The two women went quickly to the hall, and, looking down the spiral staircase to the marble pavement of the entrance three stories below, saw the men swarming in through the wide gateway and doorway by dozens.  While they still leaned over the balustrade, Marguerite, one of their pupils, a blue-eyed blonde girl of lovely complexion, with red, voluptuous lips, and beautiful hair held by a carven shell comb, came and bent over the balustrade with them.  Suddenly her comb slipped from its hold, flashed downward, and striking the marble pavement flew into pieces at the feet of the men who were about to ascend.  Several of them looked quickly up.

“It was my mother’s comb!” said Marguerite, turned ashy pale, and sunk down in hysterics.  The two teachers carried her to a remote room, the bed-chamber of the janitress, and then obeyed an order of the principal calling her associates to the second floor.  A band of men were coming up the winding stair with measured, military tread towards the landing, where the principal, with her assistants gathered around her, stood to confront them.

She was young, beautiful, and of calm temper.  Her skin, says one who was present, was of dazzling clearness, her abundant hair was golden auburn, and in happy hours her eyes were as “soft as velvet.”  But when the leader of the band of men reached the stair-landing, threw his coat open, and showed the badge of the White League, her face had blanched and hardened to marble, and her eyes darkened to black as they glowed with indignation.

“We have come,” said the White Leaguer, “to remove the colored pupils.  You will call your school to order.”  To which the principal replied: 

“You will permit me first to confer with my corps of associates.”  He was a trifle disconcerted.

“Oh, certainly.”

The teachers gathered in the principal’s private room.  Some were dumb, one broke into tears, another pleaded devotion to the principal, and one was just advising that the onus of all action be thrown upon the intruders, when the door was pushed open and the White Leaguer said: 

“Ladies, we are waiting.  Assemble the school; we are going to clean it out.”

The pupils, many of them trembling, weeping, and terrified, were with difficulty brought to order in the assembly room.  This place had once been Madame Lalaurie’s dining-hall.  A frieze of angels ran round its four walls, and, oddly, for some special past occasion, a legend in crimson and gold on the western side bore the words, “The Eye of God is on us.”

“Gentlemen, the school is assembled,” said the principal.

“Call the roll,” was the reply, “and we will challenge each name.”

It was done.  As each name was called its young bearer rose and confronted her inquisitors.  And the inquisitors began to blunder.  Accusations of the fatal taint were met with denials and withdrawn with apologies.  Sometimes it was truth, and sometimes pure arrogance and falsehood, that triumphed over these champions of instinctive racial antagonism.  One dark girl shot up haughtily at the call of her name—­