My reading and my reverie were interrupted by the tramp of horses without.  Six persons in dress-coats rode up, dismounted, and approached.  All were smoking cigars with the lighted ends in their mouths.  Mellasys Plickaman led the party.  I recognized also the persons who had questioned me as to my politics.  They entered the apartment where I sat alone with Saccharissa.

“Thar he is!” said Mellasys Plickaman.  “Thar is the d—­d Abolitionist!”

Seeing that he indicated me, and that his voice was truculent, I looked to my betrothed for protection.  She burst into tears and drew a handkerchief.

An odor of musk combated for an instant with the whiskey reek diffused by Mr. Plickaman and his companions.  The balmy odor was, however, quelled by the ruder scent.

“I am surprised, Mr. Plickaman,” said I, mildly, but conscious of tremors, “at your use of opprobrious epithets in the presence of a lady.”

“Oh, you be blowed!” returned he, with unpardonable rudeness.  “You can’t skulk behind Saccharissy.”

“To what is this change in tone and demeanor owing, Sir?” I asked, with dignity.

“Don’t take on airs, you little squirt!” said he.

It will be observed that I quote his very language.  His intention was evidently insulting.

“Mr. Chylde,” remarked Judge Pyke, one of the gentlemen who had been inquisitive as to my political sentiments, “The Vigilance Committee of Fire-Eaters of Bayou La Farouche have come to the conclusion that you are a spy, an Abolitionist, and a friend of Beecher and Phillips.  We intend to give you a fair trial; but I may as well state that we have all made up our minds as to the law, the facts, and the sentence.  Therefore, prepare for justice.  Colonel Plickaman, have you given directions about the tar?”

“It’ll be b’ilin’ in about eight minutes,” replied my quondam rival, with a boo-hoo of vulgar laughter.

“Culprit!” said Judge Pyke, looking at me with a truly terrible expression, “I have myself heard you avow, with insolent audacity, that you were not a Democrat.  Do you not know, Sir, that nothing but Democrats are allowed to breathe the zephyrs of Louisiana?  Silence, culprit!  Not a word!  The court cannot be interrupted.  I have also heard you state that the immortal Breckenridge, Kentucky’s favorite son, was the same to you as the tiger Lincoln, the deadly foe of Southern institutions.  Silence, culprit!”

Here Saccharissa moaned, and wafted a slight flavor of musk to me from her cambric wet with tears.

“Colonel Plickaman,” continued the Judge, “produce the letters and papers of the culprit.”

I am aware that a rival has rights, and that a defeated suitor may, according to the code, calumniate and slander the more fortunate one.  I have done so myself.  But it seems to me that there should be limits; and I cannot but think that Mr. Mellasys Plickaman overstepped the limits of fair play, when he took advantage of my last night’s inebriety to possess himself of my journal and letters.  I will not, however, absolutely commit myself on this point.  Perhaps everything is fair in love.  Perhaps I may desire to avail myself of the same privilege in future.