For on that afternoon, when the people surrounded the house, crying for vengeance, she never lost, it seems, her cunning.  She and her sleek black coachman took counsel together, and his plan of escape was adopted.  The early afternoon dinner-hour of those times came and passed and the crowd still filled the street, but as yet had done nothing.  Presently, right in the midst of the throng, her carriage came to the door according to its well-known daily habit at that hour, and at the same moment the charming Madame Lalaurie, in all her pretty manners and sweetness of mien, stepped quickly across the sidewalk and entered the vehicle.

The crowd was taken all aback.  When it gathered its wits the coach-door had shut and the horses were starting.  Then her audacity was understood.

“She is getting away!” was the cry, and the multitude rushed upon her.  “Seize the horses!” they shouted, and dashed at the bits and reins.  The black driver gave the word to his beasts, and with his coach whip lashed the faces of those who sprung forward.  The horses reared and plunged, the harness held, and the equipage was off.  The crowd went with it.

“Turn the coach over!” they cry, and attempt it, but fail.  “Drag her out!”

They try to do it, again and again, but in vain; away it rattles!  Away it flashes! down Hospital street, past Bourbon, Dauphine, Burgundy, and the Rampart, with the crowd following, yelling, but fast growing thin and thinner.

“Stop her!  Stop her!  Stop that carriage!  Stop that carriage!”

In vain!  On it spins!  Out upon the Bayou Road come the pattering hoofs and humming wheels—­not wildly driven, but just at their most telling speed—­into the whole whirling retinue of fashionable New Orleans out for its afternoon airing.  Past this equipage; past that one; past half a dozen; a dozen; a score!  Their inmates sit chatting in every sort of mood over the day’s sensation, when—­what is this?  A rush from behind, a whirl of white dust, and—­“As I live, there she goes now, on her regular drive!  What scandalous speed! and—­see here! they are after her!” Past fifty gigs and coaches; past a hundred; around this long bend in the road; around that one.  Good-bye, pursuers!  Never a chance to cut her off, the swamp forever on the right, the bayou on the left; she is getting away, getting away! the crowd is miles behind!

The lake is reached.  The road ends.  What next?  The coach dashes up to the bayou’s edge and stops.  Why just here?  Ah! because just here so near the bayou’s mouth a schooner lies against the bank.  Is Dr. Lalaurie’s hand in this?  The coachman parleys a moment with the schooner-master and hands him down a purse of gold.  The coach-door is opened, the lady alights, and is presently on the vessel’s deck.  The lines are cast off, the great sails go up, the few lookers-on are there without reference to her and offer no interruption; a little pushing with poles