The horses were crowded together under a dirty shed near the levee, and the vessel from which they had been landed rode at anchor in the river.  They were the scrawny, tough ponies of the plains, reasonably cheap, and it took no great discernment on my part to choose three of the strongest and most intelligent looking.  We went next to a saddler’s, where I selected three saddles and bridles of Spanish workmanship, and Mr. Clark agreed to have two of his servants meet us with the horses before Madame Bouvet’s within the hour.  He begged that we would dine with him when we returned from Les Iles.

“You will not find an island, Mr. Ritchie,” he said; “Saint-Gre’s plantation is a huge block of land between the river and a cypress swamp behind.  Saint-Gre is a man with a wonderful quality of mind, who might, like his ancestors, have made his mark if necessity had probed him or opportunity offered.  He never forgave the Spanish government for the murder of his father, nor do I blame him.  He has his troubles.  His son is an incurable rake and degenerate, as you may have heard.”

I went back to Madame Bouvet’s, to find Nick emerging from his toilet.

“What deviltry have you been up to, Davy?” he demanded.

“I have been to the House of the Lions to see your divinity,” I answered, “and in a very little while horses will be here to carry us to her.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, grasping me by both shoulders.

“I mean that we are going to her father’s plantation, some way down the river.”

“On my honor, Davy, I did not suspect you of so much enterprise,” he cried.  “And her husband—?”

“Does not exist,” I replied.  “Perhaps, after all, I might be able to give you instruction in the conduct of an adventure.  The man you chased with such futility was her brother, and he stole from her the miniature of which I am now the fortunate possessor.”

He stared at me for a moment in rueful amazement.

“And her name?” he demanded.

“Antoinette de Saint-Gre,” I answered; “our letter is to her father.”

He made me a rueful bow.

“I fear that I have undervalued you, Mr. Ritchie,” he said.  “You have no peer.  I am unworthy to accompany you, and furthermore, it would be useless.”

“And why useless!” I inquired, laughing.

“You have doubtless seen the lady, and she is yours, said he.

“You forget that I am in love with a miniature,” I said.

In half an hour we were packed and ready, the horses had arrived, we bade good-by to Madame Bouvet and rode down the miry street until we reached the road behind the levee.  Turning southward, we soon left behind the shaded esplanade and the city’s roofs below us, and came to the first of the plantation houses set back amidst the dark foliage.  No tremor shook the fringe of moss that hung from the heavy boughs, so still was the day, and an indefinable,