A lady!  In the name of all the gods, what lady?  Even in the old days I enjoyed but a limited circle of acquaintance among women.  Indeed, I recalled only one in all the wide province of Louisiana who might justly be accorded so high an appellation even by a negro slave, and certainly she knew nothing of my presence in New Orleans, nor would she dream of sending for me if she did.  Convinced of this, I dismissed the thought upon the instant, with a smile.  The black must have made a mistake, or else some old-time acquaintance of our family, a forgotten friend of my mother perhaps, had chanced to hear of my return.  Meanwhile the negro stood gazing at me with open mouth, and the sight of him partially restored my presence of mind.

“Is she English, boy?”

“No, sah, she am a French lady, sah, if ebber dar was one in dis hyar province.  She libs ober yonder in de Rue Dumaine, an’ she said to me, ’Yah, Alphonse, you follow dat dar young feller wid de long rifle under his arm an’ de coon-skin cap, an’ fotch him hyar to me!’ Dem am de bery words wat she done said, sah, when you went by our house a half-hour ago.”

“Is your mistress young or old?”

The black chuckled, his round face assuming a good-natured grin.

“Fo’ de Lawd, Massa, but dat am jest de way wid all you white folks!” he ejaculated.  “If she was ol’, an’ wrinkled, an’ fat, den dat settle de whole ting.  Jest don’t want to know no mor’.”

“Well,” I interrupted impatiently, “keep your moralizing to yourself until we become better acquainted, and answer my question—­Is the woman young?”

My tone was sufficiently stern to sober him, his black face straightening out as if it had been ironed.

“Now, don’t you go an’ git cross, Massa Benteen, case a laugh don’t nebber do nobody no hurt,” he cried, shrinking back as if expecting a blow.  “But dat’s jest wat she am, sah, an’ a heap sweeter dan de vi’lets in de springtime, sah.”

“And she actually told you my name?”

“Yas, sah, she did dat fer suah—­’Massa Geoffrey Benteen, an Englisher from up de ribber,’ dem was her bery words; but somehow I done disremember jest persactly de place.”

For another moment I hesitated, scarcely daring to utter the one vital question trembling on my lips.

“But who is the lady?  What is her name?” As I put the simple query I felt my voice tremble in spite of every effort to hold it firm.

“Madame de Noyan, sah; one ob de bery first famblies.  Massa de Noyan am one ob de Bienvilles, sah.”

“De Noyan?  De Noyan?” I repeated the unfamiliar name over slowly, with a feeling of relief.  “Most certainly I never before heard other.”

“I dunno nothin’ ’tall ’bout dat, Massa, but suah’s you born dat am her name and Massa’s; an’ you is de bery man she done sent me after, fer I nebber onct took my eyes off you all dis time.”