“When Parson Jones awoke, a bell was somewhere tolling for midnight.  Somebody was at the door of his cell with a key.  The lock grated, the door swung, the turnkey looked in and stepped back, and a ray of moonlight fell upon M. Jules St.-Ange.  The prisoner sat upon the empty shackles and ring-bolt in the centre of the floor.

“Misty Posson Jone’,” said the visitor, softly.

“O Jools!”

“Mais, w’at de matter, Posson Jone’?”

“My sins, Jools, my sins!”

“Ah!  Posson Jone’, is that something to cry, because a man get sometime a litt’ bit intoxicate?  Mais, if a man keep all the time intoxicate, I think that is again’ the conscien’.”

“Jools, Jools, your eyes is darkened—­oh!  Jools, where’s my pore old niggah?”

“Posson Jone’, never min’; he is wid Baptiste.”

“Where?”

“I don’ know w’ere—­mais he is wid Baptiste.  Baptiste is a beautiful to take care of somebody.”

“Is he as good as you, Jools?” asked Parson Jones, sincerely.

Jules was slightly staggered.

“You know, Posson Jone’, you know, a nigger cannot be good as a w’ite man—­mais Baptiste is a good nigger.”

The parson moaned and dropped his chin into his hands.

“I was to of left for home to-morrow, sun-up, on the Isabella schooner.  Pore Smyrny!” He deeply sighed.

“Posson Jone’,” said Jules, leaning against the wall and smiling, “I swear you is the moz funny man I ever see.  If I was you I would say, me, ’Ah! ‘ow I am lucky! the money I los’, it was not mine, anyhow!’ My faith! shall a man make hisse’f to be the more sorry because the money he los’ is not his?  Me, I would say, ’it is a specious providence.’

“Ah!  Misty Posson Jone’,” he continued, “you make a so droll sermon ad the bull-ring.  Ha! ha!  I swear I think you can make money to preach thad sermon many time ad the theatre St. Philippe.  Hah! you is the moz brave dat I never see, mais ad the same time the moz rilligious man.  Where I’m goin’ to fin’ one priest to make like dat?  Mais, why you can’t cheer up an’ be ’appy?  Me, if I should be miserabl’ like that I would kill meself.”

The countryman only shook his head.

“Bien, Posson Jone’, I have the so good news for you.”

The prisoner looked up with eager inquiry.

“Las’ evening when they lock’ you, I come right off at M. De Blanc’s house to get you let out of de calaboose; M. De Blanc he is the judge.  So soon I was entering—­’ Ah!  Jules, me boy, juz the man to make complete the game!’ Posson Jone’, it was a specious providence!  I win in t’ree hours more dan six hundred dollah!  Look.”  He produced a mass of bank-notes, bons, and due-bills.

“And you got the pass?” asked the parson, regarding the money with a sadness incomprehensible to Jules.

“It is here; it take the effect so soon the daylight.”

“Jools, my friend, your kindness is in vain.”