BOOK TWO Temptation (continued 2)

“Is that all?” asked Mercier, quietly.

“He offered the services of himself and men in defense of the state and the city, on condition that they were granted a pardon for past offenses!” said he, explosively. “You can see for yourself that is merely a ruse!”

The state senator grunted.

“And what of his enclosed information?”

“Humbug, pure humbug! As if the British would condescend to make a pirate such a ridiculous offer!” He sniffed scornfully.

“But what of his information?” persisted the Creole, thoughtfully.

“There is a mass of information which he claims he has gotten in various ways, as to the strength, resources, and plans of the preposterous expedition ... but of course it is all false. Merely a blind.”

“I do not think so, Your Excellency.”

Claiborne stared at him.

“What!” he ejaculated.

Mercier’s face was grave.

“I believe that Lafitte is perfectly sincere ... and that his information is correct!” He folded his arms and gave the other stare for stare.

His Excellency looked at him, agape.

“It is preposterous, I tell you!”

“I beg to differ!” haughtily.

Claiborne scowled. He was not used to open defiance, and the fact that he could not very well resent this angered him the more. He fell back upon a frigid reserve.

“I am very sorry that I cannot agree with you.”

“What will you do, sir?”

“Do? Nothing, of course!” His face was adamant.

Mercier stepped forward and gripped the edge of the old mahogany desk.

“Do you mean to say that you, the Governor, will not pay heed to his warning?” he demanded, tensely.

“The Governor of Louisiana will have no dealings with a pirate!”

“It is the duty of the Governor of this state, however, to guard the welfare of the state!” he said, with meaning.

“Exactly,” said Claiborne, with forced suavity, “and, as Governor of Louisiana, I will not defile the dignity of my high office by treating with a pirate.”

“It is not a question of dignity!” cried the Creole, angrily; “it is a question of the public safety! We are threatened with invasion—or worse. And an attack on New Orleans is highly probable! It is the duty of Your Excellency to take immediate measures to protect the lives and property of the people who put you in that office!”

Claiborne rose to his feet, red with anger.

“And who are you, sir,” he thundered, “to tell the Governor his duty?”

For a moment the state senator was silent, staring him in the eye. The very air of the great room was vibrant with a suppressed excitement.

“The People!” he snapped, quietly.

For a fraction of a second the other paled, too astounded at the other’s unexpected retort to reply. He stared at the daring mortal with fascination.

“The People?” he repeated, mechanically. “You are insane! If any one man is the People, as a unit, who is it but I, the chief executive?” His overweening egotism was simplicity itself.

For a moment the Honorable Mercier was disarmed.

“I was slightly mistaken,” he riposted; “my title is Public Opinion. Yes, Public Opinion!” He glared defiantly at the other, rather proud of his statement.

His Excellency sneered.

“The People defies Public Opinion, then,” he said, calmly.

The Creole grew furious, but fought to control himself.

“Très bien, m’sieu!” leaning forward. “When Public Opinion, backed up by the ‘Left’—denounces—impeaches the Governor of Louisiana for neglect of duty—for treason, perhaps—which will prevail? The Governor, who refused to take steps for the protection of the citizens—or Public Opinion—the People?”

For a breathless, charged moment the two glared at each other, both pale with excitement.

Then, as suddenly self-possessed again, but speechless yet, Laurent Mercier bowed politely and before His Excellency could say a word to stop him, had turned on his heel and left the gubernatorial presence.

II

That very evening the Governor called a military council, and by nine o’clock every important military official in New Orleans was present, seated around the long conference table in the Mansion library. It is noteworthy that the assembly was in every respect military in character. Neither legislator nor landowner, banker nor merchant, was there.

Claiborne came to the point immediately. In a few well-worded sentences he apprised his auditors of the letter and information sent him by Lafitte, but made no mention of Mercier’s visit, which, indeed, had forced him to take some action.

“What does he definitely warn us of, Your Excellency?” asked Commodore Patterson, thoughtfully.

“Lafitte claims that an attack in force is to be made on both New Orleans and Mobile. He offers us the services of himself and his men in their defense.”

“How much, exactly, does that mean?” interrupted Colonel Forbes.

“He claims to have a well-armed and trained force of over a thousand men,” answered the Governor, after referring to some papers. There was a general exclamation of surprise.

“The army could use them,” said Forbes, reflectively. “They’re hardened fighters, all of them ... and dare-devils if there ever were any.”

Commodore Patterson interrupted:

“To my thinking, since they’re seamen first, they—”

“Since they are Louisianians, and Creoles at that,” put in Major Borland, bridling, “it is most fitting that they join the militia.”

“Not so fast, gentlemen,” interrupted the Governor. “We haven’t accepted his offer, as yet.” There followed a moment’s silence.

“What does Lafitte want in return for this information, assuming that it is true?” demanded Patterson.

“He asks that all proceedings against Grande Terre be abandoned, that amnesty be given himself and his followers; and that an act of oblivion be passed, by which their past deeds should be forgiven and forgotten.”

“Fair enough,” said Colonel Forbes, brightening; “it’s—” Claiborne looked at him coldly. He subsided.

“Personally,” announced His Excellency, “I believe that it is all merely a trick—a ruse whereby he can secure a pardon.”

“Jove! but I believe Your Excellency is right!” exclaimed Patterson.

“And so say I!” put in a Colonel Ross, who had hitherto listened in silence. “To quote General Jackson, these Baratarians are hellish banditti—and should be destroyed, root and branch!”

“Then you doubt Lafitte’s sincerity?” said Claiborne.

“Dammit, yes!” put in Patterson, testily. “In my opinion those inclosed letters you have, sir, are forgeries!”

“Decidedly so!” said Colonel Forbes, sagely.

“What man in Lafitte’s position,” demanded Major Borland, triumphantly, “would refuse a captaincy in the royal navy? It’s preposterous, and Lafitte’s a fool to try and make us think so! And His Excellency says the offer included thirty thousand dollars, in gold. That’s easily to be detected as a falsehood, aside from its absurdity. Why should the British—tried veterans—want the aid of these smugglers? No doubt they despise them for backwoodsmen. No, suh! That’s not like the British, and you know it, every one of you!”

The company nodded affirmation. They all had had a close acquaintance with the British character, often to their cost.

“Gentlemen,” said Commodore Patterson, gravely, “we know very well that the British would deem it beneath their dignity to deal with pirates—that they despise them. Shall it be said that we, too, condescended to treat with common smugglers—lawbreakers?”

His Excellency nodded approval, but said nothing.

“The only negotiations I want to carry on with Lafitte,” said Colonel Ross, hammering the table-top with his clenched fist, “are bullets!” There was a general chorus of affirmation to this pugnacious sentiment.

“Therefore,” said the Governor, “we must hurry forward preparations to attack Grande Terre in force. If it were not for these French fools in the Legislature, I could have cleaned out that smugglers’ nest long ago. But they refused me money. Most of them are secretly connected with the Lafittes, or I miss my guess!”

The others assented warmly.

“Of course there is no possibility of the British really attacking New Orleans ...” ventured Forbes, half-heartedly. He was speedily convinced of the impossibility of such a contingency by a well-controlled shout of laughter, led by the Governor, himself.

“We shall meet with some opposition,” said Claiborne, after a while, “so we must make haste, and work as secretly as possible. Commodore Patterson will command the expedition, of course. It will be best, I think, to make a surprise attack—”

“There’ll be loot and to spare, take my word for it!” broke in Ross. The whole company involuntarily stiffened, as if reminded of something that had lain dormant in their brains, but which had not been allowed to awaken.

Claiborne laughed unpleasantly.

“Yes, gentlemen, there will no doubt be loot in plenty ... but as for me, I want Jean Lafitte, dead or alive! Remember that, Commodore!”

“Most decidedly so!” put in Colonel Forbes, sagely.

Chapter the Twentieth:

How a Friend Arrives at Grande Terre, Who Proves to Be an Enemy

I

The man who had fought with John Paul Jones spat dexterously through the open French window.

“We gan depend on Mercier, bosse, if only—”

“Of course we can,” Lafitte answered, impatiently, “but we can’t depend on what that fool of a Governor will do. After all, Mercier can’t control his actions.”

Dominique You pulled on his villainous-looking pipe with great enjoyment.

“Maybe nod, but dat Claiborne cannot help seeing dat w’at we say is true. He simply muz b’lieve us!”

“Then why the devil doesn’t he send an answer?” demanded Lafitte. “It’s almost a fortnight since I sent him those papers and the letter, and yet I haven’t had a word in reply.”

“He must still be t’inking it over. You mus’ rememb’, mon captaine, dat he is a ver’ cautious man—and a fool!”

“But this is a serious affair, Dominique. It’s a question of the public safety.”

Again the veteran privateersman communed with his pipe before answering.

“Très bien! W’at do you care if he don’t accept? You did youah duty, bosse ... dat is enough for you to worree ’boud.”

Lafitte made a gesture of impatience.

“Don’t you remember what Captain Lockyer said?” he demanded. “What he threatened to do in the event of our refusal?”

Dominique You abruptly removed his pipe from his lips.

“Morbleu! I had forgotten!”

“He promised to return with a fleet ... destroy our settlement and hang us all, if you’ll remember—”

Apparently the Creole remembered.

“—And I believe him,” eloquently.

“De bosse is nod afraid of dat puff-bag?” with surprise.

“Don’t be foolish, Dominique. You know that the British could blow us out of the water if they had a mind to. And I am inclined to believe they will have a mind to.”

“And you weel refuse?” with a curious side-glance.

“Of course! You don’t think I’m a damned turn-coat, do you? I’ve thrown in my lot with the Americans, and with them I’ll stay, whether I’m welcome or not. Just because there’s a conceited fool in the seat of authority, who is our enemy, is no reason why I should not help the people he represents. I shall stick to my friends!”

“And when Lockyer returns?” suggested Dominique You.

“I shall tell him my decision, and then be damned to him! A man’s conscience is his own. But Jean Lafitte isn’t ready to be hung out of hand, yet. If necessary, we’ll fight. At the worst, our men could escape to the mainland and hide in the swamps, but I don’t think it will come to that. I think that I can persuade them to keep their unwelcome attentions to themselves.” He smiled reflectively.

“W’at do you mean?” the Creole asked, all interest.

“We shall merely make Captain Lockyer’s neck responsible for mine,” he said, and chuckled at the other’s expression. “We’ll just keep Lockyer and his officers here as hostages for the duration of the war, and inform Colonel Nichols at Pensacola that they will be well treated, but that their lives will be forfeit for ours. They’ll believe us, never fear. We’re only pirates, you see.” He laughed again.

Before Dominique You could answer, however, there came an interruption. The door of Lafitte’s sanctum flew open, admitting an obviously excited Baratarian. Hardly waiting to touch his forelock, man-o’-war fashion, he broke his news.

“Dere is a wahsheep in de pass, mon capitaine!”

His two auditors rose hurriedly to their feet.

“It is un Americain, bosse!” added the newcomer, breathlessly.

Jean and his followers glanced at each other and smiled. A curious coincidence, this. And a welcome.

Without another word the trio hurriedly made for the beach where they found all confusion. A milling throng was massed at the water’s edge, awaiting the arrival of their new allies; it could be seen that the Baratarians—to all appearances—were by no means sorry to make peace with the government.

At Lafitte’s approach, a path through the dense crowd magically appeared, and he eagerly looked toward the pass connecting sea and bay. There, a quarter-mile away, a frigate, fullrigged, her snowy canvas bellied out by the wind, was entering Barataria Bay. From her masthead hung the American flag, its thirteen red stripes, with its ring of stars on a blue background, adding a colorful note.

And from every port on the larboard, or port, side, peered the wicked black mouths of cannon. Dominique turned to Lafitte thoughtfully.

“Do you notice de guns, bosse?”

Lafitte nodded.

“Dey mus’ t’ink dat de Britishers are here,” ventured the Creole, “and wish to impress dem.”

“It’s more likely that they wish to impress us,” answered Jean, dryly, then grasped the other’s arm. “Do you see that, behind the frigate? It’s another ship—two—three!”

A babel of excited comment arose, its contagion sweeping the throng. Apparently, a considerable fleet had come to Grande Terre. By now the frigate was well within the harbor, and her decks could be seen to be crowded. A second ship was entering the bay and others were bearing up into the wind and tacking about in the attempt to maneuver their way into the narrow pass. Had this been a hostile fleet, it would never have gotten this far, for the narrowness and difficulty of navigation made it an ideal spot for defense against enemies by sea. But suppose this fleet were unfriendly?

Perhaps thoughts like these were annoying Lafitte and his lieutenant, for both of them wore an air of uneasiness. As the second newcomer entered the bay, Lafitte gave Dominique a whispered order. A few moments later the latter and a file of men were hurrying back to the Manor.

Jean turned a worried look seaward. If these ships should happen to be inimical, they could have Grande Terre at their mercy. Yet it was impossible that Claiborne could prove so base....

But a sudden silence had fallen on the crowd—a silence so accentuated as to be felt. Premonitions of impending danger were besieging more than one, but the majority were merely apprehensive. Weapons and scowls began to appear simultaneously. Angry murmurs began to sweep the beach, leaping from group to group.

Of a sudden—so suddenly as to be breath-taking—the unbelievable happened.

With a detonating crash and roar, the frigate fired a broadside; the balls passing slightly over the heads of the Baratarians, to bury themselves in clouds of dust in the village square.

For a brief moment there was a stunned silence. The shock of the act—the utter unexpectedness—had turned the crowd to stone. But only for a moment. That pregnant space of time passed, and pandemonium reigned.

“Tracasserie!”

The cry raced from lip to lip ... “treachery” indeed! Black treachery—heinous treachery!—unforgivable treachery! If the warship had intended to inspire fear, it had accomplished the reverse. Rage, royal rage, and righteous anger were there instead.

A second broadside followed the first with more disastrous effect, for a man on the outskirts of the crowd was killed. The colony of Grande Terre was now thoroughly alarmed.

“Aux armes!”

“To arms,” by all means! Although the Baratarians were caught like rats in a trap, they were by no means cowed. Not they!

“Aux armes!”

By now the guns of Bordeaux Manor were answering, and they were voicing their defiance well, for their first volleys found their target. Not for nothing did these dare-devil privateersmen have the name of expert gunners. The second warship now joined the battle. The harbor seemed to be one vast cloud of smoke, with intermittent flashes of fire now and again piercing the haze. Many of the smugglers’ vessels were doing their share by way of retaliation, while boats of every description scurried across the bay, making for the safety of the mainland. But many more remained on Grande Terre, resolved to make a last desperate stand.

In a scant ten minutes, it seemed, the village itself was a smoking, flaming ruin. Yells of pain and fright came from the slave stockade, where the black ivory, trapped in the strong inclosure, were being maimed and killed by the falling balls of iron. But even their terrible shrieks but added its mite to the general uproar.

Under cover of the fire of their guns, boat-loads of soldiers were being landed, sent to try to save the burning warehouses, if possible. But to their surprise, the village was still occupied, and a fierce hand-to-hand battle ensued.

Smoke—fire—yells—screams—curses—obscenities—explosions; muskets—pistols—bayonets—swords—dirks—knives ... implements of destruction, all, and all in use.

Here a group of soldiers beat frantically at the flames; there another group fought like wolves ... wounded, dying, dead ... dim apparitions appearing and disappearing in the red haze; there a group of demons in red shirts, slashing, cutting, and firing, held at bay twice their number. It was a scene worthy of perpetuation—worthy of the inspired brush of a master.

But every moment reinforcements were arriving from the fleet ... and as quickly the islanders were slipping away to the mainland—to safety.

Jean Lafitte, disheveled, powder-blackened, and bleeding from a scalp wound caused by a wild musket-ball, half ran, half stumbled, toward the one remaining serviceable gun on the Manor walls. Dominique You, his face gleaming with the unhallowed lust of battle, detached himself from its immediately surrounding murky haze, and ran to meet him.

“What news?” cried Lafitte, gasping.

The man who had fought with Paul Jones cursed expressively. His face was smoke-blackened.

“Tout est pris!... All, all is taken! De guns are disabled ... dey are landing more men....”

“I know ... I know! Get the men together.... We must make a charge ... we must get through them!...”

Dominique laughed, but his expression was horrible to see.

“De men are leaving, on all sides. Ma foi! Dat is w’at we mus’ do, too!”

“Never! Let the canaille flee for their lives, if they will. Jean Lafitte stays here!”

The old privateersman grasped his shoulder.

“Don’t be a fool. We are beat’n ... beat’n! Do you want to go back to N’Awleens in chains? To be hung? Let’s escape through the secret passage to the mainland. The treasure is safe enough ... they’ll never find it. And don’t forget, bosse, dat you have a score to settle wid dat Claiborne!”

The Duke of Little Manchac and Barataria cursed fluently.... He possessed, it may as well be admitted, a truly ducal profanity vocabulary—a vocabulary with the saving grace of originality.

But passion soon gave way to reason.

“You are right! We will go.... Pass the word!”

Then, while Dominique You yelled an order, and then sped away to the banquet hall to open the secret passage, Jean Lafitte sprang to the carriage of the last gun and, pushing aside a grizzled gunner, himself applied the match....

II

“One more salute,” ordered Captain Lockyer, “and then be damned to ’em!”

Touching his forelock obediently, the sailor hurried away. The captain, his usual ruddy color greatly accentuated by what was apparently anger, put his glass to his eye and returned to a study of the land which lay off the starboard bow of H.M.S. Sophia. For a long minute there was silence, neither of his two companions, junior naval officers, daring to interrupt him.

The frigate, against whose side the lazy waves beat the minor melodies of the cerulean sea, lay at anchor, perhaps a half mile from the shore. Directly opposite the length of the ship, a narrow, twisting, but navigable pass gave ingress to a small bay; but what was in the bay, if anything, could not be seen from without.

With a roar that loosened a thousand echoes, a cannon on the frigate’s deck spoke, doubtless in response to the order of the ship’s commander. As the echoes died away, however, no sign of life could be seen anywhere in the vicinity of the pass.

Captain Lockyer lowered his glass with a curse.

“If I could only get my hands on that dog of a pirate!” he muttered. One of his subordinates, gathering courage, spoke up:

“Couldn’t it be possible that no one’s there, sir?”

The Britisher laughed scornfully.

“Not there? He’s there well enough, but is too frightened to show himself. And I’m not surprised ... he knows I’d hang him like a dog if I could only catch him!” He growled in his beard. “It’s been forty-eight hours since we’ve been hanging around here, not daring to stick our nose in, for fear they’d blow us out of the water if we did. And that’s just what they want us to do! I can swear there’s at least twenty heavy guns trained on the other end of that channel. But I’m not so easily fooled as that!” He breathed heavily and glared shoreward over the rail.

“But might I not suggest, again, sir,” said the first junior officer, “that it might have been wise to have sent a boat in to reconnoitre? At least you could have—”

“You have much to learn, Lieutenant!” said Lockyer, coldly. “That would be playing right into their hands. If I had sent in a boat, it would never have returned. But there’s no use staying here any longer. It won’t be long before we come back—in force—and when we do ... when we do....” His voice trailed off menacingly, into nothingness....

Half an hour later Captain Lockyer, still pacing his deck, watched Grande Terre, covering but a tiny segment of the horizon and dim and dreamy in the blue perspective, disappear from sight behind the level disk of the sea.

And Captain Lockyer of H.M.S. Sophia grimly promised himself that he had not seen the last of it ... which, however, remained to be seen.

Chapter the Twenty-First:

In Which “The Hellish Bandit” Makes an Offer and “Old Hickory” Makes an Answer

I

The Honorable Mercier swore softly.

“That General Jackson of yours is a fool ... a stubborn fool!” he cried, beating the table with his fist for emphasis.

John Grymes did not answer for a moment, a deep frown on his forehead. The two, the former district attorney and the Creole legislator, were closeted in the library of the Grymes residence.

“I have just come from Mobile,” Mercier continued, “and I might as well have not made the trip. Jackson is a second Claiborne ... one is as unreasonable as the other!”

Grymes raised his hand tentatively.

“Pardon me, Mercier, but why did you go to him in the first place? I confess I’m rather at sea.”

The other looked at his companion in surprise.

“You do not know,” he asked, “that I was sent by Lafitte?”

Grymes nodded his head in negation.

“That would be the last thing I would have suspected. Lafitte is a fool to have repeated his offer—as I presume he did”—Mercier nodded in his turn—“after the general’s last proclamation. He should have let well enough alone, suh. He has more than proved his patriotism.”

“Sans doute. But what is this about Jackson’s last proclamation?”

“Haven’t you heard? He recently issued a savage manifesto denouncing the British for their unusual methods of making war and among the sins he mentioned none seemed to him quite so bad as that of their attempt to employ against the Americans the band of pirates, or ‘hellish banditti,’ as he called them, led by Jean Lafitte. Indeed, his phrase has become famous in these last few days. ‘Hellish banditti’!”

The state senator nodded gloomily.

“But why in the world do the authorities persist in rebuffing the Baratarians? It has been proven that their offer was sincere.”

Grymes shrugged his shoulders.

“Precisely. Let’s see, it’s December now, just three months since Lafitte gave his first warning. The British fleet is expected to enter the river any day. And still they refuse to accept!”

“It’s that damned Claiborne who’s behind all this, in my opinion,” said Mercier, hotly. “Remember how he resented yours, and Livingston’s, activities at the time? Le bon Dieu knows that we need every fighting man that we can get ... and yet Jackson refuses! There are at least twelve thousand Britishers at Pensacola; our army is a mere handful, in comparison. I don’t mean to disparage our people, for their bravery has been well proved time and again, but, I repeat, what chance have we against the British?”

Grymes nodded assent.

“What will you do now?” he asked.

“Go back to Lafitte.”

“Where is he?”

“Still at the Bayou St. John.”

“Have you been there yet?”

“Yes. Lafitte sent for me several weeks ago.”

(A smuggler had “sent for” a state senator—and had been obeyed. Strange times, these, when a “hellish bandit” wielded such influence over men of prominence!)

“Most of his old associates and followers are also there,” continued Mercier. “When Patterson treacherously captured Grande Terre, he made a number of prisoners, but the majority escaped to the mainland, where they are encamped with their leader on the St. John. Patterson and Ross brought back a vast amount of loot in triumph to New Orleans, but Lafitte tells me that his principal treasure chests were not found ... are still hidden. The Governor did succeed in breaking up the smuggling activities for a while, I admit, for nowadays business is at a standstill. But he certainly failed to break up Lafitte’s band, for they are as strong as ever, and still together, which is far more important.”

“Wait until Jackson comes to New Orleans. When he sees the real state of affairs here ... the utter lack of any kind of defense ... he will be only too glad to accept.”

“I doubt it!” with a grimace.

“Why? He won’t be able to refuse, once here. What defenses we have now aren’t worth a picayune when compared with the armament that may confidently be expected to be brought to bear on us. So far, our only hope is in Jackson, for if New Orleans falls, the British will have the whole state at their mercy. And if they once get a foothold in the Mississippi Valley, they will sweep it clean ... make of it a greater desert than they made of Spain in the Napoleonic wars! Given time and proper action, the Western states alone could pour down a hundred thousand men to repel invasion. And that is what will happen if the British do get a foothold in the Valley. But by that time it will be too late, for our own fields, our crops, will be turned to ashes, and our homes as well. As for our lives and liberties, no more need be said. The British are smarting already with the few defeats they’ve met ... and surely haven’t forgotten ’Seventy-six. We can rely on them to make existence interesting for us once they get the upper hand!”

Mercier nodded.

“C’est vrai! The whole future of the Mississippi Valley ... perhaps of the entire nation ... depends on the defense of New Orleans. And this means that it depends on Jackson ... and us.

“One benefit that this crisis has brought about, mon ami, is the final disappearance of class and race prejudice between my people and yours. And I am glad! From now on we Creoles are Americans and naught else! You know of the various attitudes that have been taken by one class or another since the purchase of Louisiana from Bonaparte. Now all is changed. We are a common people, fighting for a common cause! Louisianians—Americans, you shall see that we can fight as well as any other man in the defense of our country ... for it is our country!” The Frenchman, rising to his feet, began to stride excitedly back and forth.

“Think—think, man! Of what we have lived, and are living to see! We have seen the rise and fall of a great empire—and a far more wondrous miracle still—the birth of a great nation—of two! For not only did the world witness the birth of America, but also that of France. Ma patrie malheureuse! She has suffered even more than America. Your country’s birth was astounding enough—epochal, true! But the spirit of America was in a new race—a new form of human life on the globe. New blood; hardy, independent, liberty-loving! New stock—new human material—new ideals!

“But ma pauvre France!—what of her? Hers was a different birth. The pregnancy of France was one of the most terrible in history ... feudal oppression—religious oppression—moral oppression! ... the same monotonous oppression that had beaten down the spirit of our fathers and forefathers. America, at least, has no history of countless years of suffering behind her ... her people’s souls are not seared with the mark of hereditary shame and insult. Her oppression, in proportion to ours, was comparatively non-existent. But it was given to America to pave the way for our freedom ... for the freedom of the world, perhaps. For that we Frenchmen are grateful.

“The rebirth of France was one of blood and terror, misery and anarchy. America, for all her sufferings, never experienced such an agony of body and soul as did France! Nor ever will, please God! But Frenchmen and Americans, above all other nationalities, should be as brothers ... and will be, I hope, until the end of time. We Americans have not forgotten young Lafayette, nor the sympathetic ideals he stood for ... nor have we Frenchmen forgotten Benjamin Franklin—nor Paul Jones! They are a bond between us—and may the future bring us many more such bonds!

“Did I say ‘we Americans’? I did. And meant it, Mr. Grymes!

“We Creoles are both American and French. American by birth, adoption, environment ... French by ancestry, custom, religion, and culture. But America is our adopted country, and so it is sure to remain. And we will prove our Americanism, beyond doubt, in the next few days ... perhaps sooner. If the tide goes against us, then at least we shall have had the consciousness that we die side by side—brothers all—facing our enemies. Ours—the Frenchman’s—for countless centuries past.... Yours—the American’s—by reason of the very cause of your birth!”

For a moment after Mercier stopped, the Virginian was silent, his silence a tribute in itself to the Creole’s eloquent outburst. He knew that the other’s impassioned words were not mere cant—patriotic mouthings.

“You’re right!” he said, reflectively. “But to return to our original topic, do you think it will be of any use to approach Jackson with a final plea? So much is at stake!”

“I doubt it! The general told me that the only thing he’d have to do with Lafitte ... I’ll quote his words ... would be ‘to hang the hellish bandit’! From what I’ve seen of him I hardly think he is the type to change his mind, except under the strongest provocation! It’s useless!”

“‘Hang the hellish bandit!’”

Grymes stared at the floor thoughtfully. What would the future bring?

II

Colonel Ross, spick and span in his full regimentals—skin-tight leather trousers, full-skirted blue coat, shining boots, gaudy epaulets, cocked hat, and clanking sword, stepped briskly along the sidewalk near the long white picketed fence bordering the house known simply as “Headquarters” and turned in at the little gate.

The official New Orleans residence of Major-General Andrew Jackson was a long, one-and-a-half-story cottage in a big garden with its side to the street. One chimney alone stood in the exact center of the sloping roof, the lower portion of which sloped down far enough to also roof the long, low porch that ran the length of the house. Near the gate grew a large willow, of a size that enabled it to shade both house and garden.

Greeting acquaintances right and left, the colonel ascended the steps, crossed the piazza, and entered the wide front door, with its hospitable fanlight above; a few moments later he was admitted into the Presence.

Andrew Jackson, thin, querulous-looking, with piercing dark eyes and abundant wavy locks, was clad in a uniform almost the counterpart of the colonel’s, with the addition of the insignia of his rank and a startling amount of gold lace.

The general had dark circles under his slightly sunken eyes, which looked up peevishly at the newcomer.

Colonel Ross, nothing daunted, saluted smartly and at once plunged into his business. Evidently he was giving a report which he had been instructed to bring. Jackson listened attentively.

“Will you repeat the gist of that, please?” he asked, at the recital’s end. Slowly, carefully, Ross did so. Through the open window could be heard the loud hum of many voices in the front of the house.

“In other words,” said the general, in a heavy voice, “we have little to expect here. The defenses are almost negligible.”

Colonel Ross flushed.

“You may count on every man in New Orleans capable of bearing arms, sir. The planters, merchants, bankers, lawyers ... all ... have volunteered for service. Creole volunteers are daily coming in by the hundred from the near-by parishes and plantations ... in every imaginable kind of uniform and with all kinds of weapons. Then we have a company of colored freedmen, and another company of negro refugees from Santo Domingo, men who sided with the whites during their revolution. Even the prisoners in the calaboose will be provided with weapons and released. As you can see, sir, New Orleans is doing her best.”

General Jackson nodded.

“So I see. But what can these untrained men do against the veteran legions of the British?”

“Fight for their lives, sir!” snapped the other.

For a moment the general did not answer, but his eyes twinkled. When he responded, however, his voice was more friendly.

“You are right, Colonel!” he exclaimed, honestly, “I beg your pardon! But we are in desperate straits, I am just beginning to realize it. I had no idea of the terrible conditions here. I see we must really depend on outside help. Hinds arrived this morning from Mississippi with a troop of cavalry”—Colonel Ross nodded—“and I have just a few minutes ago received a courier who says that General Coffee will be here in a few hours with his brigade—”

“The ‘Dirty Shirts’!” exclaimed Ross. Everyone knew of that famous band of frontiersmen from the forests of Kentucky and Tennessee.

“The same!” said Jackson, smiling. “And they are wonders. After a journey of eight hundred miles through the wilderness, they will cover—are covering, according to the courier—the one hundred and fifty miles from Baton Rouge to New Orleans, in two days!” Jackson could not forbear chuckling at the colonel’s look of astonishment.

“Added to these,” he continued, “we have a thousand raw militiamen, brought down the river on barges and flatboats; and a hundred Choctaw Indians in war paint and feathers!” He smiled sardonically. “What a magnificent army with which to face the British!” he added.

Suddenly, as he finished speaking, the two became aware of a strange cessation of the buzz of voices without. Undoubtedly something of moment was taking place. For a brief space the general and the colonel looked at each other in a mild surprise and wonder. Then, before either had the opportunity to speak, they heard the challenge of the sentry outside the door.

A moment later the door opened and an orderly appeared. His face wore an air of suppressed excitement.

“What is it?” demanded Jackson, with asperity.

“A gentleman to see you, sir ...” he faltered, uneasily.

“Well, show him in then!” snapped the general, motioning Ross to be seated. Jackson well knew that only a very important personage could have gained access to him at this moment.

The orderly turned and beckoned to some one without.

“Mister Jean Lafitte!” he announced, dispassionately.

And a moment later the Baratarian crossed the threshold.

III

Clad in a full-skirted bottle-green coat, cocked hat, white leather trousers, and polished Hessian boots, the Frenchman presented a gallant figure. He wore no sword, but carried a sword-cane.

The general stared at him in astonished fascination. Ross appeared to be seeing a ghost. Lafitte bowed, and spoke first.

“General,” he remarked, pleasantly, “you may possibly have heard of me. My name is Jean Lafitte.”

Jackson suddenly came to life, his face red with anger.

“What the devil do you mean, sir,” he exploded, “by coming into my presence so brazenly? Don’t you know—”

Jean bowed courteously.

“I trust you will pardon my intrusion, sir, at such a time,” he said, with deep regret apparent in his voice, “but I felt it my duty to my country to come.”

“Duty? How dare you mention duty and your country in the same breath! You have overreached yourself this time, you damned pirate....” He proceeded to overwhelm the Baratarian with abuse until he was exhausted by his efforts. It was a noteworthy fact, however, that he did not call the sentry to arrest his audacious visitor.

Lafitte stood silent, coldly aloof, his face only showing courteous interest. Indeed, he appeared slightly bored.... Colonel Ross looked at him with admiration, forced to pay tribute to his aplomb.

When the storm had somewhat subsided, Lafitte spoke.

“Pardon my interrupting you, General, but I came here to speak to you, and I mean to do it if you order me hung in five minutes.” Jackson quieted down and stared at Lafitte balefully. The Baratarian continued:

“I am a lawbreaker, I candidly admit, and have no defense to make. That matter does not touch our business in any way. If you will remember, General, I was approached by the British government with a most flattering offer, of which I need not go into detail, for my aid in their expected invasion, and, incidentally, was threatened with death if I eventually refused. As you know, I refused; and not only did that, but warned the authorities of the attack on New Orleans that is planned, and even furnished them with important papers given me by Captain Lockyer.

“That alone, sir, is an impregnable proof of my patriotism and love of my adopted country, for which, if I may say so, I should have been thanked. But, on the contrary, as a reward for my good intentions and information, which last has since been proved to be perfectly accurate, the authorities sent a fleet to Grande Terre ... utterly destroyed our homes ... looted our warehouses, and killed many of our men, and more of the ‘black ivory.’ Many of those taken prisoners have since been hung. I and my friends were forced to flee for our lives and hide for several months in the swamps.

“That is the kind of thanks I got for warning the authorities of the great danger which still threatens New Orleans ... and that was the reward I got for offering to risk our lives in the defense of this city! All we asked in return was a pardon for our past misdeeds and a chance to reform and become law-abiding citizens.” Lafitte drew himself up proudly.

“I ask you, General Jackson, before God Himself, is that justice—or is that honor?” he thundered. For the moment their rôles were reversed.

Jackson was silent, and stared hard at the speaker.... All the anger had left his face. Ross watched the Baratarian in fascination.

“But, notwithstanding,” went on Jean, “the destruction of our homes and the murder of our comrades—we still repeatedly offered our services, the love of our country overcoming our personal animosity. You repeatedly refused. Therefore, for the last time, General, we renew our offer. I have come to you myself, this time, well aware of the fact that you will, in all probability, imprison me, or perhaps even hang me outright. But I have taken a chance, well knowing the actual need for my help, to speak frankly.

“General, I have at my command a body of brave, well-armed, and highly disciplined men who have been trained to fight ... and are more than willing to do so. The decision rests with you....

“Does the state care to accept their services ... or does it not?”

Lafitte folded his arms and stared Jackson in the eye. For a moment their gazes held ... and then the general suddenly drooped his chin on his chest, looking down, thinking hard. There was a long pause.

Outside the window could be heard the renewed buzz of voices. Colonel Ross stirred restlessly, his eager gaze on his superior.

Finally Andrew Jackson raised his head and slowly rose to his feet. He had decided.

“The state accepts!” he replied, and held out his hand....

Chapter the Twenty-Second:

Wherein the Pirate-Patriots Attain Glory, and Two of Their Number Seek Death

I

“Where can I find Captain Lafitte?”

The hurrying Creole with the antiquated musket on his shoulder slackened his pace for a moment.

“De Baratarians? Dey are wit’ de Americans on de Rodriguez Canal, m’sieu, and on de redoubts neah de city.... Capitaine Lafitte is at de canal, I t’ink....”

“Merci bien....”

With which word of thanks the rider was off, to disappear down the dusty road, and the old man with the older musket resumed his untiring trot toward New Orleans.

The newcomer on horseback, having reached the fortifications on the canal, now slowly rode along its length, seeking Lafitte. He seemed to note with interest the grim-faced, raw-boned wilderness hunters he passed, who, distributed along the lines, made striking figures with their buckskin shirts, powder-horns, abnormally long rifles, and occasional—tomahawks! Interspersed with these were a few red-shirted Baratarians, personal followers of Lafitte. The main body of the pirate-patriots were stationed at the line of fortifications before the city, where even now the big guns were being placed into position.

At last the rider reached the object of his search, who, a gallant figure in a resplendent uniform, was conversing with an officer of the frontiersmen.

The rider dismounted. Lafitte turned.

“Jean!”

“Pierre!”

They embraced, and then simultaneously fired a volley of questions. The frontiersman unobtrusively vanished.

“How goes it in the city?” asked Jean, after a while. “Indeed, we’re about to retreat there, for we cannot hope to hold this place long—although we repulsed a night attack with great success. What’s news?”

Pierre Dominique brightened.

“New Orleans is swarming ... excitement everywhere. The women and girls have organized a hospital. Le bon Dieu knows we’ll need it! We’re expecting the British to attack in force any day....” He paused. “By the way, Jean, I saw Virginia Grymes—”

Jean stiffened, his jaw tightening. Pierre went on, unnoticing.

“—down at their hospital. She was dressed in white and looked like an angel ... an adorable angel!”

The other looked away, suddenly interested in the landscape, but his heart was all aflutter, nevertheless. It had been over two years, now, since he had last spoken to her at Grande Terre, and though he had avoided her since, he had found it impossible to forget her. He knew that he still loved her as he loved life itself. But pride—and circumstance—or both—had kept him from going to her in the endeavor to patch up the old quarrel.... Then two years since his conscience had told him the price was too great a one to pay for happiness. But now that he at last was free to go to her, a lawbreaker no longer, but a respected patriot, he felt a strange reluctance. He sighed.

Pierre Dominique continued, his next words well calculated to cause Jean more mental unrest.

“Do you know, Jean ... that if I come out of this—out ... of ... you know what I mean” ... Jean nodded, gravely ... “alive I’m going to marry Virginia, if she’ll have me. I’ve intended to speak to you about this for a long time ... but never had the opportunity.”

Lafitte turned his face away again; and still his brother noticed it not, but went on speaking, ignorant of the mental torture he was causing the other.

“Of course, Jean, I’m not really worthy of her ... she’s above me in every way. But I love her—oh, how I love her! If she refuses me ... I ... I ... I ... don’t know what I’ll do!” he burst out suddenly, and his face wore a strange look ... a look foreign to it. Then, as if ashamed of his little outburst, he smiled weakly, and impulsively put his hand on his brother’s arm.

“I know, Jean, that I have always been pretty much of a philanderer ... a trifler. I cared for all women ... and none of them. And I have always thought—expected—that I would live and die a bachelor. But now ... all is changed. Love, the real thing, has come to me ... and I feel that I can’t live without her! Oh, mon frère, love is a terrible thing ... and a wonderful thing! Both bitter and sweet!” He sighed heavily at some half-forgotten recollection, and again turned to his brother.

As for Jean, his whole being was in a tumult ... he felt as if he were on fire ... as if his bare soul were being laid on hot coals. Pierre drove the iron in deeper, still unwitting.

“I realize now,” he added, in a low voice, “the sufferings you went through ... on Mauritius. I was blind, then, ignorant, although I, in my egotism, thought myself wise in the ways of woman-kind—of love. Poor fool that I was, I tried to counsel you.” He paused a moment. “Do you know, Jean, that once—once, I thought you loved Virginia?” He laughed hollowly. He did not add that he had once thought that Virginia was interested in Jean; he could not help remembering De Moulin’s words on that memorable day of his own arrest.

For a moment Jean did not answer ... he could not. Desperately he fought for control of himself, trying to keep the words from pouring from between his lips ... the words of jealousy, of rancor. Mightily he strove to hold in the deadly poison of hopeless despair that filled his soul. Suddenly he determined to learn the worst ... to face the true facts. If they were painful, he would accept the pain. In the game of love, all family ties drop away.

He turned on his brother, in his turn, his face pale as death, his coal-black eyes dully alight, as he clutched Pierre’s shoulder.

“Tell me ... Pierre.... No doubt you know” ... he asked, tensely, “does—Virg—does Miss Grymes love you?” The question was out. On Pierre’s answer, he dimly felt, rested his whole future.... As a drowning man clutches at a straw, he mentally hugged to himself the memory of that one exquisite moment ... those kisses on the terrace of Bordeaux Manor. Those kisses—they seared his very brain!

As for Pierre Dominique, he stared at his younger brother for a full moment while digesting the content of the question. And suddenly a light flashed through his brain ... and he knew! Following each other in quick succession came soul-disturbing thoughts—barbed arrows of jealousy.

De Moulin’s jests—Jean’s strange withdrawal from society—the changed demeanor of Virginia during these last two years—her reserve—the unfathomable look that came to her eyes at the mention of Jean’s name! Fool that he was, not to have noticed before!

Forgotten now were all blood ties—boyhood affections—fraternal loyalty. Pierre, in his turn, was now on the rack of jealousy. He knew, even now, that if he did marry Virginia he would still be jealous—would always remember that “something” between them. A wave of jealous rage swept over him that left him cold ... and resolved. He nodded curtly, and when he spoke, could hardly recognize his own voice.

“Yes, Jean, I know she loves me.” He paused, hesitated, and turned his head. “In fact ... you see, I’m sure of it!”

Jean turned pale ... choked a sob ... and fiercely turned his head away. When he turned it again his eyes were glistening.

“I wish you both the best of luck ... mon frère!”

A quick pressure of the hand and he turned abruptly and walked away.

Pierre Dominique stared after him ... looked at his hand ... stared again at the other’s retreating figure. He took an uncertain step forward—and stopped.

“—the best of luck ... mon frère!”

He sobbed aloud.

II

The last belated stars twinkled out of sight and there was that brief period of darkness that precedes the first flush of dawn. Although as yet invisible, the fields stretching out before the American lines ... that long line of earthworks; timber, sand-bags, fence rails, and cotton bales ... was sparkling with frost, for this, it must not be forgotten, was the 27th of December. And even the southern state of Louisiana has a bowing acquaintance with winter.

At length the sun rose, dispelling the early-morning mists with an impatient hand, and revealing, to these equally impatient Americans, an amazing sight. There, not more than a half mile in front of the lines, in as perfect alignment as though on parade, was the British army, perhaps eight thousand strong, a blaze of scarlet. The contrast was indeed striking. On one side, the well-ordered legions of the British, aflush with all the pomp and panoply of war; on the other, the comparative handful of defenders intrenched behind—cotton bales. Even as the surprised Americans watched this awe-inspiring sight there was heard the silvery shrill of the British bugles, sounding the advance, and the muffled roar of the kettle-drums.

As they marched within range of the American guns a loud explosion was heard, and a group of plantation buildings which masked Jackson’s front were blown up. Now it was the turn of the invaders to feel surprise, for they suddenly found themselves face to face with a row of ships’ cannon, which were manned as seldom guns are manned on land.

Around each gun was clustered a crew of lean, fierce-faced men with red shirts and kerchiefs, caked with mud and sweat. Farther down the line was Captain Beluche, Lafitte’s second in command, the same man—by the way—who became in after years an admiral of Venezuela.

The scarlet host steadily moved onward—and onward.

But it was not until he could make out the brass buttons on the tunics of the advancing redcoats that Lafitte gave the command to fire. Then it was that the great guns of the pirate-patriots flashed and thundered, mowing down the ranks of the scarlet invaders as the sickle cuts the grain. On all sides men could be seen dropping, first by twos and threes, and then by dozens and scores.

The bugles shrilly sounded the retreat, which was a rather useless proceeding, as the redcoats were already in sullen retreat....

III

’Twas New-Year’s Day....

The sun, true to habit, rose again, but on an entirely different scene. In the short interval of three days many things had changed. Now, it could be seen, the skillfully intrenched British had thirty heavy guns running parallel to the American front.

But the Americans had not been idle, either, for additional batteries had been constructed, and Commodore Patterson, with wise forethought, had gone through the sailors’ boarding-houses in New Orleans with a fine-toothed comb, impressing every nautical-looking man on whom he could lay his hands to serve the guns, regardless of nationality, creed, color, or excuse.

Behind the British breastworks were sheltered their storming columns, awaiting the moment when the inevitable breach would be made in the American lines, while their batteries opened the artillery duel with a crash that shook the skies.

The Baratarians, on whom fell the brunt of the defense, trained their guns as carefully, and served them as coolly, as though they were fighting from the decks of their own dependable privateers.

At the expiration of exactly an hour and a half the impatient British columns realized that they had waited in vain, for their batteries were silenced, their guns dismounted, and their parapets leveled with the plain.

A band of buccaneers, reinforced by a few score American blue-jackets and volunteers, had decisively whipped the laureled veterans of Nelson and Wellington! And the conquerors of Napoleon’s Old Guard had been conquered, in turn, by a group of French Creoles. Poetic justice, indeed!

On the morning of the 8th of January began the death struggle. By this time Jackson had received the long-expected reinforcements from Kentucky—twenty-five hundred strong—who had just arrived in a naked and half-starving condition, after a forced march of fifteen hundred miles from the Blue Ridge. These foot-sore, ragged, and hungry mountaineers were scattered along a three-mile front, one end of which extended so far into a swamp that the soldiers stood in water waist-deep by day, and slept on floating logs tied to trees by night.

When the gray mists of early morning lifted, the scarlet columns could be seen advancing across the fields. The battle was on—and the fate of America hung in the balance.

General Jackson, lantern-jawed, lean, and excited, reined up his horse at Dominique You’s battery. On all sides was excitement ... the fever of the battle was at its height. The man who had fought with Paul Jones, at sight of the general, made his way to him through the spasmodic clouds of smoke. His own battery was silent, strangely enough.

“What’s this, Dominique?” demanded Jackson, testily. “Why have you stopped firing? What the devil do—”

“Because the powder’s good foah not’in’!” snapped back the Baratarian, saluting. “It might do to shoot blackbirds wit’, bud nod dese dam’ redcoats!”

“Tell the ordnance officer that I will have him shot as a traitor in five minutes if Dominique complains again of his powder!” ordered Jackson to an aide-de-camp, and continued his way down the lines; cheering, directing, exhorting. “Old Hickory” well lived up to his name that day!

Although the battle had lasted but twenty minutes as yet, and was destined to last but five more, both of the Lafittes were present in the thick of the fight; indeed, their courage and intrepidity were to become by-words for years to come. One could not but marvel at their magnificent contempt of danger, their reckless bravery.

But there was one thing alone that none but themselves knew. No one, moreover, could be expected to know that these two brothers had resolved to die in this battle, and were courting death, each in his own way.

Jean, ever since his talk with Pierre Dominique, perhaps a fortnight before, had lived as if in a daze. But one thought was uppermost in his mind—haunted him by day and by night—that Pierre loved Virginia—and that Virginia loved Pierre! Or so he believed. Ordinarily, shrewd and analytical that he was, he would have dispassionately and deliberately considered the situation, weighing and testing each of its multiple phases, but now, blinded and deafened by the emotions of love and jealousy, he did not for an instant doubt his brother’s veracity. All during these past two years the thought of Virginia Grymes, alone, had kept up his courage ... and he had gloried in the hope of some day seeking her again ... and of coming to an understanding. He had been sure—fool that he was—that she yet loved him. For rumor itself had never in all that time linked her name to that of any man’s. And then, that one divine moment of surrender—those kisses!

Now, once more a respectable citizen of the United States, he was to have gone to her again—and claimed her. Nothing could induce him to believe that she had merely flirted with him, as she had told him.

But Pierre’s lie had changed everything. There was nothing more to live for. For her love for him had been but a pretense ... she had but flirted with him. And he had not believed. Now he knew!

Good Pierre Dominique! Honest Pierre! Life-long comrade, nearest relative, and dearest of friends! Doubt Pierre? Never! Dear old Pierre! He loved Virginia ... and Virginia—loved him! Why should he intrude his misery—his unhappiness, upon their happiness? If it had not been for—for what had taken place, there would have been no girl on earth whom he would so sincerely have recommended his brother to wed. Why should he selfishly feel jealousy? All was for the best. He was not worthy of the Virginian girl ... undoubtedly not! And Pierre Dominique was ... without doubt!

Thus reasoning, Jean unselfishly had resolved to seek death.

And Pierre, too, for an altogether different reason, was seeking death.

He, also, had had his fortnight of mental torture ... of jealous brooding and retrospection. Pierre Dominique, not quite as big-minded, or unselfish, as was his brother, had no thoughts of giving up his love to Jean, just to secure his happiness! He knew now that Jean loved Virginia; but that fact alone did not serve to inspire him with thoughts of renunciation. The fact that infuriated him was that he was reasonably certain now that Virginia loved Jean ... and that she was not destined for himself, whatever the outcome of the battle.

Therefore, he, too, was seeking the death that ever eluded him. But both brothers were now discovering that death invariably side-steps from the path of men who eagerly seek to meet it.

And now the battle was drawing to a close, and both Lafittes were yet alive ... and death still was—but was it?

The ebb-tide of the battle had begun.

Slowly but surely the shattered British regiments, demoralized by the sudden fall of their commander, Sir Edward Pakenham—who was even now dying behind their lines—and their own proud ranks fearfully depleted by the American fire, were losing ground, their morale gone.

Sir Edward, on his deathbed, gave his last order.

“Sound the charge!” he murmured. “We must take them by storm ... or all is lost! The honor of England is at stake.... Shall a handful of yokels take it from our keeping?”

Close on the silvery message of the bugles ran the shouts of the officers. Encouragement—profanity—exhortation—curses—pleading. And cowed and discouraged as they were, the remainder of the crimson host, still far outnumbering their untrained opponents and still smarting with their injuries, listened to their officers and took courage once more—the courage of desperation. Individually infected with the enthusiasm of the mass, their fury self-whipped by thoughts of their humiliation, they responded with a deadly vim. The troops of England the invincible, England the all-conquering, were being defeated by a comparative “handful of yokels.” The veterans of Trafalgar, Waterloo, and the Nile, their divisions shattered, were in danger of ignominious extinction.

With a universal shout of mingled hate and triumph the living red mass, still awe-inspiring in their numbers, charged at a run and swept across the field toward the American trenches, hell-bent into the very jaws of death.

Although hundreds were momentarily falling before the Baratarians’ cannon fire, the majority rushed onward up the slope, in a desperate last-hope attempt to scale the intrenchment, and overpower the Americans in a hand-to-hand encounter, by sheer weight of numbers.

As it happened, Jean Lafitte, commanding the Baratarians, was stationed in almost the exact center of the American lines, upon which was naturally directed the brunt of the British attack.

Through the smoke he saw the British columns charging, ever onward, in spite of their continuous loss—driven through the rain of death by the magnificent courage of their indomitable officers. And he knew that in another moment the red line would reach his breastworks and, if unchecked, might sweep over by its sheer weight and perhaps yet turn the tide of battle.

They must be checked, and at once. Everything was at stake!—everything!

With Lafitte to think was to act, and in this case it seemed that the thought and action were simultaneous. By a freak of fate, at just this instant there was the briefest lull in the cannon fire, as sweating gunners feverishly reloaded ... and the enemy was halfway up the slope, their ranks torn and ragged—but still advancing!

With a hoarse shout Jean sprang upon the crest of the earthworks, brandishing his sword with an unintentionally heroic gesture.... In the comparative stillness his full voice, ever powerful, rang out and swept up and down the lines with the clearness of a trumpet!

“Baratarians, charge!”

With a great shout that rose even above the crackle of musketry and the intermittent roar of the guns, the pirate-patriots surged over the earthworks, their muskets spitting death, and followed their beloved leader in a wild, glorious charge down the bloody slope.

“Vive Lafitte!”

The battle cry rose simultaneously, spreading down the lines, as rank after rank of the Americans poured over and down, their guns now silent, but their bayonets flashing murderously as they charged.

Amid a shower of balls, Jean, a few yards in advance of his men, ran on, his blood singing in his veins with the lust of battle, recklessly braving death in his determination to die. Not far behind him came his friends—de Moulin, Grymes, Dominique You ... Pierre. And close on their heels came his red-shirted followers, a scarlet mist in their eyes. How glorious it was to die!

With a terrific, air-shaking shock, the two charging hosts met, and the next moment seemingly assimilated ... a crimson caldron ... hand-to-hand, blade-to-blade; shots, yells, groans, curses.... Wrestling bodies, falling bodies, writhing bodies.... Inferno.

As he fought, Jean felt a joyous lust sweep his soul, and plunged into the thick of the fight again and again. Seconds were eternities. Of a sudden, before him, he saw Pierre Dominique engaged with two Britishers. Even as he watched he saw one bayonet his brother, as his fellow swung his musket stock to crush the Frenchman’s head like an egg shell.

Even as the musket descended Jean fired the last shot in his pistol, and the redcoat toppled forward. The next moment he saw De Moulin appear from the red mist and fall on the first Britisher with the fury of an avenging angel.

A moment later Jean was kneeling at the side of his brother, heedless of the flying bullets, his face ashen.

And then it was that the remainder of the British columns that had charged up the slope broke and ran.

It was now eight o’clock, and the American bugles shrilled their call!

“Cease firing—”

All along the lines the rows of weary, powder-grimed and blood-stained Americans were cheering ... with their caps madly swinging on the ends of their long, hot rifles ... and cheered even more tumultuously as Jackson—whom this victory was to make President of the United States—followed by his staff, rode slowly down the lines, his passing the signal for the regimental fifes and drums to burst into “Hail, Columbia.” All was joy—mad, mad joy. The impossible had happened ... the Americans had won the day!

But there was no joy in the heart of him who was largely responsible for this victory ... the pirate-patriot.

For Lafitte, with a file of silently sympathetic Baratarians, was hurrying his brother to the city—to the hospital ... racing with death.

But death, glutted already with British blood, grinned hideously.

And Jean Lafitte shuddered at the sight.

Chapter the Twenty-Third:

How One Lafitte Repeats a Prayer, and Another Enters The Valley of the Shadow

I

François de Moulin clutched Jean’s arm eagerly, his dark eyes filled with anxious forebodings.

“W’at—how—w’at does ze docteh say?” he demanded, huskily.

Lafitte did not answer until he had completely closed the door of the room from which he had just emerged. And François, catching sight of his abnormally pale face, felt a sinking of the heart.

“He says ... there is very little hope....” He choked and sobbed, but De Moulin saw that his eyes were dry. “Father Chambertin is with him....”

François stared at him as if in a trance, his hand falling abruptly to his side.

“Not—not—” he faltered.

Jean nodded, his head averted.

“Father Chambertin is Pierre’s confessor,” he said, rather unnecessarily. With his hands locked behind his back, he began to walk up and down the little room ... back and forth ... up and down. For a moment François stared at him, his own eyes wet and his heart trembling with pain. Yet, even in the midst of his own emotion, he could not but marvel at the self-control of Jean ... unknowing that it was impossible for the other to find physical relief in mere tears ... that the great grief which had come to him was pent up within his breast, racking his soul, yet leaving him dry-eyed and tortured as no man had ever been tortured before.

With an inarticulate murmur François turned to stare at the closed door behind which lay his friend, who even now was making his peace with the All-High, preparatory to venturing into the Valley of the Shadow. His head falling upon his breast the Creole gazed at the floor, unseeing.

Through the open French window could be seen a Virginia cardinal in a flaming red coat, perched upon the branch of a venerable magnolia, pouring forth a symphony of sound ... a tribute to the glory of life; expressing his thanks to the Omnipotent for the boon of living. The air was heavy with the balmy fragrance of roses and the sweet perfume of oleanders.

Somewhere below could be heard snatches of low conversation. Suddenly came the sounds of prancing hoofs on cobblestones and the indescribable whir of carriage wheels; the equipage slowly coming to a stop. Sounds of renewed conversation. A well-ordered babel of voices.

A step upon the stair. First animated—then faltering. A light step.

Lafitte, engrossed in his thoughts, did not notice, beyond a vague, momentary wonder as to the identity of the person who was invading the upper regions so thoughtlessly. De Moulin, however, looked up sharply, with mild resentment for the intruder.

Suddenly the person stood in the doorway ... and paused.

For a brief moment De Moulin stared at the intruder in astonishment, and then, fiercely brushing his eyes, bowed in the direction of the door and, turning quickly on his heel, vanished through the French window on to the balcony without, disappearing from sight.

Suddenly sensing the presence of a stranger, Jean slowly looked up.

It was Virginia.

For a timeless space they stared at each other.

As she recognized him, she started violently, colored, and her hand uncertainly clutched at her bodice. For another moment there was an embarrassing silence. Pale as death, the Frenchman looked at her, devouring her with his hungry eyes ... his heart wildly thumping against his ribs. It was the first time he had seen her face-to-face for a period of two years. If anything, he thought she was more beautiful than ever. For the moment he forgot the man who lay in the next room—forgot life itself—while his starved soul feasted itself upon her beauty.

Her pallor suddenly returning, she averted her embarrassed eyes and looked quickly toward the closed door across the room. Jean, intercepting the glance, felt his heart sink like lead ... and returned to realities.

He bowed ceremoniously, averting his tell-tale eyes.

She nervously returned a curtsy.

Being a woman, she regained her composure first.

“How is your brother—Captain Lafitte?” she asked, falteringly.

He bit his lip, and for a moment was silent. Her pallor deepened.

“Pierre is at—confessional.” He vaguely marvelled at his own poise.

She looked at the closed door in fascination, not pretending to misunderstand his meaning. He saw her eyes suddenly fill with tears, and, turning his back on her, rapidly walked to the window, to hide the tortured soul that stood revealed in his own.

“I—I cannot begin to express my—my”—she paused, groping for words—“grief and sympathy ... Pierre—your brother is a very dear friend of mine....”

He started at her words, but did not turn.

“I was expecting you to come,” he said, slowly, and did not see her look of surprise at his words. For a moment she was at a loss.

“Perhaps this is an ill-chosen time to say so, sir, but allow me to compliment you for your—bravery!” she said, half shyly. “I, like your brother, owe my life to that same bravery, and can well appreciate its worth....” Virginia paused abruptly, and could have bitten off her tongue, for she suddenly remembered that Pierre was—at confession! The irony of her words! She flushed with embarrassment, but Jean still did not seem to see her.

“I would to God that I were in his place!” he exclaimed, dispassionately.

She did not answer, but unaccountably flushed again. The years seemed to have vanished, as if they had never been.

“Why?”

“Why?” he repeated, incredulously. “You ask me that?”

She nodded uncertainly. He paused.

“Because I have nothing to live for,” bitterly. Jean Lafitte was only human, after all.

Her face expressed her astonishment. He continued speaking, quickly, to hide his embarrassment.

“Do you remember a certain evening two years ago, mademoiselle?” he asked, abruptly.

She did not answer, her face averted.

“It was a moonlight—”

“Don’t!” she pleaded.

He swept on, unheeding.

“—night. Do you, by chance, remember our conversation?”

Virginia was silent.

“Do you remember,” he went on, “what you asked of me?”

“Yes,” slowly.

“And what I answered?”

She nodded, her eyes fixed on his in fascination.

“Do you remember, mademoiselle,” he swallowed hard, “those—kisses?” His eyes were burning—glowing. It seemed to Virginia that she could detect his very soul imprisoned in those magnetic eyes.

She shivered with a strange emotion, and turned scarlet with embarrassment.

“Mr. Lafitte!...” The crimson wave receded and rose again.

He laughed shortly, painfully.

“Afterwards—you said you were flirting, mademoiselle. But I did not believe you—I could not believe—” She started. “But now I do believe!” he added, bitterly.

Virginia paled, and grasped the back of a chair, to steady herself.

Jean Lafitte bowed to her again, with elaborate courtesy.

“I repeat,” he said, quietly, “that now I do believe. That is why I say that I wish with all my soul that I were on Pierre’s death bed!”

The Virginian girl looked at him with astonishment, amazed at his frankness, his utter lack of self-consciousness.

“You are surprised?” asked Jean. “Don’t be! It is best to remove our masks. I was a fool—a blind fool! But it is too late now for vain regrets. You are right, mademoiselle. I was, and am, naught but a pirate! An outcast from decent society—a pariah! Your choice was wise. I cannot blame you. I merely pity myself—and curse circumstance.” In a sense, his words were meaningless; an incoherent rigmarole.

“What do you mean?” in real astonishment.

“Evidently everyone who comes into intimate contact with me must suffer! Even you and Pierre cannot enjoy happiness ... for the bullet that should have reached me was directed toward him by the malignant fate that watches over Jean Lafitte!”

Virginia stared at him, full of wonderment. As for Jean, he was even more amazed at himself, for his unpremeditated outburst, but, now that he had begun, he resolved to finish his peroration, sparing neither himself nor his companion. He felt that his whole being was in an uproar ... in a chaos of crucifying emotions.

“I confess that I cannot understand your—wild words, Mr. Lafitte,” the girl said with hauteur. “Allow me to believe that they were born of your great—grief. You know not what you say, sir!”

He smiled—a sad smile. A sudden transformation had taken place in him at her voice.

“You are right, mademoiselle. I do not know what I say. Please forget and forgive my words. But I mean what I said. It may interest you to know that I sought death on the field with an ardor with which I have never sought anything else. Life is all wrong, somehow—and I will not try to understand its mysteries. They are not for mortal eyes. But Pierre’s fatal bullet should have reached me, instead of himself—”

Virginia interrupted, vexed at the mystery in his words.

“Why do you repeat that, sir?”

“Why?” he repeated. He could not help thinking that they were both back at the same point in their conversation that they had been at its beginning. “You ask me that?” unconsciously repeating, too, the same words he had used five minutes before. “It is because you and Pierre—”

But he was never to finish his sentence. At this juncture the door of Pierre’s room opened slowly and a portly tonsured priest garbed as a Capuchin came out. As he caught sight of the lady a strange expression flitted across his face, but he said nothing.

The two others looked at the ecclesiastic inquiringly, but he gave them no time to question him.

“My son,” he said, softly, “your brother wishes to speak to you.” He drew closer. “Pierre Dominique Lafitte has made his peace with his Maker,” he continued, “therefore I advise you, mon fils, to be as forgiving as your Master has been.” He crossed himself. “Be not hasty in thy judgment,” he went on enigmatically, although in a kindlier tone, “for it is more blessed to forgive than to punish.”

Jean looked at him in bewilderment.

“What do you mean, father?”

The old Capuchin looked at him pityingly.

“You shall know in good time, Deo volente.”

He pointed to the closed door.

Without another word or glance toward the girl, Jean Lafitte opened the door—visibly stiffened—and went in.

The heavy door closed behind him. The old Capuchin turned toward the girl, his face grave.

“My daughter—”

II

As Jean stepped over the threshold he unconsciously paused, the sudden transition from sunlight to semi-darkness causing him to blink. All the windows of the room were heavily curtained.

At the upper end of the chamber was a huge canopied bed on a dais. On this lay Pierre Lafitte, the outline of his body thrown into strong relief by the wavering light of the tall candles grouped at his head and feet. On his breast, beneath his crossed hands, lay a crucifix. At the sound of Jean’s entrance the dying man slowly turned his head, and it could be seen that his mustache and imperial, once the proud object of his tender care, had lost their well-groomed air, in the same strange manner that he himself appeared to have lost his former debonair worldliness.

In less than a moment Jean was at his side, tenderly taking one of his brother’s hands in his own.

“How are you feeling, Pierre?”

The other smiled faintly.

“I am at peace—almost.”

“Nonsense! We’ll have you up and about in another week, Pierre. Don’t be so pessimistic.”

Pierre made a weak sign of negation.

“The sands of my life are running out, mon frère,” he whispered, weakly; “it is useless to blind yourself to the truth. Don’t weep, brother mine, for it hurts me—it hurts!” A groan escaped him.

Jean dashed away the moisture from his eyes.

“It is but the smoke from these candles that makes my eyes smart,” he lied. For a few moments he was silent, head bent, as he awkwardly patted the hand of his dying brother. The latter felt a burning drop on his hand.

“Grieve not, Jean. I am to die ... it is written. I feel no fear; on the contrary, I am happy. I shall soon be with our sainted maman.”

Jean gripped the coverlets fiercely.

“Oh, that we could have gone together! Pierre, mon Pierre, I cannot let you go alone—I cannot—I cannot!” he sobbed, “into the cold—into the unknown.... You were made for the light, mon frère, for the sunshine—”

“Hush, Jean! I go willingly. And my stay in Purgatory shall be bearable, for above I shall always see our sainted maman—waiting, waiting.”

Jean buried his face in the bedclothes to hide his anguish, and his brother caressed his hair. What greater bitterness could come to man than that he should watch a dear one die—pass away from sight and hearing—before one’s eyes! The crushing heart-ache of it! The stars shine on—the sun goes on its accustomed way—yet, how can they?

Again Jean was a child—a boy—a youth. But always the younger brother—the youth whose hero Pierre had been. With the rapidity of lightning a swift succession of scenes passed through his mind—incidents from his boyhood days, youthful memories.... And always there had been Pierre—brother Pierre. Father, mother, and brother, all in one! His father Jean could not remember, and his mother but dimly, but there had always been Pierre! Pierre with his understanding sympathy; Pierre with his ever-ready aid; Pierre with his helpful advice; Pierre with his unstinted love! Jean groaned aloud. Again he was the little boy, fearful of shadows, and Pierre was his knight-defender....

The ghostly sands of the infinite hour glass trickled ceaselessly, inexorably. But his thoughts sped on.

Unconsciously he prayed aloud, while Pierre listened, and slow tears welled up in his eyes and over. At the foot of the bed grinned the figure of Death, but at the head smilingly wept a beautiful woman with the dark eyes of Jean—

Then, together, they repeated a prayer in unison—a prayer that they had together nightly made in the far-off days of Jean’s boyhood. Strangely enough, it was neither their “Ave Marias,” nor any other prayer used exclusively by those of their faith. It was a prayer used by countless faiths—a universal plea to the one existing Deity. What matter if His prophet be Moses, Christ, Mohammed, or Confucius?

As they chanted on, Jean’s voice grew louder—so loud, indeed, as to be heard in the next room. When he began the next stanza, though he knew it not, the old Capuchin and Virginia were both on their knees, repeating it with him. And Virginia was sobbing....

The prayer was not particularly appropriate, but it soothed them.

When the two brothers had finished they were both silent for a long while, each busy with his own thoughts, and both unashamedly weeping. But weeping as only brave men weep—men who are not ashamed of their tears. The simple little prayer had brought a slight relief to both of them.

“Jean,” said the dying man, at length, “I have a confession to make—and dread it.” He shuddered.

The younger Lafitte tenderly kissed his brother’s hand by way of answer. His heart was too full to allow him to speak.

“Mon frère,” said Pierre Dominique, haltingly, “I have done you a great wrong....”

“C’est impossible! Forget it, mon Pierre!”

“Oublier je ne puis. I cannot forget, mon frère.” His voice gathered. “Jean, my brother, I have done you a great wrong—deceived you—lied to you, God forgive me!”

Jean trembled violently, suddenly sick with a premonition of what was to come. Unconsciously, as if to physically ward off the impending disclosure, he extended his palm.

Pierre, however, once having gained the necessary courage, was not to be put off. There was a semi-hysterical note in his voice.

“I lied to you—lied to you....”

Strangely enough, Jean did not ask for particulars—he merely stared at the dying man, fascinated. Pierre Dominique half raised himself on his elbow; his face was suddenly rendered grotesque—strange—by a curious chiaroscuro—a blending of light and shade—caused by the uneven flame of the burning tapers.

“Do you remember, Jean ... at the Rodriquez Canal ... that morning?” The look in the other’s face suddenly convinced him that Jean remembered—painfully, “I said—I said that Virginia Grymes loved me—that I knew it.” His words were coming in gasps, “Well ... I lied to you!” He sank back on the pillows, choking for lack of breath.

“You—lied—to—me!” repeated Jean, in a daze. He was as if stunned—suddenly struck treacherously from behind. “You are—mad! You cannot have lied!” he murmured.

Pierre weakly grasped his hand, his face working.

“I lied, Jean—lied ...” he choked.

“You did not know!” cried Jean, desperately, trying to make his brother’s load lighter, even though he felt himself mortally stricken.

“I knew,” mechanically said the other, “and I have suffered the tortures of the damned, Jean ... the tortures that I shall soon suffer in Purgatory! I knew you loved Virginia ... and I knew she loved—loves you. And I was jealous and lied!

“Can’t you find it in your heart to forgive me, Jean? I loved Virginia Grymes as I’ve loved no other woman on earth—except little maman! Can’t you realize?”

Jean looked up, his face a picture of suffering—misery.

“Forgive you? Gladly, my brother. I understand—too well. I too, have loved her—and I understand. Put your mind at ease, mon Pierre. There is naught to forgive.”

“I have made you suffer.”

“For a short time. But it was nothing. Now I am happy.” There was a radiance in his face. Pierre Dominique saw it and sighed. Oh, Life, Life! But Death, grinning hideously at the footboard, stepped nearer—and sneered.

“Then I am happy. And can die happy, Jean....” But his face belied his avowed happiness.

“Yes, mon frère.”

“You will marry Virginia....”

“If she will have me!” humbly. Pierre smiled. The expression on his face was simply indescribable: envy—regret—longing—bitterness....

“Never fear. She has always loved you and still does. But, as I said, you two will marry. I know it. And you should appreciate her worth, mon Jean. A good woman is man’s greatest blessing. As François—good old François—says, we cannot do without them—nor should we. Man born of woman is brought up by woman—trained by woman—and, as he is given life by woman, could not live without her. Virginia is representative of all that is best in womanhood. Cherish her—if not for your own sake, for—mine....” He trembled.

“And Jean....”

“Oui, mon frère.” The pathos of his voice!

“If there should be a son—and there must be, for you must perpetuate the race of Lafitte ... if there should be a son, I say—will you name him—‘Pierre’—and tell him of the uncle whom—he—never—knew?”

The tears were coursing down Jean’s lean cheeks.

“Yes, my brother ... by the living God, I swear it!... If we shall be blessed with a son, he shall be Pierre Dominique Lafitte, and I only hope that he’ll be as brave—and good—and noble—as his uncle!” He sobbed again. Farcical this scene may seem, but these two were in sober earnest. All men are—when in the shadow of the inexorable Angel of Death—the divine messenger of finality.

For a long minute there was silence. Then:

“Jean....”

“Oui, mon frère.”

“You’ve always looked like the little maman.... I am about to go to her.... Kiss me, Jean....” He was now too weak to even turn his head ... a strange light shone in the dying man’s face. Jean, leaning over tenderly, reverently kissed his brother on the lips.... “Good-by, mon—Jean....” His eyes were glazing.

“No—no!” cried Jean, suddenly alarmed. “Don’t leave me. Pierre!” He sobbed wildly ... a taper flickered....

As if by a superhuman effort of the will, Pierre aroused himself temporarily from his semi-coma.

“That—is—not—the—Lafitte—way, Jean,” he whispered. “Tell—me—good-by!” Already, step by step, he could see that grinning specter at the foot of the canopied bed advancing, his sable wings horribly unfolding, his bony hand beckoning with horrible insistence.

Jean suddenly straightened, and he grasped his brother’s hand tightly. He, too, had caught sight of the inexorable march of the specter and realized the futility of resistance.

“Au revoir, mon frère!” firmly.

“Till we meet again,” not “good-by”!

Pierre Dominique Lafitte smiled, weakly.

The sable specter was almost upon him, but he cared not, for there, above him in a shaft of golden light, hovered the figure of a woman ... and her eyes were like those of Jean....

“Little maman ...” murmured Pierre contentedly, shuddered, and closed his eyes.

With a great cry Jean sank to his knees, convulsively kissing his brother’s hand ... calling....

The door was pushed open. He was conscious of a crowd surging into the closed candle-lit room. The air was stifling—strangling. His head was light, his feet were slipping away into nothingness. The face of his dead brother was growing indistinct before his very eyes....

Suddenly silence. Then, “Chapeux bas!” exclaimed a voice.

“Hats off!” indeed....

Pierre Dominique had entered the Valley of the Shadow.

Chapter the Last:

In Which Our Pirate Walks into a Trap And Hauls Down His Colors

I

“I ’ave news foah you, mon ami,” said De Moulin, following his host up the broad steps to the white-columned veranda above. Grymes motioned him to a comfortable chair, and sat down in another near-by.

“I can guess at it,” he answered, smilingly.

“W’at?”

“Your news.”

“Guess away, zen, monsieur.”

“I don’t have to guess—I know.”

“Impossybl’!” with exaggerated doubt.

John Grymes laughed. Before he could answer, however, old Rappahannock, the Grymes butler, made his appearance. As he caught sight of him, the Virginian’s eyes brightened.

“A bottle of that claret, Rappahannock. Bin four!” Grinning widely, the old darky turned, but Grymes, struck by another thought, recalled him. “No, wait! Make us a couple of mint juleps instead, Rappahannock—the kind you make at home!” Rappahannock’s grin became more accentuated and he disappeared into the cool recesses of the hall of the rambling old mansion. The Virginian favored his guest with a broad wink.

“Wait until you taste that julep, De Moulin. There’s not a man in the South that can make it like that old darky of mine can.”

François smiled.

“As for your news,” went on Grymes, fanning himself with his hat, “it’s public property.”

François, startled, looked up quickly. Grymes intercepted the look and laughed.

“It couldn’t but be otherwise, old man. You are referring to the President’s proclamation, of course.”

De Moulin looked blank. The Virginian chuckled with the glee of a man who has found a responsive audience to which he can impart news of which it is ignorant.

“You guess’ wrong,” said the Creole. “My news concerns Jean.”

Grymes chuckled.

“Of course it does! You can’t be thinking of anything else but the proclamation. There’s Lafitte’s revenge against Claiborne. I’ll bet the Governor is as sore as a wet hen!”

“W’at you mean?”

“What do I mean? Lord! Lord! The man doesn’t know! I’m talking about President Madison’s proclamation, of course! Jean Lafitte and his Baratarians are no longer pirates, but officially acknowledged patriots. That’s what I mean! You may not know it, but, after the battle, General Jackson strongly urged Washington to make some recognition of the splendid services rendered by the Baratarians. Now the President has granted them a full pardon. His message ends something like this:

“‘Offenders who have refused to become the associates of the enemy in war upon the most seducing terms of invitation, and who have aided to repel his hostile invasion of the territory of the United States, can no longer be considered as objects of punishment, but as objects of generous forgiveness.’

“Jean Lafitte can hold his head as high as any man in America to-day, François. And, do you know, it was really he and his men who turned the tide at the battle, and who, consequently, saved Louisiana from invasion. Jean Lafitte has made history—and the world knows it! Lafitte, the pirate! Now, it’s ‘Mister Lafitte, patriot.’... How he must be laughing up his sleeve!”

“I know zat all along, mon ami. Bud I ’ave ozzer news. Jean eez going to la belle France, Mistah Grymes.”

The Virginian sat upright with a jerk, abruptly putting down his hat. Footsteps in the hall of the house were heard approaching, but Grymes was oblivious to anything but this startling intelligence.

“What the devil do you mean?” he asked, in astonishment. The young indigo-planter smiled.

“Joos’ what I say, Jean eez goin’ bac’ to France.”

The Virginian leaned back in his seat limply.

“Well I’ll be damned!” he ejaculated, with emphasis. “I am damned!”

“Poor father!” said a sympathetic voice. And Virginia, a cool vision in white, stepped out upon the spacious veranda.

Both men instantly rose to their feet. François bowed gallantly, and she greeted him cordially.

“I beg your pardon, my dear,” said Grymes, flushing, “for my er—words, but—”

“But what, father? Of course I’ll forgive you. But I confess I’m curious. What made you say it?” She glanced archly at the young Creole.

“Reason enough,” said her father, brusquely. “De Moulin tells me that Jean Lafitte is going back to France.” He looked at the Creole for confirmation, and so failed to see the strange look that passed across his daughter’s face.

“Why?” asked Virginia, in a voice meant to be casual.

“Yes, why?” said Grymes. He began pacing the porch. “Here I’ve been looking forward to an opportunity to repay him for his hospitality to us—me”—hastily—“when I was at Grande Terre, and you tell me that he is going to France.”

“Foah won zing, I s’pose he want a change of scene,” said De Moulin.

“Yes, that’s so. Pierre’s death broke him all up, I know. There was a man for you.”

François de Moulin stared into the distance.

“He was won of ze bes’ man zat evah live’,” he said, soberly, “an’ I am ’appee to be able to say zat I was eez fr’en’.” He turned his head abruptly.

“Requiescat in pace,” murmured the Virginian.

“He was a brave man and—a gallant gentleman,” said Virginia, softly, her eyes suddenly moist. She thought of that moonlit night at the dance, when Pierre, a handsome figure in cambric frills and claret-colored damask, had made love to her in the little trellised bower under the magnolias. How long ago that seemed—how far away! She could still see, in her mind’s eye, the sparkling of his eyes as he told her the story of Jean and Lizette ... could still hear the musical inflections of his voice. Poor Pierre! What a great number of things had happened since that time. Now Pierre was peacefully sleeping in the crypt of St. Louis’s, and Jean—

“And Jean Lafitte is just as true a gentleman in every respect!” remarked Grymes, assertively. At his words Virginia started and a slow blush mounted to her cheek. She experienced an uncanny feeling, as if her father had taken the words right out of her own mind.

“The only thing lacking in Lafitte’s make-up,” went on Grymes, thoughtfully, “is his birthplace; meaning no offense. De Moulin,” turning to the Creole, “Lafitte should have been a Virginian!” The others laughed and De Moulin surreptitiously cleared his throat.

“I forgot to say,” he remarked, “zat anozzeh meestery eez aboud to be solv’. Jean heemself tol’ me zat he eez going to Havre, een particular. It seems zat he eez relate’ to Lafitte, ze banker of Havre, whose daughteh eez to be married zis summeh to Prince de la Moskowa. I ’ave also learn zat zees Lafitte of Havre eez an int’mate fren’ of ze Emperor, an’ I would nod be sooprize if Jean neveh comes bac’ heah. Sans doute ... weezout doubt, his relations will mek him remain een France. An’ you rilly gannot blame Jean. He eez reech ... très riche, an’ he gan go high een ze service of ze Emperor. Napoleon laks reech men, anniway.”

For a moment Grymes did not make any comment, so surprised was he at this budget of news. As for Virginia, her mind was in a chaos. Jean was going away—perhaps forever. She would never see him again. Although her pride would not let her admit it, even to herself, ever since the day of Pierre’s death she had anxiously waited—waited for the coming of the lover—who never came. Everything had been cleared—yet he did not come.

And here she learned that he was going to France—perhaps never to return. How lonely life would be for her—and how passionately she loved him! She did not trouble to deny this to herself, now. She knew it was only too true. She loved him more than life itself. And she was sure that he loved her—or thought so. Yet—he was going to France! She could feel the hot tears of self-pity and longing well up in her eyes.

Suddenly, so suddenly as to attract the attention of her two companions, she murmured something inaudible and hurriedly disappeared within the house.

The two men stared at her with surprise, and Grymes looked openly troubled.

“To tell you the truth, De Moulin,” he said gravely, “I am rather worried about Virginia. I hope you will excuse her sudden withdrawal.... I suppose she—No, I’ll tell you the truth!”

The Creole looked at him in surprise.

“W’at do you mean, m’sieur?” he asked.

“Well, I don’t know exactly what to say, because I really don’t—can’t understand. But the fact is, that Virginia has been behaving rather strangely, here lately. No, I don’t mean that, either. I’m trying to say that for some time she hasn’t appeared to be herself, exactly. She’s not ill, as far as I know, but she eats very little, is unusually quiet, and seems to be worried about something or other. She’s always thinking or brooding, whichever you may prefer. I’ll confess I’m worried.”

For a moment or two the Creole was silent.

“I gan tell you in a word,” said De Moulin, wise philosopher that he was, “Virginia eez een love!” He looked keenly at the other.

“Well, I’ll be—” Grymes caught himself abruptly. Then he swore to himself softly under his breath. Finally he burst into roars of laughter until the tears came. De Moulin merely smiled.

“Of course that’s it!” exclaimed the Virginian, after his mirth had subsided. “Why couldn’t I see that before? All girls in love act that way, strangely enough, I suppose I thought my Jinny different from other girls.”

“She eez!” put in François, warmly.

“But who can it be?” asked Grymes, a new idea striking him. Then, “It isn’t you, is it?” with genuine interest.

François sniffed.

“I onlee weesh eet were!” he exclaimed, devoutly, shaking his head in sad negation.

“Then, who in the world—” Suddenly the older man stopped and a shadow of real worry passed across his face. When he next spoke, his voice was seriousness itself.

“It can’t be—you don’t think it was—Pierre Lafitte?” A real fear had entered his mind, now. If this were the truth, what suffering must his daughter—the legacy of his long-lost wife—be undergoing! With a painful pang he suddenly remembered that her recent absorption could be traced back to the period, some weeks previously, of Lafitte’s death. His mouth tightened.

But François, understanding his sudden fear, quickly put him at his ease.

“No, eet was not Pierre,” he said, earnestly; “zat I gan sweah to!”

“Then who is it?” demanded the Virginian, vexed in spite of himself.

De Moulin leaned forward and tapped his arm slowly.

“Jean Lafitte!”