There remained no reasonable doubt as to the fellow’s sincerity.  His face was a picture of disinterested earnestness as he fronted me; yet I hesitated, eying him closely, half inclined to think him the unsuspecting representative of some rogue.  That was a time and place where one of my birth needed to practise caution; racial rivalry ran so high throughout all the sparsely settled province that any misunderstanding between an English stranger and either Frenchman or Spaniard was certain to involve serious results.  We of Northern blood were bitterly envied because of commercial supremacy.  I had, during my brief residence in New Orleans, witnessed jealous treachery on every hand.  This had taught me that enemies of my race were numerous, while, it was probable, not more than a dozen fellow-countrymen were then in New Orleans.  They would prove powerless were I to become involved in any quarrel.  Extreme caution under such conditions became a paramount duty, and it can scarcely be wondered at that I hesitated to trust the black, continuing to study the real purpose of his mysterious message.  Yet the rare good-humor and simple interest of his face tended to reassure me.  A lady, he said—­well, surely no great harm would result from such an interview; and if, as was probable, it should prove a mere case of mistaken identity, a correction could easily follow, and I should then be free to go my way.  On the other hand, if some friend really needed me, a question of duty was involved, which—­God helping—­I was never one to shun; for who could know in how brief a space I might also be asking assistance of some countryman.  This mysterious stranger, this Madame de Noyan of whom I had never heard, knew my name—­possibly had learned it from another, some wandering Englishman, perchance, whom she would aid in trouble, some old-time friend in danger, who, afraid to reveal himself, now appealed through her instrumentality for help in a strange land.  Deciding to brave the doubt and solve the mystery by action, I flung the long rifle across my shoulder and stood erect.

“All right, boy, lead on,” I said shortly.  “I intend to learn what is behind this, and who it is that sends for me in New Orleans.”

Far from satisfied with the situation, yet determined now to probe the mystery to the bottom, I silently followed the black, attentive to his slightest movement.  It was a brief walk down one of the narrow streets leading directly back from the river front, so that within less than five minutes I was being silently shown into the small reception room of a tasty cottage, whose picturesque front was half concealed by a brilliant mass of trailing vines.  The heavy shades being closely drawn at the windows, the interior was in such gloom that for the moment after my entrance from the outside glare I was unable to distinguish one object from another.  Then slowly my eyes adjusted themselves to the change, and, taking one uncertain step forward, I came suddenly face to face with a Capuchin priest appearing almost ghastly with his long, pale, ascetic countenance, and ghostly gray robe sweeping to the floor.