en arrived at Arabie,
his plantation, they found the iron gates down, and lying on the grass--
young trees hewn down, as if for bludgeons--the cattle couched in the
cane-fields, lapped in the luxury of the sweet tops and sprouts--the
doors of the sugar-house and mansion removed, the windows standing wide,
and no one to answer call. The slave-quarter also was evidently
deserted.

Papalier clapped spurs to his horse, and rode round, faster than his
companions could follow him. At length Bayou intercepted his path at a
sharp turn, caught his bridle, and said--

"My dear fellow, come with me. There is nothing to be done here. Your
people are all gone; and if they come back, they will only cut your
throat. You must come with me; and under the circumstances, I cannot
stay longer. I ought to be at home."

"True, true. Go, and I will follow. I must find out whether they have
carried off Therese. I must, and I will."

Toussaint pricked his horse into the courtyard, and after a searching
look around dragged out from behind the well a young negress who had
been crouching there, with an infant in her arms. She shrieked and
struggled till she saw Papalier, when she rushed towards him.

"Poor Therese!" cried he, patting her shoulder. "How we have frightened
you! There is nobody here but friends. At least, so it seems. Where
are all the people? And who did this mischief?"

The young creature trembled excessively; and her terror marred for the
time a beauty which was celebrated all over the district--a beauty which
was admitted as fully by the whites as by people of her own race. Her
features were now convulsed by fear, as she told what had happened--that
a body of negroes had come, three hours since, and had summoned
Papalier's people to meet at Latour's estate, where all the force of the
plain was to unite before morning--that Papalier's people made no
difficulty about going, only stopping to search the house for what arms
and ammunition might be there, and to do the mischief which now
appeared--that she believed the whites at the sugar-house must have
escaped, as she had seen and heard nothing of bloodshed--and that this
was all she knew, as she had hidden herself and her infant, first in one
place, and then in another, as she fancied safest, hoping that nobody
would remember her, which seemed to have been the case, as no one
molested her till Toussaint saw her, and terrified her as they
perceived. She had no