ard but the wind and the
pouring rain. The short column went out of the village at full gallop.

Day was fully come when Chaouache rose and stepped out upon his
galerie. He had thought he could venture to sleep in bed such a night;
and, sure enough, here morning came, and there had been no intrusion.
'Thanase, too, was up. It was raining and blowing still. Across the
prairie, as far as the eye could reach, not a movement of human life
could be seen. They went in again, made a fire of a few fagots and an
armful of cotton-seed, hung the kettle, and emptied the old coffee
from the coffee-pot.

The mother and children rose and dressed. The whole family huddled
around the good, hot, cotton-seed fire. No one looked out of window or
door; in such wind and rain, where was the need? In the little log
stable hard by, the two favorite saddle-horses remained unsaddled and
unbridled. The father's and son's pistol-belts, with revolvers
buttoned in their holsters, hung on the bedposts by the headboards of
their beds. A long sporting rifle leaned in a corner near the chimney.

Chaouache and 'Thanase got very busy plaiting a horse-hair halter, and
let time go by faster than they knew. Madame Chaouache, so to call
her, prepared breakfast. The children played with the dog and cat.
Thus it happened that still nobody looked out into the swirling rain.
Why should they? Only to see the wide deluged plain, the round
drenched groves, the _maraises_ and sinuous _coolees_ shining with
their floods, and long lines of benumbed, wet cattle seeking in
patient, silent Indian file for warmer pastures. They knew it all by
heart.

Yonder farthest _ile_ is Sosthene's. The falling flood makes it almost
undiscernible. Even if one looked, he would not see that a number of
horsemen have come softly plashing up to Sosthene's front fence, for
Sosthene's house and grove are themselves in the way. They spy
Bonaventure. He is just going in upon the galerie with an armful of
China-tree fagots. Through their guide and spokesman they utter, not
the usual halloo, but a quieter hail, with a friendly beckon.

"Adjieu." The men were bedraggled, and so wet one could not make out
the color of the dress. One could hardly call it a uniform, and pretty
certainly it was not blue.

"Adjieu," responded Bonaventure, with some alarm; but the spokesman
smiled re-assuringly. He pointed far away south-westward, and asked if
a certain green spot glimmering faintly through the r