reen and moist. The soft-toned bells of it seemed an expression of its
life,--so far removed from our own striving and fighting existence in
Kentucky. Here and there, between plantations, a belfry could be seen
above the cluster of the little white village planted in the green; and
when we went ashore amongst these simple French people they treated us
with such gentle civility and kindness that we would fain have lingered
there. The river had become a vast yellow lake, and often as we drifted
of an evening the wail of a slave dance and monotonous beating of a
tom-tom would float to us over the water.

At last, late one afternoon, we came in sight of that strange city which
had filled our thoughts for many days.

CHAPTER XI. THE STRANGE CITY

Nick and I stood by the mast on the forward part of the cabin, staring
at the distant, low-lying city, while Xavier sought for the entrance
to the eddy which here runs along the shore. If you did not gain this
entrance,--so he explained,--you were carried by a swift current below
New Orleans and might by no means get back save by the hiring of a
crew. Xavier, however, was not to be caught thus, and presently we were
gliding quietly along the eastern bank, or levee, which held back
the river from the lowlands. Then, as we looked, the levee became an
esplanade shaded by rows of willows, and through them we caught sight
of the upper galleries and low, curving roofs of the city itself. There,
cried Xavier, was the Governor's house on the corner, where the great
Miro lived, and beyond it the house of the Intendant; and then, gliding
into an open space between the keel boats along the bank, stared at by
a score of boatmen and idlers from above, we came to the end of our long
journey. No sooner had we made fast than we were boarded by a shabby
customs officer who, when he had seen our passports, bowed politely and
invited us to land. We leaped ashore, gained the gravelled walk on the
levee, and looked about us.

Squalidity first met our eyes. Below us, crowded between the levee
and the row of houses, were dozens of squalid market-stalls tended by
cotton-clad negroes. Beyond, across the bare Place d'Armes, a blackened
gap in the line of houses bore witness to the devastation of the year
gone by, while here and there a roof, struck by the setting sun, gleamed
fiery red with its new tiles. The levee was deserted save for the
negroes and the river men.

"Time for siesta, Michie," said