m Monsieur Vigo a sympathy which few men possess, and
this I felt strongly as he listened, breaking his silence only at long
intervals to ask a question. It was a still night, I remember, of great
beauty, with a wisp of a moon hanging over the forest line, the air heavy
with odors and vibrant with a thousand insect tones.

"And what you do, Davy?" he said at length.

"I must find my cousin and St. Gre before they have a chance to get into
much mischief," 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