“Ah!  Misty Posson Jone’,” he continued, “you make a so droll sermon ad the bull-ring.  Ha! ha!  I swear I thing you can make money to preach thad sermon many time ad the theatre St. Philippe.  Hah! you is the moz brave dat I never see, mais ad the same time the moz rilligious man.  Where I’m goin’ to fin’ one priest to make like dat? Mais, why you can’t cheer up an’ be ‘appy?  Me, if I should be miserabl’ like that I would kill meself.”

The countryman only shook his head.

“Bien, Posson Jone’, I have the so good news for you.”

The prisoner looked up with eager inquiry.

“Las’ evening when they lock’ you, I come right off at M. De Blanc’s house to get you let out of de calaboose; M. De Blanc he is the judge.  So soon I was entering—­’Ah!  Jules, me boy, juz the man to make complete the game!’ Posson Jone’, it was a specious providence!  I win in t’ree hours more dan six hundred dollah!  Look.”  He produced a mass of bank-notes, bons, and due-bills.

“And you got the pass?” asked the parson, regarding the money with a sadness incomprehensible to Jules.

“It is here; it take the effect so soon the daylight.”

“Jools, my friend, your kindness is in vain.”

The Creole’s face became a perfect blank.

“Because,” said the parson, “for two reasons:  firstly, I hare broken the laws, and ought to stand the penalty; and secondly—­you must really excuse me, Jools, you know, but the pass has been got onfairly, I’m afeerd.  You told the judge I was innocent; and in neither case it don’t become a Christian (which I hope I can still say I am one) to ’do evil that good may come.’  I muss stay.”

M. St.-Ange stood up aghast, and for a moment speechless, at this exhibition of moral heroism; but an artifice was presently hit upon. “Mais, Posson Jone’!”—­in his old falsetto—­“de order—­you cannot read it, it is in French—­compel you to go hout, sir!”

“Is that so?” cried the parson, bounding up with radiant face—­“is that so, Jools?”

The young man nodded, smiling; but, though he smiled, the fountain of his tenderness was opened.  He made the sign of the cross as the parson knelt in prayer, and even whispered “Hail Mary,” etc., quite through, twice over.

Morning broke in summer glory upon a cluster of villas behind the city, nestled under live-oaks and magnolias on the banks of a deep bayou, and known as Suburb St. Jean.

With the first beam came the West-Floridian and the Creole out upon the bank below the village.  Upon the parson’s arm hung a pair of antique saddle-bags.  Baptiste limped wearily behind; both his eyes were encircled with broad, blue rings, and one cheek-bone bore the official impress of every knuckle of Colossus’s left hand.  The “beautiful to take care of somebody” had lost his charge.  At mention of the negro he became wild, and, half in English, half in the “gumbo” dialect, said murderous things.  Intimidated by Jules to calmness, he became able to speak confidently on one point; he could, would, and did swear that Colossus had gone home to the Florida parishes; he was almost certain; in fact, he thought so.