On the evening of the day of the explosion, an elderly gentleman sat in a private apartment of one of the principal hotels in Vicksburg, attentively reading an “Extra,” in which the particulars of the disaster were detailed.  He read, with little apparent interest, the account, until he came to the names of “Saved, Killed, Wounded and Missing.”  An expression of the deepest anxiety settled upon his countenance.  He finished reading the list of survivors, and a transient feeling of satisfaction was visible on his face.  When in the list of the “missing” he read the name of “Miss Dumont, Antoine De Guy and Henry Carroll,” a smile as of glutted revenge and malignant hatred dispelled the cloud of anxiety which had before brooded over his features.  Throwing down the sheet, he drank off a glass of brandy, which had been waiting his pleasure on the table.  The potion was not insignificant in quantity or strength, and the wry face he made did not add to the amiability of his expression.  As the dose permeated his brain, and produced that agreeable lightness which is the first phase of intoxication, he rubbed his hands with childish delight, and half muttered an expression of pleasure.

Suddenly his countenance assumed its former lowering aspect, his brows knit, and his lips compressed.

“Missing!” muttered he.  “What the devil does missing mean?  What can it mean but dead, defunct, gone to a better world, as the canting hypocrites say?”

But we will not attempt to record the muttered soliloquy of the gentleman,—­Jaspar Dumont, who had reached Vicksburg that day, from the wood-yard where we left him.  It was too profane, too sacrilegious, to stain our page.

Grasping the bell-rope with a sudden energy, as though a new thought had struck him, he gave it a violent pull, which brought to his presence a black waiter.

“Has the Dragon returned?” asked Jaspar.

“Yes, sar, jus got in, Massa.”

“Is there any person in the house who went up in her?”

“Yes, massa, one gemman in de office.”

“Who is he?”

“Massa—­massa—­” and the darkey scratched his head, to stimulate his memory, which act instantly brought the name to his mind.

“Massa Lousey.”

“Mister what, you black scoundrel!”

“Yes, sar,—­Massa Lousey; dat’s de name.”

“Lousey?” repeated Jaspar.

“Stop bit,” said the waiter, a new idea penetrating his cranium.  “Dar Lousey, dat’s de name, for sartin.”

“Dalhousie,” responded Jaspar.  “Give my compliments to Mr. Dalhousie, and ask him to oblige me with a few moments’ conversation in this room.”

“Yes, sar;” and the waiter retired, muttering, “Dar Lousey.”

The Dragon was a small steamer, which had been sent, on the intelligence of a “blow up,” to obtain the particulars for the press, and render assistance to the survivors.  Dalhousie was a transient visitor at the hotel, and, with many others, had gone in the Dragon to gratify his curiosity.