u know it is not like him," exclaimed Antoinette,
looking at me.

"I know it is not like him, Mademoiselle," I replied.

Madame la Vicomtesse, from behind the girl, gave me a significant look.

"This occurred to me," she went on in an undisturbed tone, "that Mr.
Temple might come with Auguste to protest against the proceeding,--or
even to defend himself against the imputation that he was to make use of
this money in any way. I wish you to realize, Antoinette, 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 sign