All the old organizations, some dating back to ’12-’15, had lately grown to amazing numbers, while many new ones had been so perfectly uniformed, armed, accoutred and drilled six nights a week that the ladies, in their unmilitary innocence, could not tell the new from the old.  Except in two cases:  Even Anna was aware that the “Continentals,” in tasseled top-boots, were of earlier times, although they had changed their buff knee-breeches and three-cornered hats for a smart uniform of blue and gray; while these red-and-blue-flannel Zouaves, drawing swarms of boys as dray-loads of sugar-hogsheads drew flies, were as modern as 1861 itself.  But oh, ah, one knew so many young men!  It was wave, bow, smile and bow, smile and wave, till the whole frame was gloriously weary.

Near Anna prattled a Creole girl of sixteen with whom she now and then enjoyed a word or so:  Victorine Lafontaine, daughter of our friend Maxime.

“Louisiana Foot-Rifles—­ah! but their true name,” she protested, “are the Chasseurs-a-Pied!  ‘Twas to them my papa billong’ biffo’ he join’ hisseff on the batt’rie of Captain Kincaid, and there he’s now a corporeal!”

What jaunty fellows they were! and as their faultless ranks came close, their glad, buskined feet beating as perfect music for the roaring drums as the drums beat for them, Anna, in fond ardor, bent low over the rail and waved, exhorting Miranda and Constance to wave with her.  So marched the chasseurs by, but the wide applause persisted as yet other hosts, with deafening music and perfect step and with bayonets back-slanted like the porcupine’s, came on and on, and passed and passed, ignoring in grand self-restraint their very loves who leaned from the banquettes’ edges and from balustraded heights and laughed and boasted and worshipped.

Finally artillery again! every man in it loved by some one—­or dozen—­in these glad throngs.  Clap! call! wave!  Oh, gallant sight!  These do not enter Royal Street.  They keep Canal, obliquing to that side of the way farthest from the balconies—­

“To make room,” cries Victorine, “to form line pritty soon off horses, in front those cannon’.”

At the head rides Kincaid.  Then, each in his place, lieutenants, sergeants, drivers, the six-horse teams leaning on the firm traces, the big wheels clucking, the long Napoleons shining like gold, and the cannoneers—­oh, God bless the lads!—­planted on limbers and caissons, with arms tight folded and backs as plumb as the meridian.  Now three of the pieces, half the battery, have gone by and—­

“Well, well, if there isn’t Sam Gibbs, sergeant of a gun!  It is, I tell you, it is!  Sam Gibbs, made over new, as sure as a certain monosyllable! and what could be surer, for Sam Gibbs?”