I answered. "If they have already made a noise, I
thought of going to the Baron de Carondelet and telling him what I
know of the expedition. He will understand what St. Gre is, and I will
explain that Mr. Temple's reckless love of adventure is at the bottom of
his share in the matter."

"Bon, Davy," said my host, "if you go, I go with you. But I believe ze
Baron think Morro good place for them jus' the sem. Ze Baron has been
make miserable with Jacobins. But I go with you if you go."

He discoursed for some time upon the quality of the St. Gre's, their
public services, and before he went to sleep he made the very just
remark that there was a flaw in every string of beads. As for me, I went
down into the cabin, surreptitiously lighted a candle, and drew from
my pocket that piece of ivory which had so strangely come into my
possession once more. The face upon it had haunted me since I had first
beheld it. The miniature was wrapped now in a silk handkerchief which
Polly Ann had bought for me in Lexington. Shall I confess it?--I had
carefully rubbed off the discolorations on the ivory at the back, and
the picture lacked now only the gold setting. As for the face, I had a
kind of consolation from it. I seemed to draw of its strength when I was
tired, of its courage when I faltered. And, during those four days of
indecision in Louisville, it seemed to say to me in words that I could
not evade or forget, "Go to New Orleans." It was a sentiment--foolish,
if you please--which could not resist. Nay, which I did not try to
resist, for I had little enough of it in my life. What did it matter? I
should never see Madame la Vicomtesse d'Ivry-le-Tour.

She was Helene to me; and the artist had caught the strength of her
soul in her clear-cut face, in the eyes that flashed with wit and
courage,--eyes that seemed to look with scorn upon what was mean in the
world and untrue, with pity on the weak. Here was one who might have
governed a province and still have been a woman, one who had taken
into exile the best of safeguards against misfortune,--humor and an
indomitable spirit.

CHAPTER V. THE HOUSE OF THE HONEYCOMBED TILES

As long as I live I shall never forget that Sunday morning of my second
arrival at New Orleans. A saffron heat-haze hung over the river and the
city, robbed alike from the yellow waters of the one and the pestilent
moisture of the other. It would have been strange indeed if this capital
of Louisiana, brought