armoury. It was the rendezvous of the volunteers, nearly all of
whom were present; and perhaps a more variegated assemblage was never
grouped together. Every nationality seemed to have its representative;
and for variety of language the company might have rivalled the masons
of Babel.

Near the head of the room was a table, upon which lay a large parchment,
covered with signatures. I added mine to the list. In the act I had
staked my liberty. It was an oath.

"These are my rivals--the candidates for office," thought I, looking at
a group who stood near the table. They were men of better appearance
than the _hoi polloi_. Some of them already affected a half-undress
uniform, and most wore forage-caps with glazed covers, and army buttons
over the ears.

"Ha! Clayley!" said I, recognising an old acquaintance. This was a
young cotton-planter--a free, dashing spirit,--who had sacrificed a
fortune at the shrines of Momus and Bacchus.

"Why, Haller, old fellow! glad to see you. How have you been? Think of
going with us?"

"Yes, I have signed. Who is that man?"

"He's a Creole; his name is Dubrosc."

It was a face purely Norman, and one that would halt the wandering eye
in any collection. Of oval outline, framed by a profusion of black
hair, wavy and perfumed. A round black eye, spanned by brows arching
and glossy. Whiskers that belonged rather to the chin, leaving bare the
jawbone, expressive of firmness and resolve. Firm thin lips, handsomely
moustached; when parted, displaying teeth well set and of dazzling
whiteness. A face that might be called beautiful; and yet its beauty
was of that negative order which we admire in the serpent and the pard.
The smile was cynical; the eye cold, yet bright; but the brightness was
altogether _animal_--more the light of instinct than intellect. A face
that presented in its expression a strange admixture of the lovely and
the hideous--physically fair, morally dark--beautiful, yet brutal!

From some undefinable cause, I at once conceived for this man a strange
feeling of dislike. It was he of whom Lincoln had spoken, and who was
likely to be my rival for the captaincy. Was it this that rendered him
repulsive? No. There was a cause beyond. In him I recognised one of
those abandoned natures who shrink from all honest labour, and live upon
the sacrificial fondness of some weak being who has been enslaved by
their personal attractions. There are many such. I have