he noble Red River can be thus classified; nor in any sense
spoken of as a narrow stream. Broad, and deep enough, for the biggest
boats to navigate to Natchitoches--the butt of Colonel Armstrong's
journey by water.

Why the broken planter has taken passage on the little "stern-wheeler"
is due to two distinct causes. It suited him as to time, and also
expense.

On the Mississippi, and its tributaries, a passage in "crack" boats is
costly, in proportion to their character for "crackness." The "Belle of
Natchez," being without reputation of this kind, carries her passengers
at a reasonable rate.

But, indeed, something beyond ideas of opportune time, or economy,
influenced Colonel Armstrong in selecting her. The same thought which
hurried him away from his old home under the shadows of night, has taken
him aboard a third-rate river steamboat. Travelling thus obscurely, he
hopes to shun encounter with men of his own class; to escape not only
observation, but the sympathy he shrinks from.

In this hope he is disappointed, and on both horns of his fancied, not
to say ridiculous, dilemma. For it so chances, that the "bully" boat,
which was to leave Natchez for Natchitoches on the same day with the
"Belle," has burst one of her boilers. As a consequence, the smaller
steamer has started on her trip, loaded down to the water-line with
freight, her state-rooms and cabins crowded with passengers--many of
these the best, bluest blood of Mississippi and Louisiana.

Whatever of chagrin this _contretemps_ has caused Colonel Armstrong--
and, it may be, the older of his daughters--to the younger it gives
gladness. For among the supernumeraries forced to take passage in the
stern-wheel steamer, is a man she has met before. Not only met, but
danced with; and not only danced but been delighted with; so much, that
souvenirs of that night, with its saltative enjoyment, have since oft
occupied her thoughts, thrilling her with sweetest reminiscence.

He, who has produced this pleasant impression, is a young planter, by
name Luis Dupre. A Louisianian by birth, therefore a "Creole." And
without any taint of the African; else he would not be a Creole _pur
sang_.

The English reader seems to need undeceiving about this, constantly,
repeatedly. In the Creole, simply so-called, there is no admixture of
negro blood.

Not a drop of it in the veins of Luis Dupre; else Jessie Armstrong could
not have danced with him at a Natchez bal