“And Honore Grandissime is going to introduce it on his lands,” said Don Jose.

“That is true,” said Agricola Fusilier, coming in.  Honore, the indefatigable peacemaker, had brought his uncle and his brother-in-law for the moment not only to speaking, but to friendly, terms.

The senor smiled.

“I have some good tidings, too,” he said; “my beloved lady has borne me a son.”

“Another scion of the house of Grand—­I mean Martinez!” exclaimed Agricola.  “And now, Don Jose, let me say that I have an item of rare intelligence!”

The don lifted his feeble head and opened his inquiring eyes with a sudden, savage light in them.

“No,” said Agricola, “he is not exactly taken yet, but they are on his track.”

“Who?”

“The police.  We may say he is virtually in our grasp.”

* * * * *

It was on a Sabbath afternoon that a band of Choctaws having just played a game of racquette behind the city and a similar game being about to end between the white champions of two rival faubourgs, the beating of tom-toms, rattling of mules’ jawbones and sounding of wooden horns drew the populace across the fields to a spot whose present name of Congo Square still preserves a reminder of its old barbaric pastimes.  On a grassy plain under the ramparts, the performers of these hideous discords sat upon the ground facing each other, and in their midst the dancers danced.  They gyrated in couples, a few at a time, throwing their bodies into the most startling attitudes and the wildest contortions, while the whole company of black lookers-on, incited by the tones of the weird music and the violent posturing of the dancers, swayed and writhed in passionate sympathy, beating their breasts, palms and thighs in time with the bones and drums, and at frequent intervals lifting, in that wild African unison no more to be described than forgotten, the unutterable songs of the Babouille and Counjaille dances, with their ejaculatory burdens of “Aie!  Aie!  Voudou Magnan!” and “Aie Calinda!  Dance Calinda!” The volume of sound rose and fell with the augmentation or diminution of the dancers’ extravagances.  Now a fresh man, young and supple, bounding into the ring, revived the flagging rattlers, drummers and trumpeters; now a wearied dancer, finding his strength going, gathered all his force at the cry of “Dance zisqu’a mort!” rallied to a grand finale and with one magnificent antic fell, foaming at the mouth.

The amusement had reached its height.  Many participants had been lugged out by the neck to avoid their being danced on, and the enthusiasm had risen to a frenzy, when there bounded into the ring the blackest of black men, an athlete of superb figure, in breeches of “Indienne”—­the stuff used for slave women’s best dresses—­jingling with bells, his feet in moccasins, his tight, crisp hair decked out with feathers, a necklace of alligator’s teeth rattling on his breast and a living serpent twined about his neck.