The Creole’s face became a perfect blank.

“Because,” said the parson, “for two reasons:  firstly, I have broken the laws, and ought to stand the penalty; and secondly—­you must really excuse me, Jools, you know, but the pass has been got onfairly, I’m afeerd.  You told the judge I was innocent; and in neither case it don’t become a Christian (which I hope I can still say I am one) to ‘do evil that good may come.’  I muss stay.”

M. St.-Ange stood up aghast, and for a moment speechless, at this exhibition of moral heroism; but an artifice was presently hit upon.  “Mais, Posson Jone’!”—­in his old falsetto—­“de order—­you cannot read it, it is in French—­compel you to go hout, sir!”

“Is that so?” cried the parson, bounding up with radiant face—­“is that so, Jools?”

The young man nodded, smiling; but, though he smiled, the fountain of his tenderness was opened.  He made the sign of the cross as the parson knelt in prayer, and even whispered “Hail Mary,” etc., quite through, twice over.

Morning broke in summer glory upon a cluster of villas behind the city, nestled under live-oaks and magnolias on the banks of a deep bayou, and known as Suburb St. Jean.

With the first beam came the West-Floridian and the Creole out upon the bank below the village.  Upon the parson’s arm hung a pair of antique saddle-bags.  Baptiste limped wearily behind; both his eyes were encircled with broad, blue rings, and one cheek-bone bore the official impress of every knuckle of Colossus’s left hand.  The “beautiful to take care of somebody” had lost his charge.  At mention of the negro he became wild, and, half in English, half in the “gumbo” dialect, said murderous things.  Intimidated by Jules to calmness, he became able to speak confidently on one point; he could, would, and did swear that Colossus had gone home to the Florida parishes; he was almost certain; in fact, he thought so.

There was a clicking of pulleys as the three appeared upon the bayou’s margin, and Baptiste pointed out, in the deep shadow of a great oak, the Isabella, moored among the bulrushes, and just spreading her sails for departure.  Moving down to where she lay, the parson and his friend paused on the bank, loath to say farewell.

“O Jools!” said the parson, “supposin’ Colossus ain’t gone home!  O Jools, if you’ll look him out for me, I’ll never forget you—­I’ll never forget you, nohow, Jools.  No, Jools, I never will believe he taken that money.  Yes, I know all niggahs will steal”—­he set foot upon the gang-plank—­“but Colossus wouldn’t steal from me.  Good-bye.”

“Misty Posson Jone’,” said St.-Ange, putting his hand on the parson’s arm with genuine affection, “hol’ on.  You see dis money—­ w’at I win las’ night?  Well, I win’ it by a specious providence, ain’t it?”

“There’s no tellin’,” said the humbled Jones.  “Providence

    “’ Moves in a mysterious way
       His wonders to perform.’”