te, before you
decide to go, that you may meet Mr. Temple. Would it not be better
to let Mr. Ritchie go alone? I am sure that we could find no better
emissary."

"Auguste is here," said Antoinette. "I must see him." Her voice caught.
"I may never see him again. He may be ill, he may be starving--and I
know that he is in trouble. Whether" (her voice caught) "whether Mr.
Temple is with him or not, I mean to go."

"Then it would be well to start," said the Vicomtesse.

Deftly dropping her veil, she picked up a riding whip that lay on the
railing and descended the stairs to the courtyard. Antoinette and I
followed. As we came through the archway I saw Andre, Monsieur de St.
Gre's mulatto, holding open the wicket for us to pass. He helped the
ladies to mount the ponies, lengthened my own stirrups for me, swung
into the saddle himself, and then the four of us were picking our way
down the Rue Chartres at an easy amble. Turning to the right beyond the
cool garden of the Ursulines, past the yellow barracks, we came to the
river front beside the fortifications. A score of negroes were
sweating there in the sun, swinging into position the long logs for the
palisades, nearly completed. They were like those of Kaskaskia and our
own frontier forts in Kentucky, with a forty-foot ditch in front of
them. Seated on a horse talking to the overseer was a fat little man in
white linen who pulled off his hat and bowed profoundly to the ladies.
His face gave me a start, and then I remembered that I had seen him only
the day before, resplendent, coming out of church. He was the Baron de
Carondelet.

There was a sentry standing under a crape-myrtle where the Royal Road
ran through the gateway. Behind him was a diminutive five-sided brick
fort with a dozen little cannon on top of it. The sentry came forward,
brought his musket to a salute, and halted before my horse.

"You will have to show your passport," murmured Madame la Vicomtesse.

I drew the document from my pocket. It was signed by De Lemos, and duly
countersigned by the officer of the port. The man bowed, and I passed
on.

It was a strange, silent ride through the stinging heat to Les Iles,
the brown dust hanging behind us like a cloud, to settle slowly on the
wayside shrubbery. Across the levee bank the river was low, listless,
giving off hot breath like a monster in distress. The forest pools were
cracked and dry, the Spanish moss was a haggard gray, and under the sun
was th