All was still.  The peeping children could see the parson as he lifted his hand to his breast-pocket.  There it paused a moment in bewilderment, then plunged to the bottom.  It came back empty, and fell lifelessly at his side.  His head dropped upon his breast, his eyes were for a moment closed, his broad palms were lifted and pressed against his forehead, a tremor seized him, and he fell all in a lump to the floor.  The children ran off with their infant-loads, leaving Jules St.-Ange swearing by all his deceased relatives, first to Miguel and Joe, and then to the lifted parson, that he did not know what had become of the money “except if” the black man had got it.

In the rear of ancient New Orleans, beyond the sites of the old rampart, a trio of Spanish forts, where the town has since sprung up and grown old, green with all the luxuriance of the wild Creole summer, lay the Congo Plains.  Here stretched the canvas of the historic Cayetano, who Sunday after Sunday sowed the sawdust for his circus-ring.

But to-day the great showman had fallen short of his printed promise.  The hurricane had come by night, and with one fell swash had made an irretrievable sop of every thing.  The circus trailed away its bedraggled magnificence, and the ring was cleared for the bull.

Then the sun seemed to come out and work for the people.  “See,” said the Spaniards, looking up at the glorious sky with its great, white fleets drawn off upon the horizon—­“see—­heaven smiles upon the bull-fight!”

In the high upper seats of the rude amphitheatre sat the gayly-decked wives and daughters of the Gascons, from the metaries along the Ridge, and the chattering Spanish women of the Market, their shining hair un-bonneted to the sun.  Next below were their husbands and lovers in Sunday blouses, milkmen, butchers, bakers, black-bearded fishermen, Sicilian fruiterers, swarthy Portuguese sailors, in little woollen caps, and strangers of the graver sort; mariners of England, Germany, and Holland.  The lowest seats were full of trappers, smugglers, Canadian voyageurs, drinking and singing; Americains, too—­more’s the shame—­from the upper rivers—­who will not keep their seats—­who ply the bottle, and who will get home by and by and tell how wicked Sodom is; broad-brimmed, silver-braided Mexicans, too, with their copper cheeks and bat’s eyes and their tinkling spurred heels.  Yonder, in that quieter section, are the quadroon women in their black lace shawls—­and there is Baptiste; and below them are the turbaned black women, and there is—­but he vanishes—­Colossus.

The afternoon is advancing, yet the sport, though loudly demanded, does not begin.  The Americains grow derisive and find pastime in gibes and raillery They mock the various Latins with their national inflections, and answer their scowls with laughter.  Some of the more aggressive shout pretty French greetings to the women of Gascony, and one bargeman, amid peals of applause, stands on a seat and hurls a kiss to the quadroons.  The mariners of England, Germany, and Holland, as spectators, like the fun, while the Spaniards look black and cast defiant imprecations upon their persecutors.  Some Gascons, with timely caution, pick their women out and depart, running a terrible fire of gallantries.