Poydras or Tehoupitoulas Street, from Camp,
New Levee, or Saint Charles, in dress-coat of black cloth, vest of black
satin, shining like glaze--trousers of like material with the coat--
boots of calf-skin, and gloveless hands.

The dandy clerk of steamboat or store, in white grass frock, snowy
ducks, and beaver hat, long furred and of light yellowish hue. There,
too, the snug smooth banker--the consequential attorney, here no longer
sombre and professional, but gaily caparisoned--the captain of the
river-boat, with no naval look--the rich planter of the coast--the
proprietor of the cotton press or "pickery"--with a sprinkling of
nondescripts made up the crowd that had now assembled in the Rotundo.

As I stood noting these various forms and costumes, a large heavy-built
man, with florid face, and dressed in a green "shad-bellied" coat,
passed through the entrance. In one hand he carried a bundle of papers,
and in the other a small mallet with ivory head--that at once proclaimed
his calling.

His entrance produced a buzz, and set the various groups in motion. I
could hear the phrases, "Here he comes!" "Yon's him!" "Here comes the
major!"

This was not needed to proclaim to all present, who was the individual
in the green "shad-belly." The beautiful dome of Saint Charles itself
was not better known to the citizens of New Orleans than was Major B--,
the celebrated auctioneer.

In another minute, the bright bland face of the major appeared above the
rostrum. A few smart raps of his hammer commanded silence, and the sale
began.

Scipio was ordered first upon the block. The crowd of intended bidders
pressed around him, poked their fingers between his ribs, felt his limbs
as if he had been a fat ox, opened his mouth and examined his teeth as
if he had been a horse, and then bid for him just like he had been one
or the other.

Under other circumstances I could have felt compassion for the poor
fellow; but my heart was too full--there was no room in it for Scipio;
and I averted my face from the disgusting spectacle.

CHAPTER SIXTY.

THE SLAVE-MART.

I once more fixed my eyes upon the entrance, scrutinising every form
that passed in. As yet no appearance of D'Hauteville! Surely he would
soon arrive. He said at twelve o'clock. It was now one, and still he
had not come.

No doubt he would come, and in proper time. After all, I need not be so
anxious as to the time. Her name was last upon the list.