Mouthing these words again and again, the parson forced his way through the surge in the wake of the buffalo.  This creature the Latins had secured by a lariat over his head, and were dragging across the old rampart and into a street of the city.

The northern races were trying to prevent, and there was pommelling and knocking down, cursing and knife-drawing, until Jules St.-Ange was quite carried away with the fun, laughed, clapped his hands, and swore with delight, and ever kept close to the gallant parson.

Joe, contrariwise, counted all this child’s-play an interruption.  He had come to find Colossus and the money.  In an unlucky moment he made bold to lay hold of the parson, but a piece of the broken barriers in the hands of a flat-boatman felled him to the sod, the terrible crowd swept over him, the lariat was cut and the giant parson hurled the tiger upon the buffalo’s back.  In another instant both brutes were dead at the hands of the mob; Jones was lifted from his feet, and prating of Scripture and the millennium, of Paul at Ephesus and Daniel in the “buffler’s” den, was borne aloft upon the shoulders of the huzzaing Americains.  Half an hour later he was sleeping heavily on the floor of a cell in the calaboza.

When Parson Jones awoke, a bell was somewhere tolling for midnight.  Somebody was at the door of his cell with a key.  The lock grated, the door swung, the turnkey looked in and stepped back, and a ray of moonlight fell upon M. Jules St.-Ange.  The prisoner sat upon the empty shackles and ring-bolt in the centre of the floor.

“Misty Posson Jone’,” said the visitor, softly.

“O Jools!”

“Mais, w’at de matter, Posson Jone’?”

“My sins, Jools, my sins!”

“Ah!  Posson Jone’, is that something to cry, because a man get sometime a litt’ bit intoxicate? Mais, if a man keep all the time intoxicate, I think that is again’ the conscien’.”

“Jools, Jools, your eyes is darkened—­oh I Jools, Where’s my pore old niggah?”

“Posson Jone’, never min’; he is wid Baptiste.”

“Where?”

“I don’ know w’ere—­mais he is wid Baptiste.  Baptiste is a beautiful to take care of somebody.”

“Is he as good as you, Jools?” asked Parson Jones, sincerely.

Jules was slightly staggered.

“You know, Posson Jone’, you know, a nigger cannot be good as a w’ite man—­mais Baptiste is a good nigger.”

The parson moaned and dropped his chin into his hands.

“I was to of left for home to-morrow, sun-up, on the Isabella schooner.  Pore Smyrny!” He deeply sighed.

“Posson Jone’,” said Jules, leaning against the wall and smiling, “I swear you is the moz funny man I ever see.  If I was you I would say, me, ’Ah! ‘ow I am lucky! the money I los’, it was not mine, anyhow!’ My faith! shall a man make hisse’f to be the more sorry because the money he los’ is not his?  Me, I would say, ‘it is a specious providence.’