umter, has rolled
across the Southern States, and its echo is heard along the whole
stretch of Cote Joyeuse.

Yet Pelagie does not believe it. Not till La Ricaneuse stands before
her with bare, black arms akimbo, uttering a volley of vile abuse and
of brazen impudence. Pelagie wants to kill her. But yet she will not
believe. Not till Felix comes to her in the chamber above the dining
hall--there where that trumpet vine hangs--comes to say good-by to her.
The hurt which the big brass buttons of his new gray uniform pressed
into the tender flesh of her bosom has never left it. She sits upon the
sofa, and he beside her, both speechless with pain. That room would not
have been altered. Even the sofa would have been there in the same spot,
and Ma'ame Pelagie had meant all along, for thirty years, all along, to
lie there upon it some day when the time came to die.

But there is no time to weep, with the enemy at the door. The door has
been no barrier. They are clattering through the halls now, drinking the
wines, shattering the crystal and glass, slashing the portraits.

One of them stands before her and tells her to leave the house. She
slaps his face. How the stigma stands out red as blood upon his blanched
cheek!

Now there is a roar of fire and the flames are bearing down upon her
motionless figure. She wants to show them how a daughter of Louisiana
can perish before her conquerors. But little Pauline clings to her knees
in an agony of terror. Little Pauline must be saved.

"Il ne faut pas faire mal a Pauline." Again she is saying it
aloud--"faire mal a Pauline."

The night was nearly spent; Ma'ame Pelagie had glided from the bench
upon which she had rested, and for hours lay prone upon the stone
flagging, motionless. When she dragged herself to her feet it was to
walk like one in a dream. About the great, solemn pillars, one after the
other, she reached her arms, and pressed her cheek and her lips upon the
senseless brick.

"Adieu, adieu!" whispered Ma'ame Pelagie.

There was no longer the moon to guide her steps across the familiar
pathway to the cabin. The brightest light in the sky was Venus, that
swung low in the east. The bats had ceased to beat their wings about
the ruin. Even the mocking-bird that had warbled for hours in the old
mulberry-tree had sung himself asleep. That darkest hour before the day
was mantling the earth. Ma'ame Pelagie hurried through the wet, clinging
grass, beating aside the heavy m