping soldiers
forward and glared at me.

``My God!'' he cried, ``it is enough to make a man
curse his uniform to think that such a man as Wilkinson
wears it, while Clark is left to rot, to drink himself under
the table from disappointment, to plot with the damned
Jacobins--''

``To plot!'' I cried, starting violently in my turn.

The Captain looked at me in astonishment.

``How long have you been away from Louisville?'' he
asked.

``It will be a year,'' I answered.

``Ah,'' said the Captain, ``I will tell you. It is more
than a year since Clark wrote Genet, since the Ambassador
bestowed on him a general's commission in the army
of the French Republic.''

``A general's commission!'' I exclaimed. ``And he is
going to France?''  The nation which had driven John
Paul Jones from its service was now to lose George Rogers
Clark!

``To France!'' laughed the Captain. ``No, this is
become France enough. He is raising in Kentucky
and in the Cumberland country an army with a cursed,
high-sounding name. Some of his old Illinois scouts--
McChesney, whom you mentioned, for one--have been
collecting bear's meat and venison hams all winter. They
are going to march on Louisiana and conquer it for the
French Republic, for Liberty, Equality--the Rights of
Man, anything you like.''

``On Louisiana!'' I repeated; ``what has the Federal
government been doing?''

The Captain winked at me and sat down.

``The Federal government is supine, a laughing-stock--
so our friends the Jacobins say, who have been shouting
at Mr. Easton's tavern all winter. Nay, they declare that
all this country west of the mountains, too, will be broken
off and set up into a republic, and allied with that
most glorious of all republics, France. Believe me, the
Jacobins have not been idle, and there have been strange-
looking birds of French plumage dodging between the
General's house at Clarksville and the Bear Grass.''

I was silent, the tears almost forcing themselves to my
eyes at the pathetic sordidness of what I had heard.

``It can come to nothing,'' continued the Captain, in a
changed voice. ``General Clark's mind is unhinged by--
disappointment. Mad Anthony[1] is not a man to be caught
sleeping, and he has already attended to a little expedition
from the Cumberland. Mad Anthony loves the General,
as we all do, and the Federal government is wiser than
the Jacobins think. It may not be necessary to do
anything.''  Captain Wendell paused, and looked at me
fixedly. ``Ritchie, General Clark likes you, and you
have never offended him. Why not go to his little house
in Clarksville when you get to Louisville and talk to him
plainly, as I know you can? Perhaps you might have
some influence.''

[1] General Wayne of Revolutionary fame was then in command of
that district.

I shook my head sadly.

``I intend to go,'' I answered, ``but I will have no
influence.''

CHAPTER II

THE HOUSE ABOVE THE FALLS

It was May-day, and shortly after dawn we slipped into
the quiet water which is banked up for many miles above
the Falls. The Captain and I sat forward on the deck,
breathing deeply the sharp odor which comes from the wet
forest in the early morning, listening to the soft splash of
the oars, and watching the green form of Eighteen Mile
Island as it gently drew nearer and nearer. And ere the
sun had risen greatly we had passed Twelve Mile Island,
and emerging from the narrow channel which divides Six
Mile Island from the northern shore, we beheld, on its
terrace above the Bear Grass, Louisville shining white in
the morning sun. Majestic in its mile of width, calm, as
though gathering courage, the river seemed to straighten
for the ordeal to come, and the sound of its waters
crying over the rocks far below came faintly to my ear
and awoke memories of a day gone by. Fearful of the
suck, we crept along the Indian shore until we counted
the boats moored in the Bear Grass, and presently above
the trees on our right we saw the Stars and Stripes floating
from the log bastion of Fort Finney. And below the fort,
on the gentle sunny slope to the river's brink, was spread
the green garden of the garrison, with its sprouting
vegetables and fruit trees blooming pink and white.

We were greeted by a company of buff and blue officers
at the landing, and I was bidden to breakfast at their
mess, Captain Wendell promising to take me over to
Louisville afterwards. He had business in the town, and
about eight of the clock we crossed the wide river in one
of the barges of the fort and made fast at the landing in
the Bear Grass. But no sooner had we entered the town
than we met a number of country people on horseback,
with their wives and daughters--ay, and sweethearts--
perched up behind them: the men mostly in butternut
linsey hunting shirts and trousers, slouch hats, and red
handkerchiefs stuck into their bosoms; the women marvellously
pretty and fresh in stiff cotton gowns and Quaker
hats, and some in crimped caps with ribbons neatly tied
under the chin. Before Mr. Easton's tavern Joe Handy,
the fiddler, was reeling off a few bars of ``Hey, Betty
Martin'' to the familiar crowd of loungers under the big poplar.

``It's Davy Ritchie!'' shouted Joe, breaking off in the
middle of the tune; ``welcome home, Davy. Ye're jest in
time for the barbecue on the island.''

``And Cap Wendell! Howdy, Cap!'' drawled another,
a huge, long-haired, sallow, dirty fellow. But the Captain
only glared.

``Damn him!'' he said, after I had spoken to Joe and
we had passed on, ``HE ought to be barbecued; he nearly
bit off Ensign Barry's nose a couple of months ago.
Barry tried to stop the beast in a gouging fight.''

The bright morning, the shady streets, the homelike
frame and log houses, the old-time fragrant odor of
cornpone wafted out of the open doorways, the warm greetings,
--all made me happy to be back again. Mr. Crede rushed
out and escorted us into his cool store, and while he
waited on his country customers bade his negro brew a
bowl of toddy, at the mention of which Mr. Bill Whalen,
chief habitue, roused himself from a stupor on a tobacco
barrel. Presently the customers, having indulged in the
toddy, departed for the barbecue, the Captain went to the
fort, and Mr. Crede and myself were left alone to talk
over the business which had sent me to Philadelphia.

At four o'clock, having finished my report and dined
with my client, I set out for Clarksville, for Mr. Crede
had told me, among other things, that the General was
there. Louisville was deserted, the tavern porch vacant;
but tacked on the logs beside the door was a printed bill
which drew my curiosity. I stopped, caught by a familiar
name in large type at the head of it.

        ``GEORGE R. CLARK, ESQUIRE,
``MAJOR-GENERAL IN THE ARMIES OF FRANCE AND
   COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE FRENCH
        REVOLUTIONARY LEGION ON THE
            MISSISSIPPI RIVER.

            ``PROPOSALS

``For raising volunteers for the reduction of the Spanish
posts on the Mississippi, for opening the trade of the said river
and giving freedom to all its inhabitants--''

I had got so far when I heard a noise of footsteps within,
and Mr. Easton himself came out, in his shirt-sleeves.

``By cricky, Davy,'' said he, ``I'm right glad ter see ye
ag'in. Readin' the General's bill, are ye? Tarnation, I
reckon Washington and all his European fellers east of
the mountains won't be able ter hold us back this time.
I reckon we'll gallop over Louisiany in the face of all the
Spaniards ever created. I've got some new whiskey I 'low
will sink tallow. Come in, Davy.''

As he took me by the arm, a laughter and shouting
came from the back room.

``It's some of them Frenchy fellers come over from
Knob Licks. They're in it,'' and he pointed his thumb
over his shoulder to the proclamation, ``and thar's one
young American among 'em who's a t'arer. Come in.''

I drank a glass of Mr. Easton's whiskey, and asked
about the General.

``He stays over thar to Clarksville pretty much,'' said
Mr. Easton. ``Thar ain't quite so much walkin' araound
ter do,'' he added significantly.

I made my way down to the water-side, where Jake
Landrasse sat alone on the gunwale of a Kentucky boat,
smoking a clay pipe as he fished. I had to exercise
persuasion to induce Jake to paddle me across, which he
finally agreed to do on the score of old friendship, and he
declared that the only reason he was not at the barbecue
was because he was waiting to take a few gentlemen to
see General Clark. I agreed to pay the damages if he
were late in returning for these gentlemen, and soon he
was shooting me with pulsing strokes across the lake-like
expanse towards the landing at Fort Finney. Louisville
and the fort were just above the head of the Falls, and
the little town of Clarksville, which Clark had founded,
at the foot of them. I landed, took the road that led
parallel with the river through the tender green of the
woods, and as I walked the mighty song which the Falls
had sung for ages to the Wilderness rose higher and
higher, and the faint spray seemed to be wafted through
the forest and to hang in the air like the odor of a summer rain.

It was May-day. The sweet, caressing note of the
thrush mingled with the music of the water, the dogwood
and the wild plum were in festal array; but my heart was
heavy with thinking of a great man who had cheapened
himself. At length I came out upon a clearing where
fifteen log houses marked the grant of the Federal
government to Clark's regiment. Perched on a tree-dotted
knoll above the last spasm of the waters in their two-mile
race for peace, was a two-storied log house with a little,
square porch in front of the door. As I rounded the
corner of the house and came in sight of the porch I halted
--by no will of my own--at the sight of a figure sunken
in a wooden chair. It was that of my old Colonel. His
hands were folded in front of him, his eyes were fixed but
dimly on the forests of the Kentucky shore across the
water; his hair, uncared for, fell on the shoulders of his
faded blue coat, and the stained buff waistcoat was
unbuttoned. For he still wore unconsciously the colors of
the army of the American Republic.

``General!'' I said.

He started, got to his feet, and stared at me.

``Oh, it's--it's Davy,'' he said. ``I--I was expecting
--some friends--Davy. What--what's the matter,
Davy?''

``I have been away. I am glad to see you again,
General.

``Citizen General, sir, Major-general in the army of the
French Republic and Commander-in-chief of the French
Revolutionary Legion on the Mississippi.''

``You will always be Colonel Clark to me, sir,'' I
answered.

``You--you were the drummer boy, I remember, and
strutted in front of the regiment as if you were the colonel.
Egad, I remember how you fooled the Kaskaskians when
you told them we were going away.''  He looked at me,
but his eyes were still fixed on the point beyond. ``You
were always older than I, Davy. Are you married?''

In spite of myself, I laughed as I answered this question.

``You are as canny as ever,'' he said, putting his hand
on my shoulder. ``Liberty, Equality, Fraternity,--they
are only possible for the bachelor.''  Hearing a noise, he
glanced nervously in the direction of the woods, only to
perceive his negro carrying a pail of water. ``I--I was
expecting some friends,'' he said. ``Sit down, Davy.''

``I hope I am not intruding, General,'' I said, not
daring to look at him.

``No, no, my son,'' he answered, ``you are always
welcome. Did we not campaign together? Did we not--
shoot these very falls together on our way to Kaskaskia?''
He had to raise his voice above the roar of the water.
``Faith, well I remember the day. And you saved it,
Davy,--you, a little gamecock, a little worldly-wise hop-
o'-my-thumb, eh? Hamilton's scalp hanging by a lock,
egad--and they frightened out of their five wits because
it was growing dark.''  He laughed, and suddenly became
solemn again. ``There comes a time in every man's life
when it grows dark, Davy, and then the cowards are
afraid. They have no friends whose hands they can reach
out and feel. But you are my friend. You remember
that you said you would always be my friend? It--it
was in the fort at Vincennes.''

``I remember, General.''

He rose from the steps, buttoned his waistcoat, and
straightened himself with an effort. He looked at me
impressively.

``You have been a good friend indeed, Davy, a faithful
friend,'' he said. ``You came to me when I was sick, you
lent me money,''--he waved aside my protest. ``I am
happy to say that I shall soon be in a position to repay
you, to reward you. My evil days are over, and I spurn
that government which spurned me, for the honor and
glory of which I founded that city,''--he pointed in the
direction of Louisville,--``for the power and wealth of
which I conquered this Northwest territory. Listen! I
am now in the service of a republic where the people have
rights, I am Commander-in-chief of the French Revolutionary
Legion on the Mississippi. Despite the supineness
of Washington, the American nation will soon be at war
with Spain. But my friends--and thank God they are
many--will follow me--they will follow me to Natchez
and New Orleans,--ay, even to Santa Fe and Mexico if
I give the word. The West is with me, and for the West
I shall win the freedom of the Mississippi. For France
and Liberty I shall win back again Louisiana, and then I
shall be a Marechal de Camp.''

I could not help thinking of a man who had not been
wont to speak of his intentions, who had kept his counsel
for a year before Kaskaskia.

``I need my drummer boy, Davy,'' he said, his face
lighting up, ``but he will not be a drummer boy now. He
will be a trusted officer of high rank, mind you. Come,''
he cried, seizing me by the arm, ``I will write the
commission this instant. But hold! you read French,--I
remember the day Father Gibault gave you your first
lesson.''  He fumbled in his pocket, drew out a letter,
and handed it to me. ``This is from Citizen Michaux, the
famous naturalist, the political agent of the French
Republic. Read what he has written me.''

I read, I fear in a faltering voice:--

``Citoyen General:

``Un homme qui a donne des preuves de son amour pour la
Liberte et de sa haine pour le despotisme ne devait pas
s'adresser en vain au ministre de la Republique francaise.
General, il est temps que les Americains libres de l'Ouest
soient debarasses d'un ennemie aussi injuste que meprisable.''

When I had finished I glanced at the General, but he
seemed not to be heeding me. The sun was setting above
the ragged line of forest, and a blue veil was spreading over
the tumbling waters. He took me by the arm and led me
into the house, into a bare room that was all awry. Maps
hung on the wall, beside them the General's new commission,
rudely framed. Among the littered papers on the
table were two whiskey bottles and several glasses, and
strewn about were a number of chairs, the arms of which
had been whittled by the General's guests. Across the
rough mantel-shelf was draped the French tricolor, and
before the fireplace on the puncheons lay a huge bearskin
which undoubtedly had not been shaken for a year.
Picking up a bottle, the General poured out generous
helpings in two of the glasses, and handed one to me.

``The mists are bad, Davy,'' said he ``I--I cannot
afford to get the fever now. Let us drink success to the
army of the glorious Republic, France.''

``Let us drink first, General,'' I said, ``to the old
friendship between us.''

``Good!'' he cried. Tossing off his liquor, he set down
the glass and began what seemed a fruitless search among
the thousand papers on the table. But at length, with a
grunt of satisfaction, he produced a form and held it
under my eyes. At the top of the sheet was that much-
abused and calumniated lady, the Goddess of Liberty.

``Now,'' he said, drawing up a chair and dipping his
quill into an almost depleted ink-pot, ``I have decided to
make you, David Ritchie, with full confidence in your
ability and loyalty to the rights of liberty and mankind,
a captain in the Legion on the Mississippi.

I crossed the room swiftly, and as he put his pen to
paper I laid my hand on his arm.

``General, I cannot,'' I said. I had seen from the first
the futility of trying to dissuade him from the expedition,
and I knew now that it would never come off. I was
willing to make almost any sacrifice rather than offend him,
but this I could not allow. The General drew himself up
in his chair and stared at me with a flash of his old look.

``You cannot?'' he repeated; ``you have affairs to
attend to, I take it.''

I tried to speak, but he rode me down.

``There is money to be made in that prosperous town of
Louisville.''  He did not understand the pain which his
words caused me. He rose and laid his hands affectionately
on my shoulders. ``Ah, Davy, commerce makes a man
timid. Do you forget the old days when I was the
father and you the son? Come! I will make you a
fortune undreamed of, and you shall be my fianancier
once more.''

``I had not thought of the money, General,'' I answered,
``and I have always been ready to leave my business to
serve a friend.''

``There, there,'' said the General, soothingly, ``I know
it. I would not offend you. You shall have the commission,
and you may come when it pleases you.''

He sat down again to write, but I restrained him.

``I cannot go, General,'' I said.

``Thunder and fury,'' cried the General, ``a man might
think you were a weak-kneed Federalist.''  He stared at
me, and stared again, and rose and recoiled a step. ``My
God,'' he said, ``you cannot be a Federalist, you can't have
marched to Kaskaskia and Vincennes, you can't have been
a friend of mine and have seen how the government of the
United States has treated me, and be a Federalist!''

It was an argument and an appeal which I had foreseen,
yet which I knew not how to answer. Suddenly there came,
unbidden, his own counsel which he had given me long ago,
``Serve the people, as all true men should in a Republic,
but do not rely upon their gratitude.''  This man had
bidden me remember that.

``General,'' I said, trying to speak steadily, ``it was you
who gave me my first love for the Republic. I remember
you as you stood on the heights above Kaskaskia waiting
for the sun to go down, and you reminded me that it was
the nation's birthday. And you said that our nation was
to be a refuge of the oppressed of this earth, a nation made
of all peoples, out of all time. And you said that the
lands beyond,'' and I pointed to the West as he had done,
``should belong to it until the sun sets on the sea again.''

I glanced at him, for he was silent, and in my life I can
recall no sadder moment than this. The General heard,
but the man who had spoken these words was gone forever.
The eyes of this man before me were fixed, as it were,
upon space. He heard, but he did not respond; for the
spirit was gone. What I looked upon was the tortured
body from which the genius--the spirit I had worshipped
--had fled. I turned away, only to turn back in anger.

``What do you know of this France for which you are
to fight?'' I cried. ``Have you heard of the thousands of
innocents who are slaughtered, of the women and children
who are butchered in the streets in the name of Liberty?
What have those blood-stained adventurers to do with
Liberty, what have the fish-wives who love the sight of
blood to do with you that would fight for them? You
warned me that this people and this government to which
you have given so much would be ungrateful,--will the
butchers and fish-wives be more grateful?''

He caught only the word GRATEFUL, and he rose to his
feet with something of the old straightness and of the
old power. And by evil chance his eye, and mine, fell
upon a sword hanging on the farther wall. Well I
remembered when he had received it, well I knew the
inscription on its blade, ``Presented by the State of
Virginia to her beloved son, George Rogers Clark, who by the
conquest of Illinois and St. Vincennes extended her empire
and aided in the defence of her liberties.''  By evil chance,
I say, his eye lighted on that sword. In three steps he
crossed the room to where it hung, snatched it from its
scabbard, and ere I could prevent him he had snapped it across
his knee and flung the pieces in a corner.

``So much for the gratitude of my country,'' he said.

   *    *   *    *     *    *    *

I had gone out on the little porch and stood gazing over
the expanse of forest and waters lighted by the afterglow.
Then I felt a hand upon my shoulder, I heard a familiar
voice calling me by an old name.

``Yes, General!'' I turned wonderingly.

``You are a good lad, Davy. I trust you,'' he said. ``I
--I was expecting some friends.''

He lifted a hand that was not too steady to his brow
and scanned the road leading to the fort. Even as he
spoke four figures emerged from the woods,--undoubtedly
the gentlemen who had held the council at the inn that
afternoon. We watched them in silence as they drew
nearer, and then something in the walk and appearance of
the foremost began to bother me. He wore a long, double-
breasted, claret-colored redingote that fitted his slim figure
to perfection, and his gait was the easy gait of a man who
goes through the world careless of its pitfalls. So intently
did I stare that I gave no thought to those who followed
him. Suddenly, when he was within fifty paces, a cry
escaped me,--I should have known that smiling, sallow,
weakly handsome face anywhere in the world.

The gentleman was none other than Monsieur Auguste
de St. Gre. At the foot of the steps he halted and swept
his hand to his hat with a military salute.

``Citizen General,'' he said gracefully, ``we come and
pay our respec's to you and mek our report, and ver'
happy to see you look well. Citoyens, Vive la Republique!
--Hail to the Citizen General!''

``Vive la Republique! Vive le General!'' cried the
three citizens behind him.

``Citizens, you are very welcome,'' answered the General,
gravely, as he descended the steps and took each of them
by the hand. ``Citizens, allow me to introduce to you my
old friend, Citizen David Ritchie--''

``Milles diables!'' cried the Citizen St. Gre, seizing me
by the hand, ``c'est mon cher ami, Monsieur Reetchie.
Ver' happy you have this honor, Monsieur;''and snatching
his wide-brimmed military cocked hat from his head he
made me a smiling, sweeping bow.

``What!'' cried the General to me, ``you know the
Sieur de St. Gre, Davy?''

``He is my guest once in Louisiane, mon general,''
Monsieur Auguste explained; ``my family knows him.''

``You know the Sieur de St. Gre, Davy?'' said the
General again.

``Yes, I know him,'' I answered, I fear with some brevity.

``Podden me,'' said Auguste, ``I am now Citizen Captain
de St. Gre. And you are also embark in the glorious
cause--  Ah, I am happy,'' he added, embracing me with
a winning glance.

I was relieved from the embarrassment of denying the
impeachment by reason of being introduced to the other
notables, to Citizen Captain Sullivan, who wore an undress
uniform consisting of a cotton butternut hunting shirt
He had charge on the Bear Grass of building the boats for
the expedition, and was likewise a prominent member of
that august body, the Jacobin Society of Lexington. Next
came Citizen Quartermaster Depeau, now of Knob Licks,
Kentucky, sometime of New Orleans. The Citizen
Quartermaster wore his hair long in the backwoods
fashion; he had a keen, pale face and sunken eyes.

``Ver' glad mek you known to me, Citizen Reetchie.''

The fourth gentleman was likewise French, and called
Gignoux. The Citizen Gignoux made some sort of an
impression on me which I did not stop to analyze. He
was a small man, with a little round hand that wriggled
out of my grasp; he had a big French nose, bright eyes
that popped a little and gave him the habit of looking
sidewise, and grizzled, chestnut eyebrows over them.
He had a thin-lipped mouth and a round chin.

``Citizen Reetchie, is it? I laik to know citizen's name
glorified by gran' cause. Reetchie?''

``Will you enter, citizens?'' said the General.

I do not know why I followed them unless it were to
satisfy a devil-prompted curiosity as to how Auguste de
St. Gre had got there. We went into the room, where the
General's slovenly negro was already lighting the candles
and the General proceeded to collect and fill six of the
glasses on the table. It was Citizen Captain Sullivan
who gave the toast.

``Citizens,'' he cried, ``I give you the health of the
foremost apostle of Liberty in the Western world, the General
who tamed the savage tribes, who braved the elements,
who brought to their knees the minions of a despot king.''
A slight suspicion of a hiccough filled this gap. ``Cast
aside by an ungrateful government, he is still unfaltering
in his allegiance to the people. May he lead our Legion
victorious through the Spanish dominions.

``Vive la Republique!'' they shouted, draining their
glasses. ``Vive le citoyen general Clark!''

``Louisiana!'' shouted Citizen Sullivan, warming,
``Louisiana, groaning under oppression and tyranny, is
imploring us with uplifted hands. To those remaining
veteran patriots whose footsteps we followed to this distant
desert, and who by their blood and toil have converted
it into a smiling country, we now look. Under
your guidance, Citizen General, we fought, we bled--''

How far the Citizen Captain would have gone is
problematical. I had noticed a look of disgust slowly creeping
into the Citizen Quartermaster's eyes, and at this juncture
he seized the Citizen Captain and thrust him into a chair.

``Sacre vent!'' he exclaimed, ``it is the proclamation--
he recites the proclamation! I see he have participate in
those handbill. Poof, the world is to conquer,--let us
not spik so much.''

``I give you one toast,'' said the little Citizen Gignoux,
slyly, ``we all bring back one wife from Nouvelle Orleans!

``Ha,'' exclaimed the Sieur de St. Gre, laughing,; the
Citizen Captain Depeau--he has already one wife in
Nouvelle Orleans.''[1]

[1] It is unnecessary for the editor to remind the reader that
these are not Mr. Ritchie's words, but those of an adventurer.
Mr. Depeau was an honest and worthy gentleman, earnest enough in
a cause which was more to his credit than to an American's.
According to contemporary evidence, Madame Depeau was in New
Orleans.

The Citizen Quartermaster was angry at this, and it did
not require any great perspicacity on my part to discover
that he did not love the Citizen de St. Gre.

``He is call in his country, Gumbo de St. Gre, said
Citizen Depeau. ``It is a deesh in that country. But to
beesness, citizens,--we embark on glorious enterprise.
The King and Queen of France, she pay for her treason
with their haids, and we must be prepare' for do the sem.''

``Ha,'' exclaimed the Sieur de St. Gre, ``the Citizen
Quartermaster will lose his provision before his haid.''

The inference was plain, and the Citizen Quartermaster
was quick to take it up.

``We are all among frien's,'' said he. ``Why I call you
Gumbo de St. Gre? When I come first settle in Louisiane
you was wild man--yes. Drink tafia, fight duel,
spend family money. Aristocrat then. No, I not hold
my tongue. You go France and Monsieur le Marquis de
St. Gre he get you in gardes du corps of the King. Yes, I
tell him. You tell the Citizen General how come you
Jacobin now, and we see if he mek you Captain.''

A murmur of surprise escaped from several of the
company, and they all stared at the Sieur de St. Gre. But
General Clark brought down his fist on the table with
something of his old-time vigor, and the glasses rattled.

``Gentlemen, I will have no quarrelling in my presence,''
he cried; ``and I beg to inform Citizen Depeau that
I bestow my commissions where it pleases me.''

Auguste de St. Gre rose, flushing, to his feet.
``Citizens,'' he said, with a fluency that was easy for him, ``I
never mek secret of my history--no. It is true my
relation, Monsieur le Marquis de St. Gre, bought me a
pair of colors in the King's gardes du corps.''

``And is it not truth you tremple the coackade, what I
hear from Philadelphe?'' cried Depeau.

Monsieur Auguste smiled with a patient tolerance.

``If you hev pains to mek inquiry,'' said he, ``you must
learn that I join le Marquis de La Fayette and the National
Guard. That I have since fight for the Revolution.
That I am come now home to fight for Louisiane, as
Monsieur Genet will tell you whom I saw in Philadelphe.''

``The Citizen Capitaine--he spiks true.''

All eyes were turned towards Gignoux, who had been
sitting back in his chair, very quiet.

``It is true what he say,'' he repeated, ``I have it by
Monsieur Genet himself.''

``Gentlemen,'' said General Clark, ``this is beside the
question, and I will not have these petty quarrels. I may
as well say to you now that I have chosen the Citizen
Captain to go at once to New Orleans and organize a regiment
among the citizens there faithful to France. On
account of his family and supposed Royalist tendencies he
will not be suspected. I fear that a month at least has
yet to elapse before our expedition can move.''

``It is one wise choice,'' put in Monsieur Gignoux.

``Monsieur le general and gentlemen,'' said the Sieur de
St. Gre, gracefully, ``I thank you ver' much for the
confidence. I leave by first flatboat and will have all things
stir up when you come. The citizens of Louisiane await
you. If necessair, we have hole in levee ready to cut.''

``Citizens,'' interrupted General Clark, sitting down
before the ink-pot, ``let us hear the Quartermaster's
report of the supplies at Knob Licks, and Citizen Sullivan's
account of the boats. But hold,'' he cried, glancing
around him, ``where is Captain Temple? I heard that he
had come to Louisville from the Cumberland to-day. Is
he not going with you to New Orleans, St. Gre?''

I took up the name involuntarily.

``Captain Temple,'' I repeated, while they stared at me.
``Nicholas Temple?''

It was Auguste de St. Gre who replied.

``The sem,'' he said. ``I recall he was along with you
in Nouvelle Orleans. He is at ze tavern, and he has had
one gran' fight, and he is ver'--I am sorry--intoxicate--''

I know not how I made my way through the black woods
to Fort Finney, where I discovered Jake Landrasse and his
canoe. The road was long, and yet short, for my brain
whirled with the expectation of seeing Nick again, and
the thought of this poor, pathetic, ludicrous expedition
compared to the sublime one I had known.

George Rogers Clark had come to this!

CHAPTER III

LOUISVILLE CELEBRATES

``They have gran' time in Louisville to-night, Davy,''
said Jake Landrasse, as he paddled me towards the Kentucky
shore; ``you hear?''

``I should be stone deaf if I didn't,'' I answered, for
the shouting which came from the town filled me with
forebodings.

``They come back from the barbecue full of whiskey,''
said Jake, ``and a young man at the tavern come out on
the porch and he say, `Get ready you all to go to Louisiana!
You been hole back long enough by tyranny.'
Sam Barker come along and say he a Federalist. They
done have a gran' fight, he and the young feller, and Sam
got licked. He went at Sam just like a harricane.''

``And then?'' I demanded.

``Them four wanted to leave,'' said Jake, taking no
trouble to disguise his disgust, ``and I had to fetch 'em
over. I've got to go back and wait for 'em now,'' and
he swore with sincere disappointment. ``I reckon there
ain't been such a jamboree in town for years.''

Jake had not exaggerated. Gentlemen from Moore's
Settlement, from Sullivan's Station on the Bear Grass,--
to be brief, the entire male population of the county
seemed to have moved upon Louisville after the barbecue,
and I paused involuntarily at the sight which met my
eyes as I came into the street. A score of sputtering,
smoking pine-knots threw a lurid light on as many hilarious
groups, and revealed, fantastically enough, the boles
and lower branches of the big shade trees above them.
Navigation for the individual, difficult enough lower down,
in front of the tavern became positively dangerous. There
was a human eddy,--nay, a maelstrom would better describe
it. Fights began, but ended abortively by reason of
the inability of the combatants to keep their feet; one
man whose face I knew passed me with his hat afire,
followed by several companions in gusts of laughter, for
the torch-bearers were careless and burned the ears of
their friends in their enthusiasm. Another person whom
I recognized lacked a large portion of the front of his
attire, and seemed sublimely unconscious of the fact. His
face was badly scratched. Several other friends of mine
were indulging in brief intervals of rest on the ground,
and I barely avoided stepping on them. Still other
gentlemen were delivering themselves of the first impressive
periods of orations, only to be drowned by the cheers of
their auditors. These were the snatches which I heard
as I picked my way onward with exaggerated fear:--

``Gentlemen, the Mississippi is ours, let the tyrants who
forbid its use beware!''  ``To hell with the Federal
government!''  ``I tell you, sirs, this land is ours. We
have conquered it with our blood, and I reckon no Spaniard
is goin' to stop us. We ain't come this far to stand still.
We settled Kaintuck, fit off the redskins, and we'll march
across the Mississippi and on and on--''  ``To Louisiany!''
they shouted, and the whole crowd would take it
up, ``To Louisiany! Open the river!''

So absorbed was I in my own safety and progress that I
did not pause to think (as I have often thought since)
of the full meaning of this, though I had marked it for
many years. The support given to Wilkinson's plots, to
Clark's expedition, was merely the outward and visible
sign of the onward sweep of a resistless race. In spite of
untold privations and hardships, of cruel warfare and
massacre, these people had toiled over the mountains into
this land, and impatient of check or hindrance would, even
as Clark had predicted, when their numbers were sufficient
leap the Mississippi. Night or day, drunk or sober, they
spoke of this thing with an ever increasing vehemence,
and no man of reflection who had read their history could
say that they would be thwarted. One day Louisiana
would be theirs and their children's for the generations to
come. One day Louisiana would be American.

That I was alive and unscratched when I got as far as
the tavern is a marvel. Amongst all the passion-lit faces
which surrounded me I could get no sight of Nick's, and I
managed to make my way to a momentarily quiet corner
of the porch. As I leaned against the wall there, trying
to think what I should do, there came a great cheering
from a little way up the street, and then I straightened
in astonishment. Above the cheering came the sound of
a drum beaten in marching time, and above that there burst
upon the night what purported to be the ``Marseillaise,''
taken up and bawled by a hundred drunken throats and
without words. Those around me who were sufficiently
nimble began to run towards the noise, and I ran after
them. And there, marching down the middle of the
street at the head of a ragged and most indecorous column
of twos, in the centre of a circle of light cast by a pine-
knot which Joe Handy held, was Mr. Nicholas Temple.
His bearing, if a trifle unsteady, was proud, and--if I
could believe my eyes--around his neck was slung the
thing which I prized above all my possessions,--the
drum which I had carried to Kaskaskia and Vincennes!
He had taken it from the peg in my room.

I shrink from putting on paper the sentimental side of
my nature, and indeed I could give no adequate idea of my
affection for that drum. And then there was Nick, who
had been lost to me for five years! My impulse was to
charge the procession, seize Nick and the drum together,
and drag them back to my room; but the futility and
danger of such a course were apparent, and the caution for
which I am noted prevented my undertaking it. The
procession, augmented by all those to whom sufficient
power of motion remained, cheered by the helpless but
willing ones on the ground, swept on down the street and
through the town. Even at this late day I shame to write
it! Behold me, David Ritchie, Federalist, execrably sober,
at the head of the column behind the leader. Was it
twenty minutes, or an hour, that we paraded? This I
know, that we slighted no street in the little town of
Louisville. What was my bearing,--whether proud or
angry or carelessly indifferent,--I know not. The glare
of Joe Handy's torch fell on my face, Joe Handy's arm
and that of another gentleman, the worse for liquor, were
linked in mine, and they saw fit to applaud at every step
my conversion to the cause of Liberty. We passed time
and time again the respectable door-yards of my Federalist
friends, and I felt their eyes upon me with that look which
the angels have for the fallen. Once, in front of Mr.
Wharton's house, Mr. Handy burned my hair, apologized,
staggered, and I took the torch! And I used it to good
advantage in saving the drum from capture. For Mr.
Temple, with all the will in the world, had begun to
stagger. At length, after marching seemingly half the
night, they halted by common consent before the house
of a prominent Democrat who shall be nameless, and,
after some minutes of vain importuning, Nick, with a
tattoo on the drum, marched boldly up to the gate and
into the yard. A desperate cunning came to my aid. I
flung away the torch, leaving the head of the column in
darkness, broke from Mr. Handy's embrace, and, seizing
Nick by the arm, led him onward through the premises, he
drumming with great docility. Followed by a few
stragglers only (some of whom went down in contact with the
trees of the orchard), we came to a gate at the back which I
knew well, which led directly into the little yard that fronted
my own rooms behind Mr. Crede's store. Pulling Nick
through the gate, I slammed it, and he was only beginning
to protest when I had him safe within my door, and
the bolt slipped behind him. As I struck a light
something fell to the floor with a crash, an odor of alcohol
filled the air, and as the candle caught the flame I saw a
shattered whiskey bottle at my feet and a room which had
been given over to carousing. In spite of my feelings I
could not but laugh at the perfectly irresistible figure my
cousin made, as he stood before me with the drum slung in
front of him. His hat was gone, his dust-covered clothes
awry, but he smiled at me benignly and without a trace of
surprise.

``Sho you've come back at lasht, Davy,'' he said. ``You're
--you're very--irregular. You'll lose--law bishness.
Y-you're worse'n Andy Jackson--he's always fightin'.''

I relieved him, unprotesting, of the drum, thanking my
stars there was so much as a stick left of it. He watched
me with a silent and exaggerated interest as I laid it on
the table. From a distance without came the shouts of
the survivors making for the tavern.

``'Sfortunate you had the drum, Davy,'' he said gravely,
`` 'rwe'd had no procession.''

``It is fortunate I have it now,'' I answered, looking
ruefully at the battered rim where Nick had missed the
skin in his ardor.

``Davy,'' said he, ``funny thing--I didn't know you
wash a Jacobite. Sh'ou hear,'' he added relevantly, ``th'
Andy Jackson was married?''

``No,'' I answered, having no great interest in Mr.
Jackson. ``Where have you been seeing him again?''

``Nashville on Cumberland. Jackson'sh county
sholicitor,--devil of a man. I'll tell you, Davy,'' he
continued,laying an uncertain hand on my shoulder and speaking
with great earnestness, ``I had Chicashaw horse--Jackson'd
Virginia thoroughbred--had a race--'n' Jackson
wanted to shoot me 'n' I wanted to shoot Jackson. 'N' then
we all went to the Red Heifer--''

``What the deuce is the Red Heifer?'' I asked.

``'N'dishtillery over a shpring, 'n' they blow a horn when
the liquor runsh. 'N' then we had supper in Major Lewish's
tavern. Major Lewis came in with roast pig on platter.
You know roast pig, Davy? . . . 'N' Jackson pulls out's
hunting knife n'waves it very mashestic. . . . You know
how mashestic Jackson is when he--wantshtobe?''  He
let go my shoulder, brushed back his hair in a fiery
manner, and, seizing a knife which unhappily lay on the
table, gave me a graphic illustration of Mr. Jackson about
to carve the pig, I retreating, and he coming on. ``N' when
he stuck the pig, Davy,--''

He poised the knife for an instant in the air, and then,
before I could interpose, he brought it down deftly through
the head of my precious drum, and such a frightful,
agonized squeal filled the room that even I shivered
involuntarily, and for an instant I had a vivid vision of a pig
struggling in the hands of a butcher. I laughed in spite
of myself. But Nick regarded me soberly.

``Funny thing, Davy,'' he said, ``they all left the room.''
For a moment he appeared to be ruminating on this singular
phenomenon. Then he continued: `` 'N' Jackson was
back firsht, 'n' he was damned impolite . . . 'n' he shook
his fist in my face'' (here Nick illustrated Mr. Jackson's
gesture), `` 'n' he said, `Great God, sir, y' have a fine talent
but if y' ever do that again, I'll--I'll kill you.' . . .
That'sh what he said, Davy.''

``How long have you been in Nashville, Nick?'' I
asked.

``A year,'' he said, ``lookin' after property I won rattle-
an'-shnap--you remember?''

``And why didn't you let me know you were in Nashville?''
I asked, though I realized the futility of the
question.

``Thought you was--mad at me,'' he answered, ``but
you ain't, Davy. You've been very good-natured t' let
me have your drum.''  He straightened. ``I am ver'
much obliged.

``And where were you before you went to Nashville?''
I said.

``Charleston, 'Napolis . . . Philadelphia . . .
everywhere,'' he answered.

``Now,'' said he, `` 'mgoin' t' bed.''

I applauded this determination, but doubted whether
he meant to carry it out. However, I conducted him to
the back room, where he sat himself down on the edge
of my four-poster, and after conversing a little longer
on the subject of Mr. Jackson (who seemed to have
gotten upon his brain), he toppled over and instantly
fell asleep with his clothes on. For a while I stood over
him, the old affection welling up so strongly within me
that my eyes were dimmed as I looked upon his face.
Spare and handsome it was, and boyish still, the weaker
lines emphasized in its relaxation. Would that relentless
spirit with which he had been born make him, too, a
wanderer forever? And was it not the strangest of fates
which had impelled him to join this madcap expedition
of this other man I loved, George Rogers Clark?

I went out, closed the door, and lighting another candle
took from my portfolio a packet of letters. Two of them
I had not read, having found them only on my return from
Philadelphia that morning. They were all signed simply
``Sarah Temple,'' they were dated at a certain number in
the Rue Bourbon, New Orleans, and each was a tragedy
in that which it had left unsaid. There was no suspicion
of heroics, there was no railing at fate; the letters breathed
but the one hope,--that her son might come again to that
happiness of which she had robbed him. There were in
all but twelve, and they were brief, for some affliction had
nearly deprived the lady of the use of her right hand. I
read them twice over, and then, despite the lateness of the
hour, I sat staring at the candles, reflecting upon my own
helplessness. I was startled from this revery by a knock.
Rising hastily, I closed the door of my bedroom, thinking
I had to do with some drunken reveller who might be
noisy. The knock was repeated. I slipped back the bolt
and peered out into the night.

``I saw dat light,'' said a voice which I recognized; ``I
think I come in to say good night.''

I opened the door, and he walked in.

``You are one night owl, Monsieur Reetchie,'' he said.

``And you seem to prefer the small hours for your
visits, Monsieur de St. Gre,'' I could not refrain from
replying.

He swept the room with a glance, and I thought a shade
of disappointment passed over his face. I wondered
whether he were looking for Nick. He sat himself down
in my chair, stretched out his legs, and regarded me with
something less than his usual complacency.

``I have much laik for you, Monsieur Reetchie,'' he
began, and waved aside my bow of acknowledgment
``Before I go away from Louisville I want to spik with
you,--this is a risson why I am here. You listen to
what dat Depeau he say,--dat is not truth. My family
knows you, I laik to have you hear de truth.''

He paused, and while I wondered what revelations he
was about to make, I could not repress my impatience at
the preamble.

``You are my frien', you have prove it,'' he continued.
``You remember las' time we meet?'' (I smiled involuntarily.)
``You was in bed, but you not need be ashame'
for me. Two days after I went to France, and I not in
New Orleans since.''

``Two days after you saw me?'' I repeated.

``Yaas, I run away. That was the mont' of August,
1789, and we have not then heard in New Orleans that
the Bastille is attack. I lan' at La Havre,--it is the en'
of Septembre. I go to the Chateau de St. Gre--great
iron gates, long avenue of poplar,--big house all 'round a
court, and Monsieur le Marquis is at Versailles. I borrow
three louis from the concierge, and I go to Versailles
to the hotel of Monsieur le Marquis. There is all dat
trouble what you read about going on, and Monsieur le
Marquis he not so glad to see me for dat risson. `Mon
cher Auguste,' he cry, `you want to be of officier in gardes
de corps? You are not afred?' '' (Auguste stiffened.)  `` `I
am a St. Gre, Monsieur le Marquis. I am afred of
nothings,' I answered. He tek me to the King, I am made
lieutenant, the mob come and the King and Queen are
carry off to Paris. The King is prisoner, Monsieur le
Marquis goes back to the Chateau de St. Gre. France is
a republic. Monsieur--que voulez-vous?''  (The Sieur de
St. Gre shrugged his shoulders.) ``I, too, become
Republican. I become officier in the National Guard,--one
must move with the time. Is it not so, Monsieur? I
deman' of you if you ever expec' to see a St. Gre a
Republican.''

I expressed my astonishment.

``I give up my right, my principle, my family. I come
to America--I go to New Orleans where I have influence
and I stir up revolution for France, for Liberty. Is it
not noble cause?''

I had it on the tip of my tongue to ask Monsieur
Auguste why he left France, but the uselessness of it
was apparent.

``You see, Monsieur, I am justify before you, before my
frien's,--that is all I care,'' and he gave another shrug
in defiance of the world at large. ``What I have done, I
have done for principle. If I remain Royalist, I might
have marry my cousin, Mademoiselle de St. Gre. Ha,
Monsieur, you remember--the miniature you were so
kin' as to borrow me four hundred livres?''

``I remember,'' I said.

``It is because I have much confidence in you,
Monsieur,'' he said, ``it is because I go--peut-etre--to
dangere, to death, that I come here and ask you to do me a
favor.''

``You honor me too much, Monsieur,'' I answered,
though I could scarce refrain from smiling.

``It is because of your charactair,'' Monsieur Auguste
was good enough to say. ``You are to be repose' in, you
are to be rely on. Sometime I think you ver' ole man.
And this is why, and sence you laik objects of art, that I
bring this and ask you keep it while I am in dangere.''

I was mystified. He thrust his hand into his coat and
drew forth an oval object wrapped in dirty paper, and
then disclosed to my astonished eyes the miniature of
Mademoiselle de St. Gre,--the miniature, I say, for the
gold back and setting were lacking. Auguste had retained
only the ivory,--whether from sentiment or necessity I
will not venture. The sight of it gave me a strange
sensation, and I can scarcely write of the anger and disgust
which surged over me, of the longing to snatch it from his
trembling fingers. Suddenly I forgot Auguste in the
lady herself. There was something emblematical in the
misfortune which had bereft the picture of its setting.
Even so the Revolution had taken from her a brilliant
life, a king and queen, home and friends. Yet the spirit
remained unquenchable, set above its mean surroundings,--
ay, and untouched by them. I was filled with a
painful curiosity to know what had become of her, which
I repressed. Auguste's voice aroused me.

``Ah, Monsieur, is it not a face to love, to adore?''

``It is a face to obey,'' I answered, with some heat, and
with more truth than I knew.

``Mon Dieu, Monsieur, it is so. It is that mek me love--
you know not how. You know not what love is, Monsieur
Reetchie, you never love laik me. You have not sem
risson. Monsieur,'' he continued, leaning forward and
putting his hand on my knee, ``I think she love me--I
am not sure. I should not be surprise'. But Monsieur
le Marquis, her father, he trit me ver' bad. Monsieur le
Marquis is guillotine' now, I mus' not spik evil of him,
but he marry her to one ol' garcon, Le Vicomte d'Ivry-le-
Tour.''

``So Mademoiselle is married,'' I said after a pause.

``Oui, she is Madame la Vicomtesse now; I fall at her
feet jus' the sem. I hear of her once at Bel Oeil, the
chateau of Monsieur le Prince de Ligne in Flander'.
After that they go I know not where. They are exile',--
los' to me.''  He sighed, and held out the miniature to me.
``Monsieur, I esk you favor. Will you be as kin' and
keep it for me again?''

I have wondered many times since why I did not refuse.
Suffice it to say that I took it. And Auguste's face
lighted up.

``I am a thousan' times gret'ful,'' he cried; and added,
as though with an afterthought, ``Monsieur, would you
be so kin' as to borrow me fif' dollars?''

CHAPTER IV

OF A SUDDEN RESOLUTION

It was nearly morning when I fell asleep in my chair,
from sheer exhaustion, for the day before had been a hard
one, even for me. I awoke with a start, and sat for some
minutes trying to collect my scattered senses. The sun
streamed in at my open door, the birds hopped on the
lawn, and the various sounds of the bustling life of the
little town came to me from beyond. Suddenly, with a
glimmering of the mad events of the night, I stood up,
walked uncertainly into the back room, and stared at the
bed.

It was empty. I went back into the outer room; my
eye wandered from the shattered whiskey bottle, which
was still on the floor, to the table littered with Mrs.
Temple's letters. And there, in the midst of them, lay a
note addressed with my name in a big, unformed hand. I
opened it mechanically.

``Dear Davy,''--so it ran,--``I have gone away, I cannot
tell you where. Some day I will come back and you
will forgive me. God bless you!          NICK.''

He had gone away! To New Orleans? I had long
ceased trying to account for Nick's actions, but the more
I reflected, the more incredible it seemed to me that he
should have gone there, of all places. And yet I had had
it from Clark's own lips (indiscreet enough now!) that
Nick and St. Gre were to prepare the way for an insurrection
there. My thoughts ran on to other possibilities;
would he see his mother? But he had no reason to know
that Mrs. Temple was still in New Orleans. Then my
glance fell on her letters, lying open on the table. Had he
read them? I put this down as improbable, for he was a
man who held strictly to a point of honor.

And then there was Antoinette de St. Gre! I ceased
to conjecture here, dashed some water in my eyes, pulled
myself together, and, seizing my hat, hurried out into the
street. I made a sufficiently indecorous figure as I ran
towards the water-side, barely nodding to my acquaintances
on the way. It was a fresh morning, a river breeze
stirred the waters of the Bear Grass, and as I stood, scanning
the line of boats there, I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned to confront a little man with grizzled, chestnut
eyebrows. He was none other than the Citizen Gignoux.

``You tek ze air, Monsieur Reetchie?'' said he. ``You
look for some one, yes? You git up too late see him off.''

I made a swift resolve never to quibble with this man.

``So Mr. Temple has gone to New Orleans with the
Sieur de St. Gre,'' I said.

Citizen Gignoux laid a fat finger on one side of his
great nose. The nose was red and shiny, I remember,
and glistened in the sunlight.

``Ah,'' said he, `` 'tis no use tryin' hide from you.
However, Monsieur Reetchie, you are the ver' soul of honor.
And then your frien'! I know you not betray the Sieur
de St. Gre. He is ver' fon' of you.''

``Betray!'' I exclaimed; ``there is no question of
betrayal. As far as I can see, your plans are carried on
openly, with a fine contempt for the Federal government.''

He shrugged his shoulders.

`` 'Tis not my doin','' he said, ``but I am--what you call
it?--a cipher. Sicrecy is what I believe. But drink too
much, talk too much--is it not so, Monsieur? And if
Monsieur le Baron de Carondelet, ze governor, hear they
are in New Orleans, I think they go to Havana or Brazil.''
He smiled, but perhaps the expression of my face caused
him to sober abruptly. ``It is necessair for the cause.
We must have good Revolution in Louisiane.''

A suspicion of this man came over me, for a childlike
simplicity characterized the other ringleaders in this
expedition. Clark had had acumen once, and lost it; St. Gre
was a fool; Nick Temple was leading purposely a reckless
life; the Citizens Sullivan and Depeau had, to say
the least, a limited knowledge of affairs. All of these
were responding more or less sincerely to the cry of the
people of Kentucky (every day more passionate) that
something be done about Louisiana. But Gignoux seemed
of a different feather. Moreover, he had been too shrewd
to deny what Colonel Clark would have denied in a soberer
moment,--that St. Gre and Nick had gone to New Orleans.

``You not spik, Monsieur. You not think they have
success. You are not Federalist, no, for I hear you march
las night with your frien',--I hear you wave torch.''

``You make it your business to hear a great deal,
Monsieur Gignoux,'' I retorted, my temper slipping a little.

He hastened to apologize.

``Mille pardons, Monsieur,'' he said; ``I see you are
Federalist--but drunk. Is it not so? Monsieur, you tink
this ver' silly thing--this expedition.''

``Whatever I think, Monsieur,'' I answered, ``I am a
friend of General Clark's.''

``An enemy of ze cause?'' he put in.

``Monsieur,'' I said, ``if President Washington and
General Wayne do not think it worth while to interfere
with your plans, neither do I.''

I left him abruptly, and went back to my long-delayed
affairs with a heavy heart. The more I thought, the more
criminally foolish Nick's journey seemed to me. However
puerile the undertaking, De Lemos at Natchez and Carondelet
at New Orleans had not the reputation of sleeping at
their posts, and their hatred for Americans was well known.
I sought General Clark, but he had gone to Knob Licks,
and in my anxiety I lay awake at nights tossing in my bed.

One evening, perhaps four days after Nick's departure,
I went into the common room of the tavern, and
there I was surprised to see an old friend. His square,
saffron face was just the same, his little jet eyes snapped
as brightly as ever, his hair--which was swept high above
his forehead and tied in an eelskin behind--was as black
as when I had seen it at Kaskaskia. I had met Monsieur
Vigo many times since, for he was a familiar figure
amongst the towns of the Ohio and the Mississippi, and
from Vincennes to Anse a la Graisse, and even to New
Orleans. His reputation as a financier was greater than
ever. He was talking to my friend, Mr. Marshall, but
he rose when he saw me, with a beaming smile.

``Ha, it is Davy,'' he cried, ``but not the sem lil
drummer boy who would not come into my store. Reech
lawyer now,--I hear you make much money now, Davy.''

``Congress money?'' I said.

Monsieur Vigo threw out his hands, and laughed exactly
as he had done in his log store at Kaskaskia.

``Congress have never repay me one sou,'' said Monsieur
Vigo, making a face. ``I have try--I have talk--I have
represent--it is no good. Davy, it is your fault. You
tell me tek dat money. You call dat finance?''

``David,'' said Mr. Marshall, sharply, ``what the devil
is this I hear of your carrying a torch in a Jacobin
procession?''

``You may put it down to liquor, Mr. Marshall,'' I
answered.

``Then you must have had a cask, egad,'' said Mr.
Marshall, ``for I never saw you drunk.''

I laughed.

``I shall not attempt to explain it, sir,'' I answered.

``You must not allow your drum to drag you into bad
company again,'' said he, and resumed his conversation.
As I suspected, it was a vigorous condemnation of General
Clark and his new expedition. I expressed my belief that
the government did not regard it seriously, and would
forbid the enterprise at the proper time.

``You are right, sir,'' said Mr. Marshall, bringing down
his fist on the table. ``I have private advices from
Philadelphia that the President's consideration for Governor
Shelby is worn out, and that he will issue a proclamation
within the next few days warning all citizens at their peril
from any connection with the pirates.''

I laughed.

``As a matter of fact, Mr. Marshall,'' said I, ``Citizen
Genet has been liberal with nothing except commissions,
and they have neither money nor men.''

``The rascals have all left town,'' said Mr. Marshall.
``Citizen Quartermaster Depeau, their local financier, has
gone back to his store at Knob Licks. The Sieur de St.
Gre and a Mr. Temple, as doubtless you know, have gone
to New Orleans. And the most mysterious and therefore
the most dangerous of the lot, Citizen Gignoux, has vanished
like an evil spirit. It is commonly supposed that he,
too, has gone down the river. You may see him, Vigo,''
said Mr. Marshall, turning to the trader; ``he is a little
man with a big nose and grizzled chestnut eyebrows.''

``Ah, I know a lil 'bout him,'' said Monsieur Vigo; ``he
was on my boat two days ago, asking me questions.''

``The devil he was!'' said Mr. Marshall.

I had another disquieting night, and by the morning I
had made up my mind. The sun was glinting on the
placid waters of the river when I made my way down to
the bank, to a great ten-oared keel boat that lay on the
Bear Grass, with its square sail furled. An awning was
stretched over the deck, and at a walnut table covered
with papers sat Monsieur Vigo, smoking his morning pipe.

``Davy,'' said he, ``you have come a la bonne heure. At
ten I depart for New Orleans.''  He sighed. ``It is so long
voyage,'' he added, ``and so lonely one. Sometime I have
the good fortune to pick up a companion, but not to-day.''

``Do you want me to go with you?'' I said.

He looked at me incredulously.

``I should be delighted,'' he said, ``but you mek a jest.''

``I was never more serious in my life,'' I answered, ``for
I have business in New Orleans. I shall be ready.''

``Ha,'' cried Monsieur Vigo, hospitably, ``I shall be
enchant. We will talk philosophe, Beaumarchais, Voltaire,
Rousseau.''

For Monsieur Vigo was a great reader, and we had often
indulged in conversation which (we flattered ourselves)
had a literary turn.

I spent the remaining hours arranging with a young
lawyer of my acquaintance to look after my business, and at
ten o'clock I was aboard the keel boat with my small
baggage. At eleven, Monsieur Vigo and I were talking
``philosophe'' over a wonderful breakfast under the
awning, as we dropped down between the forest-lined shores of
the Ohio. My host travelled in luxury, and we ate the
Creole dishes, which his cook prepared, with silver forks
which he kept in a great chest in the cabin.

You who read this may feel something of my impatience
to get to New Orleans, and hence I shall not give a long
account of the journey. What a contrast it was to that
which Nick and I had taken five years before in Monsieur
Gratiot's fur boat! Like all successful Creole traders,
Monsieur Vigo had a wonderful knack of getting on with
the Indians, and often when we tied up of a night the
chief men of a tribe would come down to greet him.
We slipped southward on the great, yellow river which
parted the wilderness, with its sucks and eddies and green
islands, every one of which Monsieur knew, and I saw again
the flocks of water-fowl and herons in procession, and
hawks and vultures wheeling in their search. Sometimes
a favorable wind sprang up, and we hoisted the sail. We
passed the Walnut Hills, the Nogales, the moans of the
alligators broke our sleep by night, and at length we came
to Natchez, ruled over now by that watch-dog of the Spanish
King, Gayoso de Lemos. Thanks to Monsieur Vigo,
his manners were charming and his hospitality gracious,
and there was no trouble whatever about my passport.

Our progress was slow when we came at last to the
belvedered plantation houses amongst the orange groves;
and as we sat on the wide galleries in the summer nights,
we heard all the latest gossip of the capital of Louisiana.
The river was low; there was an ominous quality in the
heat which had its effect, indeed, upon me, and made the
old Creoles shake their heads and mutter a word with a
terrible meaning. New Orleans was a cesspool, said the
enlightened. The Baron de Carondelet, indefatigable
man, aimed at digging a canal to relieve the city of its
filth, but this would be the year when it was most needed,
and it was not dug. Yes, Monsieur le Baron was energy
itself. That other fever--the political one--he had
scotched. ``Ca Ira'' and ``La Marseillaise'' had been
sung in the theatres, but not often, for the Baron had sent
the alcaldes to shut them up. Certain gentlemen of French
ancestry had gone to languish in the Morro at Havana.
Yes, Monsieur de Carondelet, though fat, was on horseback
before dawn, New Orleans was fortified as it never had
been before, the militia organized, real cannon were on the
ramparts which could shoot at a pinch.

Sub rosa, I found much sympathy among the planters
with the Rights of Man. What had become, they asked,
of the expedition of Citizen General Clark preparing in
the North? They may have sighed secretly when I
painted it in its true colors, but they loved peace, these
planters. Strangly enough, the name of Auguste de St.
Gre never crossed their lips, and I got no trace of him or
Nick at any of these places. Was it possible that they
might not have come to New Orleans after all?

Through the days, when the sun beat upon the awning
with a tropical fierceness, when Monsieur Vigo abandoned
himself to his siestas, I thought. It was perhaps
characteristic of me that I waited nearly three weeks to confide
in my old friend the purpose of my journey to New Orleans.
It was not because I could not trust him that I held my
tongue, but because I sought some way of separating the
more intimate story of Nick's mother and his affair with
Antoinette de St. Gre from the rest of the story. But
Monsieur Vigo was a man of importance in Louisiana, and
I reflected that a time might come when I should need his
help. One evening, when we were tied up under the oaks
of a bayou, I told him. There emanated from Monsieur
Vigo a sympathy which few men possess, and this I felt
strongly as he listened, breaking his silence only at long
intervals to ask a question. It was a still night, I
remember, of great beauty, with a wisp of a moon hanging over
the forest line, the air heavy with odors and vibrant with
a thousand insect tones.

``And what you do, Davy?'' he said at length.

``I must find my cousin and St. Gre before they have a
chance to get into much mischief,'' I answered. ``If they
have already made a noise, I thought of going to the Baron
de Carondelet and telling him what I know of the expedition.
He will understand what St. Gre is, and I will
explain that Mr. Temple's reckless love of adventure is
at the bottom of his share in the matter.''

``Bon, Davy,'' said my host, ``if you go, I go with you.
But I believe ze Baron think Morro good place for them
jus' the sem. Ze Baron has been make miserable with
Jacobins. But I go with you if you go.''

He discoursed for some time upon the quality of the
St. Gre's, their public services, and before he went to
sleep he made the very just remark that there was a flaw
in every string of beads. As for me, I went down into
the cabin, surreptitiously lighted a candle, and drew from
my pocket that piece of ivory which had so strangely
come into my possession once more. The face upon it had
haunted me since I had first beheld it. The miniature
was wrapped now in a silk handkerchief which Polly Ann
had bought for me in Lexington. Shall I confess it?--I
had carefully rubbed off the discolorations on the ivory at
the back, and the picture lacked now only the gold setting.
As for the face, I had a kind of consolation from it. I
seemed to draw of its strength when I was tired, of its
courage when I faltered. And, during those four days of
indecision in Louisville, it seemed to say to me in words
that I could not evade or forget, ``Go to New Orleans.''
It was a sentiment--foolish, if you please--which
could not resist. Nay, which I did not try to resist, for
I had little enough of it in my life. What did it matter?
I should never see Madame la Vicomtesse d'Ivry-le-Tour.