Madame la Vicomtesse, from behind the girl, gave me a significant look.

“This occurred to me,” she went on in an undisturbed tone, “that Mr. Temple might come with Auguste to protest against the proceeding,—­or even to defend himself against the imputation that he was to make use of this money in any way.  I wish you to realize, Antoinette, before you decide to go, that you may meet Mr. Temple.  Would it not be better to let Mr. Ritchie go alone?  I am sure that we could find no better emissary.”

“Auguste is here,” said Antoinette.  “I must see him.”  Her voice caught.  “I may never see him again.  He may be ill, he may be starving—­and I know that he is in trouble.  Whether” (her voice caught) “whether Mr. Temple is with him or not, I mean to go.”

“Then it would be well to start,” said the Vicomtesse.

Deftly dropping her veil, she picked up a riding whip that lay on the railing and descended the stairs to the courtyard.  Antoinette and I followed.  As we came through the archway I saw Andre, Monsieur de St. Gre’s mulatto, holding open the wicket for us to pass.  He helped the ladies to mount the ponies, lengthened my own stirrups for me, swung into the saddle himself, and then the four of us were picking our way down the Rue Chartres at an easy amble.  Turning to the right beyond the cool garden of the Ursulines, past the yellow barracks, we came to the river front beside the fortifications.  A score of negroes were sweating there in the sun, swinging into position the long logs for the palisades, nearly completed.  They were like those of Kaskaskia and our own frontier forts in Kentucky, with a forty-foot ditch in front of them.  Seated on a horse talking to the overseer was a fat little man in white linen who pulled off his hat and bowed profoundly to the ladies.  His face gave me a start, and then I remembered that I had seen him only the day before, resplendent, coming out of church.  He was the Baron de Carondelet.

There was a sentry standing under a crape-myrtle where the Royal Road ran through the gateway.  Behind him was a diminutive five-sided brick fort with a dozen little cannon on top of it.  The sentry came forward, brought his musket to a salute, and halted before my horse.

“You will have to show your passport,” murmured Madame la Vicomtesse.

I drew the document from my pocket.  It was signed by De Lemos, and duly countersigned by the officer of the port.  The man bowed, and I passed on.

It was a strange, silent ride through the stinging heat to Les Iles, the brown dust hanging behind us like a cloud, to settle slowly on the wayside shrubbery.  Across the levee bank the river was low, listless, giving off hot breath like a monster in distress.  The forest pools were cracked and dry, the Spanish moss was a haggard gray, and under the sun was the haze which covered the land like a saffron mantle.  At times a listlessness came over me such as I had