near me. And she did so, our hands met, and the note
parted from my fingers. There was no time for a further recognition--
not even a love-pressure--for the moment after she was hurried on
through the crowd, and the carriage-door closed after her.

The mulatto girl accompanied her, and another of the female slaves. All
were put into the carriage. The negro-dealer climbed to the box
alongside the coachman, and the vehicle rattled off over the stony
pavement.

A word to my driver was enough, who, giving the whip to his horses,
followed at like speed.

CHAPTER SIXTY THREE.

TO BRINGIERS.

Coachmen of New Orleans possess their full share of _intelligence_; and
the ring of a piece of silver, extra of their fare, is a music well
understood by them. They are the witnesses of many a romantic
adventure--the necessary confidants of many a love-secret. A hundred
yards in front rolled the carriage that had taken Aurore; now turning
round corners, now passing among drays laden with huge cotton-bales or
hogsheads of sugar--but my driver had fixed his knowing eye upon it, and
I had no need to be uneasy.

It passed up the Rue Chartres but a short distance, and then turned into
one of the short streets that ran from this at right angles towards the
Levee. I fancied for a moment, it was making for the steamboat wharves;
but on reaching the corner, I saw that it had stopped about half way
down the street. My driver, according to the instructions I had given
him, pulled up at the corner, and awaited my further orders. The
carriage I had followed was now standing in front of a house; and just
as I rounded the corner, I caught a glimpse of several figures crossing
the banquette and entering the door. No doubt, all that had ridden in
the carriage--Aurore with the rest--had gone inside the house.

Presently a man came out, and handing his fare to the hackney-coachman,
turned and went back into the house. The latter, gathering up his
reins, gave the whip to his horses, and, wheeling round, came back by
the Rue Chartres. As he passed me, I glanced through the open windows
of his vehicle. It was empty. She had gone into the house, then.

I had no longer any doubt as to where she had been taken. I read on the
corner, "Rue Bienville." The house where the carriage had stopped was
the town residence of Monsieur Dominique Gayarre.

I remained for some minutes in the cab, considering what I had best do.
Was this to be her