BOOK TWO Temptation

“... Why must you engage in the barter of human souls?... Won’t you give it up—for my sake?”

—Virginia Grymes

“... I am not an American—neither by birth nor by inclination.... On my decision hangs the destiny of this territory.... Have I reason to love the American government? Why should I resist this temptation?”

—Jean Lafitte

Chapter the Fourteenth:

How Virginia Comes to Bordeaux Manor and One Manuel Espinosa Takes What He Wants

Barataria Bay!

Swarming with water-craft of every description and every nationality—brigs, schooners, caravels, sloops, pinnaces, tartanes, barges, and countless small boats—French, Spanish, English, American, and the indeterminate nationalities of the visiting rovers of the Caribbean; these, with the numerous vessels of the Baratarians, the waters of this smuggler stronghold fairly teemed with life, and presented a scene not to be duplicated in any other portion of the globe.

A trim little sloop, beating up from the north, had just emerged from the narrow pass into the bay, and rapidly made its way through the host of stationary and moving water-craft off the yellow shores of Grande Terre.

A little later the Virginia, for such was the name that was faintly distinguishable on either side of the weather-beaten bow, came to anchor, and almost immediately two negro sailors disembarked into a trailing dory and swiftly rowed ashore, where, upon landing, they vanished in the crowd that thronged the beach.

Virginia Grymes, hidden from view in her father’s sloop’s tiny cabin, with her maid, a fairish West Indian, watched the animated scene ashore with absorbed interest, while awaiting the return of Scipio, the mate, and his master.

Seen from seaward, Grande Terre was a picturesque sight, with its long, low buildings and tall, graceful palmettos silhouetted against the southern horizon, the island rising in gentle sandy slopes from the marge of the busy bay, which, like an immense opal, flecked with innumerable prismatic tints—ruby, amethyst, sapphire, emerald, topaz, and chrysoprase—was heaving in languorous undulations.

Even as she watched, inwardly thankful that her arrival was apparently an inconspicuous and unnoticed one, she was unconscious of the fact that at that very moment the Virginia was undergoing an attentive scrutiny ... and that the person so scrutinizing was smiling—an unpleasant smile.

Of a sudden, Virginia became aware of several men, who, emerging from the crowd, entered the Virginia’s dory and began rowing toward her. From the fact that they wore red shirts, she knew they were Baratarians.

Another minute and the dory was alongside; still another, and its passengers had clambered aboard. Not daring to come on deck, anxious to know what had happened, wondering at the non-appearance of her father, Virginia began to heartily regret the foolish impulse that had brought her to Grande Terre. But she was not to long remain in doubt as to the identity, or intentions, of the newcomers.

A scant space after their boarding the Virginia, the door of the little cabin quickly opened and the red-shirted, bearded men entered it abruptly, hesitating a moment on catching sight of the two women huddled against the opposite wall.

Smirking, the first Baratarian made an awkward bow.

“You are Ma’amselle Grymes?” he asked.

Virginia nodded, with a sudden wave of relief that they knew her identity. No doubt John Grymes had sent them for her.

“Where is my father?” she asked, tremulously.

For a moment he hesitated, and she looked from one to another uncertainly, flushing as she caught their frankly admiring, insolent looks.

“He could not come.... M’sieu Grymes had an accident. He—he broke his leg, ma’amselle, and le bosse, who is with him, sent us to bring you to him. He is anxious—”

Virginia snatched up her cloak, her half-born distrust vanishing at this momentous news.

“I will go to him,” she said.

“Mais certainement,” said the pirate, and he and his companions respectfully drew apart so that she could pass out of the cabin. Drawing her cloak closely about her, she hurried between them and began to ascend to the deck.

The next moment a huge hairy hand clamped itself over her mouth, she was seized, and in an instant was helpless. A stifled shriek told her that Marie, her maid, was being treated in the same manner. The icy hand of fear suddenly gave her heart an excruciating wrench.

Then, before she had time to struggle, or even to coherently think, she felt herself being firmly trussed and gagged, forcibly doubled so that her knees touched her chin, and unceremoniously and hastily forced into a sack-like hamper, which was then closed. Helpless, blinded, dumb, and half stifled by the foul odor of the hamper, the terrified girl felt herself lifted from the floor, carried on deck, and lowered into the dory.

On the beach she heard whispered voices, other hands took up the hamper, and again she was being carried away.

Not long after she had been taken from the scene, one Manuel Encarnacion Espinosa strolled by, ostensibly dawdling, but in reality noticing much ... and from the corner of his eye he watched a small boat that was rapidly crossing the little bay, headed for the mouth of one of the numerous streams that emptied into Barataria from the network of waterways that interlaced the forests of the mainland. And as he watched it disappear into the great green wall he smiled, for in it was a veiled woman.

On all sides were sweating slaves and stevedores, their black skins shining in the pitiless sun’s glare; creaking winches and tarry ropes; bearded Baratarians with red-kerchiefed heads and bright red shirts; lean, fierce-faced pirates from the Caribbean; seamen of all nationalities; soft-voiced Creoles; quadroons, octoroons, and mulattoes; Mesquite Indians from Florida; Choctaws; Cubans, Spaniards, and Mexicans with spurs and silver-braided sombreros; revolutionists and exiles from Santo Domingo and other South American states; gentlemen adventurers and fortune-hunters from every unsavory corner of the continent; slavers, slave dealers, and traders; and last, but not least, the brilliantly clothed, swaggering dare-devils who belonged to Lafitte’s personal following.

In the background were the long, low warehouses, the stockades and sheds of the slave pens, and the auction block in the midst of a busy little square. And dominating the whole scene, Bordeaux Manor—named, incidentally, in honor of the birthplace of the Lafittes—which, crowning the highest point on the island, in a grove of palmettos and cypresses, was a stately structure of stuccoed brick, of a distinctly Franco-Spanish type of architecture, with Moorish arches and many grilles and balconies.

As a strange contrast to the ugly, noisy village below were its grounds, its pounded shell walks, brick terraces, and its gardens replete with oleander, jasmine, and acacia thickets, orange trees, china trees, and bananas. A strange contrast to the busily nondescript scene farther down.

The whole was surrounded with a high spiked wall, with a huge gateway made for practical defense rather than beauty. This jarring note was emphasized by the presence of heavy ships’ cannon, which were placed so as to command both the village and harbor.

With brooding eyes Espinosa gazed at the stronghold of Lafitte; a gaze of envy, hate, and the gloating pleasure of anticipation.

Even as he stood there he became aware of Lafitte and Grymes, trailed by the latter’s two slaves, approaching the beach, both apparently excited.

Entering the dory, they rowed to and boarded the Virginia. In an even shorter period of time they had regained the shore, Grymes pale with anxiety, Lafitte furious and Scipio and his fellow chalky with fear.

From then on, things began to happen.

No one, it seemed, had noticed the coming of the sloop, nor had any paid attention to its occupants. It remained for Señor Espinosa to furnish a clue, which he did at the proper—in his judgment—time.

“Señor ‘Bosse’,” he volunteered, “I saw a small boat which bore a veiled woman enter that stream just a few moments ago. But I never gave it a second thought, thinking her to be some planter’s wife, or a prized slave. But now I am convinced it was the young señorita.”

Thanking him fervently, Jean ordered a boat manned and, with Grymes, set out in chase of the supposed abductors.

Manuel Espinosa vanished into the seething crowd, but emerged again across the plaza, on the Manor road. And with him, when he did so, came a goodly number of his friends and followers. All were armed, and when, after an interval, a similar group followed, none gave them heed, for on Grande Terre every man went armed and every man kept his business to himself.

At the Manor gates, strangely enough, Jean’s Myrmidons, the customary Manor guards, were absent, and henchmen of the Spaniard held their place. The former had been treacherously attacked and overpowered. Bordeaux Manor was now entirely in the Spaniard’s possession ... its treasures, its guns, and the power its existence implied.

Immediately following the entrance of the last of the conspirators, the great gates were barred and the walls manned. Manuel Espinosa was, for the time, the master of the Manor and Grande Terre.

When Espinosa entered, he immediately hastened to a certain inner room, whose door he locked behind him. Virginia Grymes, its sole occupant, looked up in surprised affright.

She was liberated now from the tortures of the hamper, but was by no means happy. As she saw the Spaniard stand with his back to the door, for a moment, his insolent eyes avidly drinking in her beauty, memory came to her aid. He was the man who had loitered without Livingston’s house in New Orleans—and now she remembered seeing his face in the crowd on the day of her adventure with the runaways. And as she stared at him, fascinated, she remembered that she had been uncomfortably aware of him on other occasions ... of his insolent admiration, his lustful gaze.

As he stared at her, he realized that she recognized him, and he was pleased, in his animal way.

“So we meet again, señorita,” he essayed, smirking and unsuccessfully attempting an imitation of a bow by Lafitte.

“Why have you done this?” she demanded, her eyes terror-filled, her shapely hand clutching at her bodice. “Where is my father—and Mr. Lafitte?” She was as yet unable to comprehend, in its ominous entirety, what had happened.

He grinned, displaying his horrible teeth. Yellow, evil teeth.

“They are gone ... in the forests, trying to overtake your maid. When they heard of your disappearance, they were like headless chickens running around, until I, the good Manuel, told of how I had seen men take you away into the forest. And they instantly followed. Am I not a cunning one?” he smiled fatuously, anxious to exhibit his cunning to her.

“But why—why did you do this?” she cried.

His answer was candor itself, given with the ungarnished simplicity of the human animal that he was.

“Because I wanted you. And what Manuel Espinosa wants, he takes!”

She did not answer, but stared at him, her bosom heaving. Was this a terrible dream? Where was the prosaic world of commonplace happenings?

“I have wanted you since I first saw you,” he went on, “and I have planned to get you ever since. At last my chance has come. Now you are mine!”

“My father will kill you.” She choked, conscious, even then, of surprise at her own courage. “When Mr. Lafitte returns he will flay you alive. Can’t you realize that?”

The Spaniard laughed, pleasurably. Then he cursed Lafitte, with a fluency, thoroughness, and variety of epithet that caused her to shudder—as much at the venomous hate in his tone as at the vileness of his obscenity.

“Lafitte’s day is over!” he cried. “I—Manuel Espinosa—am now bosse of Barataria—not Lafitte! Do you think me a fool? Me—Espinosa? By the nails of Christ—no! The French dog with his airs and arrogance has always been in my way—but I have bided my time—I, the cunning Manuel. I let him go ahead and build up Grande Terre, with his money and influence ... for me! He thought Grambo was his enemy—but the quadroon was but a tool—my tool. I waited—waited—and now my time has come. The saints brought you into my hands—and through you put Lafitte out of the way.

“My men now hold the fort. My guns command both the town and the bay. I can destroy the whole colony, if I wish. But I shall not, yet. I shall give them all a chance to join me—or be shot to hell! And I think they will join me, and even catch Lafitte for me—don’t you?”

That she thought so was only too apparent by her horrified look, and the Spaniard smirked again.

“Lafitte is a cunning one—very cunning. But I, Espinosa, am smarter than he. You’ll be proud of your husband, my pretty bird!” He advanced toward her slowly, his arms half outstretched, in his fatuous vanity interpreting her look of terror for admiration of himself.

“I’ll die first!” she said, distinctly. His expression became menacing, when he had assimilated this.

“You should be glad that I’d marry you!” he exclaimed. “If you were not a great lady I wouldn’t bother to marry you. But a great man should have a great lady for a wife—and the bosse of Barataria is a great man.” At any other time Virginia would have laughed at the simplicity of his overweening egotism.

“You beast!” she cried, passionately. “I warn you, for the last time, to let me go! Mr. Lafitte and my father won’t let you escape them, and if you’ve come near me, whether I’ve already killed myself or not, they’ll tear you to pieces, limb from limb!”

Forgetting her terror in her truly royal rage, she made a beautiful picture, and the renegade was by no means unappreciative of it. Again he grinned and attempted to take her in his arms. She beat a furious tattoo on his breast, like a fluttering, helpless bird.

“Little fool,” he whispered, “if the saints decide to give the victory to the French dog, don’t think you’ll escape, for when I leave Grande Terre I’ll take my wife with me, and we’ll go back to the real life where there’s blood and wine and gold—and women! But my little flower will outshine all of them, and I shall wear her—until I tire of her or throw her away to pick another. That is the way of the Brotherhood. But before I go—if I do—this upstart Frenchman will suffer, and you shall see the show. Dream of escape, señorita, all you please. Y suenos suenos son—dreams are only dreams—remember that!” He grinned. “And now a kiss, little flower!” and he grasped her arms.

Regardless of the consequences, she hit him in the face, painfully—and he laughed. Suddenly the reverberating roar of a cannon was heard; hesitating, he loosened her and then opened the door.

“I will be back, señorita,” he promised, and laughed again as she quailed. A moment later she heard the bolt and his departing footsteps. With a pitiful gasp, she fainted.

Chapter the Fifteenth:

In Which Virginia Hears The Toast Of “Vive Le Bosse”

I

“But why did she come—what on earth possessed her?” demanded Grymes, for the tenth time, eying Lafitte anxiously as the crowded longboat emerged from the winding stream to shoot across a lagoon-like bayou, to re-enter another stream that twisted and turned its way through the jungle-like forest.

“Dieu le sait! ... there must have been some urgent reason that impelled her. But that is unimportant now. We must find her, and that before—before it is too late!”

“My God!” exclaimed the Virginian, as if suddenly remembering. “If anything happens to my little girl I’ll—I’ll—Oh, why did I ever come here—why?” His voice broke. In his mind’s eye he saw a grave in an old Virginian churchyard, where slept the woman who had intrusted her baby to his care with her dying breath. He could still see her feverish eyes, hear her faint voice.

“’Twas my fault for asking you to come, m’sieu,” said Jean, pressing his hand—understandingly. “I’d give my life not to have had this happen. But don’t worry. We’re bound to catch the scoundrels before long—they have but a few minutes’ start. Sacré nom! If I only knew who’s responsible!”

Already a half hour had passed since the rescue party had left Barataria. Impelled by the powerful sweep of eager arms, the longboat made its way up the channel, passing through a perfect network of bayous and marshes, long stretches of cypress forests and low-water willows, thorny bushes hung with prickly smilax, and wide expanses of mud bristling with the chevaux de frise of the dwarf palmetto—unhealthy shallows swarming with millions of coarse aquatic plants.

Now and then glimpses could be caught of the horrible reptiles and snakes beneath; slimy, nightmarish creatures—crawling alligators; miniature forests of reeds, peopled with armies of bellowing frogs, purple ironweed, wild roses, pink spiderwort; an occasional dead cypress standing in lonesome isolation in the center of a marsh, on whose gaunt arms roosted rows of vultures.

Through forest and marsh, lagoon and stream—then a sudden unexpected bend of the stream, and the crowded boat glided out upon the surface of a glass-like bayou whose shores were lined with live-oaks and low-water lilies. The westering sun, gently dropping behind the farthest trees in a blaze of pink and gold, lightly tinted the silvery waters ... willows and acacias were passing from the dull green of distant foliage to the brilliancy of chrysoberyl.

Almost simultaneously the voyageurs shouted, for across the bayou a small boat, carrying two men and a woman, was about to enter a tributary stream.

At sight of their pursuers the fugitive oarsmen redoubled their efforts, although it was certain they could not escape.

Plucking a pistol from his belt, Jean sent a ball over their heads, and then another. With surprising alacrity the abductors halted, backed water a space, and deliberately ran their boat aground.

Thinking that they sought to escape into the jungle with their prisoner, Lafitte called on them to stop, and again fired. Taking the hint, they remained motionless, awaiting the others’ approach. In another minute the Baratarians were alongside, and the incensed men had roughly laid hands on the unresisting fugitives.

Paying them scant attention, Lafitte, followed by Grymes, approached the swaying girl, and eagerly tore off her veil. For a moment he was as if petrified, realizing the extent of the hoax in a flash. Leaving Grymes to release and question the cruelly gagged and bound slave girl, he sprang back to the prisoners, with such unrestrained fury in his face that Espinosa’s surly henchmen cowered.

“Where is Miss Grymes?” he demanded.

The burlier of the two shook his head. But Jean, in his rage, grasped his throat, choking him.

“Tell me what you know!” he panted “or you shall die a thousand deaths! Sacré nom!—you dare parley with me?” as the other hesitated. “’Kenzie—a fire—quick! I’ll make them speak!” Even Grymes did not protest this apparently inhuman order. But the second prisoner, realizing that the bosse was in earnest, confessed.

“We do not know where she is now, mon capitaine,” he muttered, “but she was taken to Manuel Espinosa!”

Lafitte stared at him aghast, remembering who had given him the clue for the chase.

“Espinosa! You are mad! Why, he—” He paused. “No, I believe you, dog! Yes, yes, I see it all now! So the Spaniard has struck—he thought to avenge Grambo—the fool! Or is there more to this—is there more?” he mused.

Grymes, again white with anxiety, broke in.

“But where is he now? Where has he taken Virginia?”

Jean whirled on the prisoners.

“Yes—where is he? Don’t lie to me, or your life will pay for it! Where has he gone? To Cuba? To Mexico?”

“I don’t know—I swear it, mon capitaine!” desperately.

As he spoke, they heard the muffled boom of a ship’s cannon, far to the southeast—whence they had come.

“It’s Grande Terre!” exclaimed Grymes.

For a moment the bosse listened intently. But no more shots followed. Again the forests were still; the west was a sea of liquid fire.

“That was Bordeaux Manor!” he exclaimed. “Something has happened. Dominique You is signaling us to return. Perhaps they have caught the Spaniard. Into the boats!” he ordered, quickly, his thought now all on Grande Terre.

“And these canaille,” spoke up a red-shirt, with callous insouciance, “shall we shoot them, mon capitaine?”

“Bring them along,” ordered their leader, shortly. “We’ll deal with them later.”

Both boats recrossed the bayou, heading for Barataria. And this time they sped along even more quickly, if that were possible, than when they came.

When nearly back, again they heard the roar of a cannon, and again Lafitte recognized it as one at the Manor. Ten minutes later they met another boat, hastening to meet them. In it, to his surprise, Jean recognized the grizzled Dominique You, one of his lieutenants, whose pride it was that he had once fought with John Paul Jones, and who worshiped his present master, the “Duke of Little Manchac and Barataria,” even more than he had his late leader.

In a few sentences he apprised Lafitte of all that had taken place. Manuel Espinosa and his followers, most of them members of Grambo’s former disgruntled coterie, had formed a conspiracy and secretly taken possession of Bordeaux Manor by a surprise attack.

The first notification the colony received of the change of affairs was a salute of the Manor gun. The shot was followed by Espinosa’s sending out one of his prisoners with a message to the Baratarians announcing that he had assumed the leadership of the colony, and demanding that they consider Lafitte as deposed and recognize him as its head. If any refused to join him, they must leave the bay at once. If any attempts to attack the Manor were made, he would bombard the village and harbor. If adherents of Lafitte remained, the promised bombardment would also take place.

Although furious at the Spaniard’s treachery and resenting his high-handedness, the colonists were in a trap and at a loss what to do. For the time being the renegade held the whip hand. The Manor battery had the village at its mercy and was more powerful than any guns mounted on the privateers in the harbor. Bordeaux Manor, as was well known, could stand a long siege, being well provisioned and armed. And what was more to the point—in the Baratarian’s estimation—the vaults of Bordeaux Manor held all the accumulated treasure of the colony. Leave Barataria? Not they!

Just on the marge of the forest a council was held, and Jean was joined by many of his lieutenants. All were infuriated, but as yet no attack had been made on the stronghold, pending the arrival of Lafitte. The village of Grande Terre was seething with excitement. At any other time Jean would have withdrawn the Baratarians to the mainland—even if under fire—and there have decided ways and means with which to recapture the Manor at their leisure. He realized that the Spaniard’s real aim was not to govern Grande Terre, but to escape to the Caribbean with the treasure of the Baratarians.

The fact that Virginia was in the Manor, made this theory more probable, and it was this fact, too, that decided him to rescue her at once ... to save her before it was too late—if it was not already so.

It was now dusk.

Returning to the island, Jean left Dominique You with certain orders, and, taking some twoscore of his trusted personal followers, with Grymes, he led them away from the village to the upper, wilder end of Grande Terre.

At a certain thicket he stopped, and his little band gathered around him. Tearing aside a mesh of vines with a cutlass, Jean at length revealed to their wondering gaze a little mound, half covered with a huge stone slab. When this was raised, it revealed a black hole.

“A secret passage!” exclaimed Grymes.

Lafitte nodded. Only he, himself, and a very few trusted lieutenants knew of its existence.

Followed by the men in single file, Lafitte entered, with the Virginian close behind him. For what seemed an interminable time they made their way through the mephitic darkness, guided by the walls, until the upward slope of the ground told them that they were approaching the Manor. Another interval, and the line came to a halt, while Lafitte fumbled with something at the end of the passage. A moment later a door swung inward, and the foremost men found themselves looking into the great banquet hall of the Manor, now empty and shadowed. On passing through, one found the entrance of the passage to be behind a movable slab that formed the back of the huge fireplace.

Passing through the great chamber to the entrance hall, they overpowered a few rebels found there before they knew what had happened. Then, surging through the stately entrance in a wild charge into the courtyard, they fell on the surprised garrison with a fury that matched their enthusiasm.

During the fierce mêlée that followed, the gates were opened and a human flood led by the man who had fought with Paul Jones triumphantly swept in. The courtyard for a brief period was an inferno of struggling men, slashing, shooting, yelling—a mob gone mad—with no quarter given or expected.

But Lafitte and his guest were not among them. Together they were conducting a furious search for Virginia. Nor had they far to seek. For not a moment, it seemed, after the beginning of the short battle in the courtyard they heard a woman’s scream. At a wild run they scaled the grand staircase—a moment’s indecision until raised voices gave them their direction—and then threw themselves against a locked door!

Grymes cursed aloud, and, not noticing where Jean was running, flung himself against the door. From within he heard a man laugh and a woman sob.

Jean, realizing the futility of an attack on the stout door, ran to the next floor to the room above, dropped from the window to the balcony below, and burst into the room via the French window.

As he did so he saw Virginia, hair and clothes disheveled, struggling in Espinosa’s arms. At his entrance, the Spaniard spun around in surprise, cursing as he recognized Lafitte. Evidently he was ignorant of the rescuers’ arrival.

Just then, as Lafitte sprang forward and they grappled, Grymes, given strength by excitement, burst in the door. He saw Lafitte slip and fall—saw Manuel miraculously produce a knife—saw it flash downward—and fired from the hip.

And then he saw Espinosa, still gripping the knife, suddenly sink to his knees and fall across the half-recumbent body of Lafitte, who, his temple having hit a stool in falling, was stunned.

And finally, John Grymes saw his daughter run across the room, not to himself, but to Lafitte, and, lifting his head, thinking the knife had done its work, burst into a frenzy of weeping.

Jean Lafitte, returning momentarily to consciousness to find her tears on his face, decided that he must be dreaming, and closed his eyes again.

When next he opened them she was gone.

II

Several hours after the recapture of the Manor and the death of Espinosa, when peace had once more descended upon Grande Terre, Lafitte met his two guests at dinner.

Grymes and his daughter met their host in a small, luxuriously appointed chamber, in which was a table laden with an imposing array of silver and crystal, with a huge, many-branched candelabrum in the midst of a mass of crimson oleander, serving as a center-piece.

During the meal little mention was made of the terrible experience through which the girl had gone, all tacitly avoiding it. Virginia told of her conversation with Livingston before leaving New Orleans, and her father scolded her roundly for coming to Grande Terre. The three were just beginning to emerge from the tension of the past day. It seemed like a nightmare one had gone through, and so it was.

During the wonderful meal that followed, Grymes told his daughter how royally Lafitte had entertained him since his arrival ... told in detail of feasts and sports and thrilling experiences—as he was to tell it to his cronies many another time in the future. And as the meal progressed, the happenings of the day faded into the unreal past.

“Would you like to join our gentlemen privateers at dinner this evening, Miss Grymes?” asked Lafitte, near its end.

She looked puzzled.

“What do you mean, Mr. Lafitte? I thought—”

“Pardon me—” He signaled to the huge slave who had piloted them here a short half hour before, and spoke a few words to him in crisp French, which she could not quite catch. With a bow, the negro left the room, to return in less than a minute. Then, walking over to the farthest wall, at the end of the room, which was almost wholly covered by a great tapestry, half hidden by hangings and potted palms, he pulled a silken cord.

In the meantime a much smaller table, laden with the dessert, had been placed directly in front of this tapestry.

As the negro pulled the silken rope the tapestry slowly rose into the air, to hang suspended and to disclose a little wrought-iron railed balcony. Offering his arm to Virginia, Lafitte led her over to the smaller table, where she was seated behind a large palm which protected her from the eyes of anyone beyond the balcony, but afforded her an excellent view.

She gave a gasp of astonishment, while Lafitte and Grymes looked at each other and smiled. Evidently the Virginian had witnessed the spectacle before.

Beneath her was a strange scene. The little balcony upon which they sat projected from the wall, apparently, of a great room, many times the size of the dining hall, and rectangular in shape. At one end was a great fireplace, behind which, incidentally, was the secret passage, in which a log fire was merrily crackling. On the walls were hung rich tapestries, wine-stained hangings, mounted animal heads, weapons of all descriptions, and a variety of other ornaments. In place of candelabra, large blazing torches in wrought-iron braziers were placed in the walls at intervals, and three great chandeliers of wrought-iron, also with blazing torches, flooded the chamber with light. The flagged pavement which was the floor was littered with animal skins and rich rugs.

But the center of interest was the long table in the middle of the floor, running the length of the room, around which were sitting perhaps two hundred men. These, although Virginia did not yet know it, consisted of the most prominent of the Baratarians, the wealthier of the traders and visitors to Grande Terre, and the closest followers, personal friends, and retainers of the bosse of Barataria.

All of this was briefly explained to Virginia by her father, who also informed her that the banquet scene below was a nightly affair, which was usually presided over by Jean Lafitte himself. At the moment, a great carved armchair, which stood vacant at the head of the long table, bore mute testimony to the fact that the master was not there, corroborating his statement.

Grymes, however, did not mention that the feasting and carousal going on below them was of a much more restrained nature than was usual. He also did not describe the nightly orgies of a Lucullian nature that took place; of the revelers who drank and sang all through the night; of the scenes which he had witnessed and which he intended to describe at length to his less fortunate friends who had never taken part in a pirate revel. The hard-drinking, high-living Virginian felt very much at home among these hard-drinking, high-living buccaneers; and, if the truth may be told, wished very much that he could be among them below, now.

At the moment, a tall, swashbuckling gentleman rover was standing, and singing a melancholy French love song to the accompaniment of a group of Baratarian musicians who sat before the fireplace. He sat down amid much cheers and applause. These Creole lawbreakers evidently had much of the sentimentalist in their make-up.

This was followed by a rollicking drinking song, which was gradually taken up by the whole assemblage, accompanied by the music, the thumping of feet, “beating juba” with the hands in the Southern fashion, and the clinking of the drinking mugs on the table-top. The effect was astounding. Virginia drank it in, fascinated by the picturesque scene before her—the colorful costumes, the roaring melody, the continuous, ever-increasing noise and hilarity. It seemed unreal, bizarre, as if it were but a figment of the imagination.

At this point, however, Lafitte stood up, with the intention of leading his lady guest from the scene. He well knew that it would not be long before it would develop into a bacchanalian orgy, and wished to spare Virginia the sight. Grymes, intuitively understanding his intention, nodded approval. He privately hoped that his daughter would soon retire to her own rooms, so that he could join the revelers.

As Lafitte stood up, however, he was seen by a few of the feasters below, and in a very few moments, it seemed, the whole assemblage was aware of his presence. Indeed, it was almost impossible not to be seen, although he was partially screened by the palms.

In any event, as if by magic, the song suddenly died down and for a brief moment there was silence. Unconsciously, Virginia gripped the arm of her chair; the sudden silence made the air seem to have become electric with an undefinable suspense—to give one the sensation that the tableau was not yet complete. Nor was it.

On a sudden, a gaudily dressed, black-bearded Baratarian leaped up on to the long table, a goblet of wine in his hand. Holding the beaker high in the air, with a raised sword in the other hand, he cried, enthusiastically:

“Vive le bosse!”

The toast and cry of “Long live the bosse!” was taken up with a will, and the vaulted ceiling rang with the deafening cheers, accompanied by the brandishing of weapons and the spilling of wine. For a brief period a pandemonium of wild cheering continued to fill the great chamber with a volume of sound. All eyes, apparently, were directed toward the little balcony.

It was all very dramatic, this tribute to their chief.

Thrilled to the core, her every nerve vibrating with a strange exhilaration engendered by the excitement of the demonstration below, the girl looked at her host.

Jean Lafitte stood perfectly still for a moment, like a man of stone. Unconsciously, he was making a heroic pose, and for the moment was forgetful even of his guests.

He was proud of his men, and was prouder to think that they were proud of him. He was their leader, and they would have no other. It was a gratifying thought—this.

This was his throne-room, these his subjects. The “Duke of Little Manchac and Barataria” was receiving the homage of his subjects.

Slowly—unconsciously almost—as a man in a dream, the man whom a thousand lawbreakers called bosse inclined his head—a simple gesture, true, but a regal one.

The cheering doubled—trebled—became deafening.

“Vive le bosse!”

Chapter the Sixteenth:

Wherein Is Encountered a Man—a Maid—And a Moon

“Romance?” queried Lafitte. “Romance, Miss Grymes, enters into the life of every mortal—and, like love—and hate—it is primitive.” He fell strangely silent, staring into the darkness of the trees.

The two of them were alone, for Grymes had joined the feasters in the banquet hall, leaving his host and daughter together on the terrace near the dining room, leaning on the parapet overlooking the gardens. In the distance, through the palmetto fronds and foliage of the magnolias, could be seen the lights of great bonfires in the village and the glimmering lanterns of the ships in the harbor. Snatches of song and altercation, laughter and jesting, were borne to them on the night breeze, telling them that the celebration of the day’s victory was not yet over.

Above them, high in the purple-black firmament, hung the harvest moon, whose soft golden glow, falling on the shadowed gardens, breathing of mystery and romance ... the gleaming, phosphorescent waters of the Bay ... and the flagged terraces and tiled roofs of Bordeaux Manor ... lent an air of glamourous enchantment to the scene.

Forgetting to reply, the girl cupped her chin in her hands and stared into the mysteriously alluring distance, fascinated by the scented, balmy atmosphere—the odor of jasmine, orange blossoms, roses—and the magic of the friendly but coquettish moon.

It was a typical Southern night, and Virginia, a Southerner in every fiber, fairly gloried in it, basking in its magnetism—for it had magnetism. But Lafitte, himself a lover of the beautiful—himself a Southerner of that romantic Gallic land where chivalry and sentiment went hand in hand, although under the same celestial hypnosis—was more absorbed in another spectacle, the most exquisite that Nature vouchsafes to mere man—that of a beautiful woman, of a land noted for its feminine pulchritude.

Feasting his eyes on this slip of Virginian loveliness he felt his artistic soul stirred to its tumultuous depths; filled with an exquisite yearning, suffering every torturing ecstasy of the lover who feels that he worships in vain.

A man—a maid—and a moon!

“What a beautiful moon!” exclaimed Virginia, impulsively.

Lafitte started, aroused from his self-imposed lethargy, and turned his stare on that celestial gentleman. He regarded it seriously, probingly, his shapely head slightly atilt.

“On just such a night,” he half whispered, as if to himself, “Jessica stole from Shylock’s house to meet her lover ... Leander swam the Hellespont ... and Romeo serenaded Juliet.”

As if to give credence to his words, a man’s rich baritone was heard from the beach, singing a French love song—a pæan of nocturnal sins—to the thrumming of a wailing guitar. The eyes of the two listeners instinctively turned toward a high balcony above their heads, to the right, much as if they expected to witness just such another amorous tableau.

They looked at each other guiltily and laughed.

“You are a sentimentalist, Mr. Lafitte,” she accused, “and, apparently, a great lover of novels ... and romance.”

“All Frenchmen are lovers of romance,” he returned, smiling.

“And are adepts in the art of love-making?”

He flushed. “No. If you will allow me to say so, here is one who is not.”

“I have—er—heard differently,” with an assumed indifference.

“Indeed?”

How exasperating he was. She realized she had met her match in the game of repartee, and they had hardly as yet crossed swords! She grew reckless.

“What of your Mauritian fisher-girl?”

He stiffened. “What do you mean?” abruptly.

“I mean—Lizette Fondac,” faintly. Inexplicably, she turned her face from him.

“What do you know of—of Ma’amselle Fondac?” he asked, in surprise.

“I know the whole story—of how she saved your life.” She paused uncomfortably, then bravely plunged. “Speaking of love—and romance—there is an example, sir. You said a moment ago that love is primitive, or words to that effect. I say that real love is more than primitive—it is magnificent—especially magnificent when it gives all without question. Real love is renunciation. That is how, I imagine, your Lizette felt toward love. She gave her life without question. Isn’t that the greatest sacrifice a lover can make?”

“No!” fiercely. “Love’s greatest sacrifice is when one has loved and lost ... when one has given up one’s love—living—to his rival—to his best friend—to his brother!”

The bitterness of his outburst startled her, and its wording the more. Doubtless, she thought, he was referring to an affair in which he had been worsted by a friend—or Pierre! Perhaps concerning Gabrielle, or Céleste, or Angélique—or Margaret Claiborne! Like a lightning shock came back to her the forgotten words of her chum, on that memorable day!

“I thought so, once, too,” with reference to the eyes of Lafitte.

Could it be that Margaret and Lafitte—and why not? Suddenly her heart felt sick. Suppose she had been wrong all this time ... Margaret might have told her that story purely from meanness of soul—or jealously!

Pierre Lafitte had unembarrassedly told her the story of Grambo, with but the slightest mention of a slave girl.

“Jealousy!”

She hugged the word to her heart ... could it be? From that moment a dislike of Margaret was to remain with her, and a new emotion was born—the emotion that had gripped her by the throat when Espinosa had attacked Lafitte, that very day.

Virginia would have given much to read the mind of the Baratarian at that moment. If she had been able, many things would have been cleared, for Lafitte, in his last bitter remark, had been referring to herself—thinking that his own brother loved Virginia Grymes, and he, Jean, could not enter the race, because of no less than—his past attitude. For Pierre, he knew, was convinced that he, Jean, could never love again ... that his heart was buried with Lizette. And, fool that he was, he had strengthened Pierre’s conviction these past ten years, by his acting, his foolish pose.

He could not, in honor, now drop what was really a mask and enter the lists ... he must remain a poseur.

Yet how he loved her—how he fought to restrain his love! For one mad moment he had thought of taking her—this American rose. Was she not in his power? Was not his word law, here at Grande Terre? She had willfully put herself into his hands ... why should he not take this gift of the gods? After all, he was considered but a pirate, and a pirate took what he wanted—regardless of consequences.

But the next moment found him despising himself for the thought, for he remembered Espinosa. The Spaniard, too, had taken what he wanted.

Looking at her, bewitchingly lovely in the moonlight, he trembled with the very fury of his emotions—longing to pick her up in his arms, and fly, to the southern seas—to some uncharted tropical island—anywhere away from the world. Happiness was sure to be found—

But he knew it was impossible—this. It was only a dream, tantalizing, but unreal. There was one obstacle which he could never surmount—his conscience—his sense of honor. Never could he play the traitor’s rôle to his brother—and his associates—his comrades.

He stared at the lights of the distant village and heard the snatches of rollicking laughter—the oaths—the songs. No, never could he desert his beloved rascals, for without his brain, his cunning, they would be but as easy prey to that inveterate enemy, William Claiborne. And if love—bitter-sweet poison!—could force him to desert them, he could never thus use his brother.

In this strain rushed Lafitte’s thoughts, while Virginia mused, neither noticing the silent absorption of the other, yet both acutely conscious of each other’s proximity.

“How did you come to hear of Lizette, Miss Grymes?” he asked, quietly, regaining his poise.

“Your brother—Pierre Dominique—told me.”

“What—how much did he tell you?” asked Jean, wondering if Pierre had been indiscreet enough to mention the death of Brouillard—his career in the Caribbean.

“We were speaking about you—I was asking about you—” unguardedly. He thrilled to learn that she had been interested enough in him to question Pierre.

“He told me about the duel—and the accident—and that’s all—” lamely. Suddenly she turned to him. “I hope you’ll pardon my curiosity, Mr. Lafitte,” she said, contritely. “It was rude of me and far ruder to mention it to you.” Her eyes clouded.

“Pardon her,” indeed! He trembled with delight.

“But certainly! Forget the matter. I will tell you of it, though I have never spoken of it to anyone else.”

Virginia thrilled.

“I was but a boy when it took place. And I was deeply in love with Lizette. Parbleu—yes! She was dark, slim, charming—a sprite—a mermaid....” He paused for a moment, his introspective gaze bridging the colorful years. “But you know the story ... it is not one that one likes to talk about. In any event, after her death, and since, I have never let myself fall in love—but once, perhaps, and that is irrelevant—”

She instantly thought of Margaret Claiborne—he was thinking of one Virginia Grymes. But neither was a mind-reader, unfortunately.

“But Lizette ... I almost persuaded myself that my love was the real thing. Indeed, I sincerely believed so ... until I met—until Pierre persuaded me differently.” Damning evidence! “Pierre has always been my adviser—my chum. There is a husband for any woman,” he added, loyally.

At his words she unaccountably flushed, and Jean felt convinced ... his theory that she and his brother loved each other was a true one.

The tables had been turned on Virginia. Embarrassed, she turned the conversation.

“By the way,” she interjected, suddenly, “pardon my interruption, but there is something I want to talk to you about.”

At once he was all attention.

“It is ‘black ivory.’”

Jean stared at her.

“I believe that is what you call them—the slaves, I mean.”

“Yes, we call them ‘black ivory,’” answered Lafitte, somewhat puzzled.

“I’ll tell you,” she began, assuming a confidence she did not feel. “You see, I’ve spent the past few years in Philadelphia, and during that time I’ve met many interesting people, among whom were some members of the Society of Friends.”

“The Quakers,” supplemented the Frenchman.

“Yes. Well, their sect doesn’t seem to be at all in favor of slavery, Mr. Lafitte, and to a certain extent I agree with them. Personally, I really think that slavery is a cruel institution—but it can’t be otherwise, I suppose, and will always exist. Father says that the negro is too uncivilized and altogether mentally incapable of assuming the responsibility of his own welfare—if he were allowed to do so.”

“That is true,” said Lafitte, “and not only that, but the blacks will never be freed, for the simple reason that we can’t do without them ... they are our only source of labor.”

“Isn’t that a selfish doctrine?” demanded Virginia.

“Perhaps, but nevertheless a true one. What the Quakers say is all nonsense. Slavery is better for all concerned.”

“But in the North the slave isn’t very important.”

“Because he couldn’t live in the Northern climate. While here, in the South, the negro, accustomed to heat, is the only laborer to use. I have heard some of these men speak, from the Colonies of Massachusetts and New York,” he went on, “but they are wrong—absolutely. And they forget, most of them, that it was their own ancestors who fostered slavery in America. Finding that they could not profitably use the blacks in the cold North, they sold them to the Southern planters. Now Congress has forbidden the further importation of slaves. The Northern Colonies can no longer make money by selling them to us, and so are enraged—”

“But, Mr. Lafitte, I am not talking about the rights or wrongs of the practice of slavery itself. You may be right there. But I do think they should be treated better—not like cattle or goods.” She looked up, facing him, with hesitation. His dark eyes were meditative. “And not only smuggled, but stolen!” She paused then took the plunge. “Mr. Lafitte, why do you engage in this trade—in the barter of human souls?”

He did not answer, but looked into the distance. Suddenly he realized that he had been expecting this question—dreading it—and knew that he was unable to answer it.

“You know what they are saying of you?” she asked.

“My enemies, yes. That I am a pirate—a—”

“The world does say that! And, true or not, is it worth it?” Impulsively she laid her hand on his as it rested on the parapet. “No real gentleman would stoop to such an occupation. Ah, I have hurt you? No? I didn’t mean to, but nevertheless it is the truth. Some day you may regret it, Mr. Lafitte. It does not benefit one to antagonize convention, sir, or the world. Come, why do you do it? There must be a reason; of course, it’s partly money, but still another. What is it?”

He stared at her for a moment before speaking.

“You are right,” he said, slowly, “it is more than mere money. I have enough of that. But it is the love of the game—the excitement of the thing—that keeps me at it. Excitement is the breath of my life; it stimulates me—keeps me from thinking too much—gives me my only pleasure.”

She grew thoughtful, her ivory-like brow wrinkling.

“But why not use your brain and money in a legitimate service, Mr. Lafitte? Lead an honest life, if I may use the term, and don’t give anyone an opportunity to say that ‘Jean Lafitte is a pirate, who, with his money and influence, corrupts men of honor and is a menace to the government!’ That is practically what a great many people are saying, to-day.

“Why do you do this, Mr. Lafitte? I know, or rather, have been told, that the Creoles dislike our government—and that there are those who wish to defy it, who really hold it in contempt! But it won’t be long, sir—it won’t be long before your Creoles will be only too proud to call themselves Americans! Some day our United States will be the greatest nation on earth ... I know it!” In her voice was the fiery spirit bequeathed to her by her mother and grandmother, the women who had sent their husbands and sons to fight for their nation’s independence with smiling lips and breaking hearts.

As she stood there, her face earnestly aglow with a prophetic light, her figure etherealized by the moon’s magic, she looked almost unearthly. Lafitte was as one struck dumb, his eyes alone shining with adoration, his heart-beats set a-rioting by the contact of their hands, of which she seemed unconscious.

“Mr. Lafitte, what do you say? It is not too late. Give up this life—”

The light in his eyes died out and his lips closed firmly.

“You may be right, Miss Grymes, but I cannot desert my friends.”

But she ignored this.

“Sue for pardon of the Governor, sir. You have friends. It can be done!”

“Ask Claiborne for a favor? Never! You don’t know the Lafittes, ma’amselle. No, what you ask is impossible—utterly!” His voice was harsh; she could not know of the mental strain under which he was laboring—how he fairly longed to win her favor, to do this thing that would make them friends. If he did, if he but would ... what could not happen?

But Pierre, what of Pierre?

“No, Miss Grymes,” he went on, gravely, “I am sorry to be forced to say so ... and please believe that I appreciate your interest. But what you ask is impossible. I have made my bed and must lie on it. Some day, perhaps, some day....” He stopped and stared moodily at the Bay. What was the use?

For a brief moment Virginia was silent. But her mind ran riot with tumultuous thoughts. A strange mental metamorphosis toward Lafitte had taken place—from one extreme to another. Whereas, up to this eventful day, and this last hour of enlightenment, she had held a fierce antagonism toward this gentleman smuggler—born of her belief that he had shot the quadroon for the possession of a negress—now that she had unwittingly discovered the falsity of the tale, or rather, had convinced herself of its falsity, she felt overwhelmed with a sense of shame and remorse, perhaps not unmixed with self-pity.

Shame, that she should have ever harbored or expressed a feeling of repulsion or hatred against Lafitte; remorse, that she should have ever spoken or felt bitterly against him, who, whatever he might be, had saved her life, and again saved her from a fate worse than death; and lastly, she felt self-pity as she thought of what might have been—of how she might have had even this man among men at her feet. Not because of a spirit of coquetry nor as a salve for her vanity—she was too sweet to be vain—but for some undefinable reason, she knew she wanted him there, with a fierce desire ... why, she couldn’t even explain to herself.

But, easily to be seen, the Baratarian was not in that position, and she could not but admit that she was piqued by his aloofness. Masculine aloofness toward herself was a hitherto unimaginable experience. This pique it was, then, that had forced her so to dislike him! A woman will forgive anything in a man—anything, ’tis said—but a pointed lack of interest in herself. What woman is insensible to the homage paid her charms? And by the same token, what woman is insensible to the lack of that homage?

With all the passionate fire of her Southern temperamental heritage, Virginia was fiercely jealous of Margaret Claiborne—and Lizette. Equally unknown to herself, she loved the man styled “the duke of Little Manchac” ... the handsome autocrat of his island domain.

On one thing she was clearly resolved. She would do all she could to atone for her unjust suspicions, her lack of faith. She would reclaim him, if possible, from his piratical life—and perhaps yet break that wall of aloofness.

The end justified the means ... why worry at this pregnant moment about the niceties of convention? All man-made customs and conventions and inhibitions must give way to the demands of nature.... Was not nature and romance but as one? And had not Lafitte himself but a short time before quoted an immutable cosmic law?

“Romance,” he had said, “enters into the life of every mortal—and, like love—and hate—it is primitive.”

Yes, romance was primitive ... as was love and hate. The cave-woman of the Stone Age and this cultured young girl of this modern era, beneath the thin veneer of civilization, were at heart but as one.

Thus Eve. Thus Cleopatra. Thus Laura. Thus Helen. Thus Juliet. And thus the Eves, Cleopatras, Lauras, Helens, and Juliets of all ages, all time.

“Jean—Mr. Lafitte—” The “Jean” was a daring touch.

He turned abruptly, thrilling at their proximity. How he yearned for her!—with a mental ache that tortured his every nerve. He struggled to avert his eyes, to resist the temptation of crushing her in his arms.

“Sacré Dieu!” he muttered, his senses in a swirl, “was ever man so tempted before?” Was ever man so seared by this fiendish demon of Love? He gripped the parapet until his knuckles shone white—fighting within himself for control—struggling to regain his much-vaunted poise. Two internal Lafittes were now at grips—the cool-headed, impassive cynic and the emotional, love-torn sentimentalist. Which would gain the mastery?

But the girl could not know of this mental chaotic maelstrom. If she had known, would she carry out her plan—execute her test? Perhaps not, and again, being a woman, perhaps....

“Captain Lafitte,” she breathed, face upturned to his, dark eyes on his in mute appeal, “won’t you do this—can’t you, for my sake?” It was the acme of feminine appeal, this, used, perhaps, since the days of Eve.

For a moment Lafitte was stone-like—his black eyes in vivid contrast to his pale face.

“For your sake?” he murmured, more with a fierce joy than in surprise. “Nom de Dieu! For your sake?” He gripped her by the arms and gazed searchingly into her eyes, an operation not conducive to lucid introspection at any time, let alone when they shone with the very essence of the moon-glamour.

For a brief space she was filled with consternation at the reaction her words had evoked, and longed—fairly longed—for the power to recall them. But something greater than her will, some vague, indefinable power, urged her on. She nodded dumbly, unable to resist the magnetism of his eyes, momentarily fascinated.

Sweeping her into his arms, he passionately kissed her, once—twice—on the lips, and, wonder of wonders!—she returned it! But it was that strange, delirious power within her that did so. The normal Virginia Grymes was in a spell—a spell of sudden, overwhelming happiness, ’tis true, but still in a state of unreality—the sweet wonderland of love’s flaming exaltation.

Attempting to awaken from that delicious momentary surrender, to regain the world of prosaic reality, she attempted to break away, but hopelessly, and capitulated—gloriously.

She knew, at that moment, that she loved and always would love this imperious pirate—this Jean Lafitte!

“For your sake,” he repeated, with a fierce under-note, “I’d cheerfully walk through the Inferno and laugh! I, who have seen your form in every flower, your eyes in every star—whose voice echoed in every breeze—whose angelic presence has blessed my dreams! For your sake—”

“You love me?” she murmured, still under the hypnosis of that magic glamour. “You love me?” unbelievingly, mechanically.

“Do I love you?” he cried, exultantly. “Great God! Why did Leander swim the Hellespont? Because he loved her! Why did I—love you? Je t’adore! I adore you—worship you!” He half sobbed with a fierce joy, the joy bells in his soul deafening him with their wondrous pæan.

“The wonder of it!” he whispered, “the glorious wonder! I love you, and you love—but do you, do you? Tell me, light of my life, ma cœur, if you could care for a poor devil of a Frenchman? Tell me ... tell me!” he entreated, hoarsely, holding her a little away, staring with devouring eyes into her pale face—experiencing a rhapsody of eager joy.

Of a sudden voices were heard; across the gardens, ’tis true, but none the less distinct. Startled, the two lovers looked up and half fell apart.

“But where can I find le bosse?” they heard, faintly.

“He cannot be disturbed. He is with his guests,” came the reply.

“But I must see him!” exclaimed the first, with an oath. “I come post-haste from N’Awleens with letters from Monsieur Pierre Lafitte. There is trouble in the wind. Martain says that Claiborne has cooked up another scheme. Dame, yes!”

“Trouble again?” said the other. “It is to laugh! Why, only to-day—” His voice became indistinguishable as the two evidently moved away.

When Jean next spoke, the fire had died from his voice. Jean the lover was gone ... the old Lafitte was back in his place, jerked back to himself by the interruption at this critical moment.

“Virginia—ma’amselle—” he said, dully, “forgive me, pray forgive me, if you can. I was mad—mad! This thing can never be. God, no! What a fool I was! I thought to bury honor—manhood. ‘The evil that men do lives after them’ ... c’est vrai ... too true! I cannot turn traitor to my friends—my men. Le bon Dieu forgive me for a coward ... a heartless wretch—but I cannot! You will forgive my ungentlemanly conduct, Miss Grymes?” he pleaded.

“Ungentlemanly conduct!” And he had just avowed eternal love! What a mockery—a travesty—is life!

She smothered a sob in the merciful shadows, and Lafitte looked at her eagerly.

“Can’t you—won’t you understand?” he asked, a world of suffering in his voice. But she was oblivious to it, apparently, for she laughed—or was it a sob?

“I understand perfectly, sir,” she said, with hauteur, in a hard, bitter voice, “and despise the advantage you took of a defenseless woman. And I do not forgive you, for there is nothing to forgive!” She laughed scornfully, but it broke and became a sob. “But I suppose all men are alike! Only the—the Spaniard was frank—”

“Ma’amselle!” His hands contracted ... the thrust had gone painfully deep. “Do you mean to say that you do not—that you did not—”

She raised her chin haughtily, though her wet, sensitive eyes denied any imputation of acting on her part.

“Precisely. I was merely playing with you, Mr. Lafitte, flirting, if you will.” Ah, if his eyes could have but pierced the gloom and detected the heartbreaking lie. Poor Jean ... and poor Virginia.

His head fell to his breast and his half-outstretched hands to his side. For a moment her features softened, but only for a moment. For she remembered those kisses—her surrender.

She hardened.

“Moreover, Mr. Lafitte,” she exclaimed in a choked voice, “I—hate you.”

And she was gone.

Chapter the Seventeenth:

How De Moulin Comes to Flirt at the Quadroon Ball but Remains to Fight

I

The lady in the moon, at ease in her airy chariot, gazed downward with smiling eyes. Far beneath her lay the city of New Orleans, picturesque enough by day, but even more so by night, with the one lone spire of St. Louis praying silently to the stars.

Here could be seen the old gardens of the Faubourg Ste. Marie, with its parterres of jonquils and hyacinths smiling in the silvery glow, and its groups of lagustrums and laurestines vaguely delineated in the black shadows of the acacia thickets. Here could be caught dazzling glimpses of the walks of gleaming pounded shell, winding through groves of magnolias with buds as white as the moon itself, and flowering orange trees. And from each fairy-haunted garden is wafted aloft on the balmy night air the myriad scents and odors of nature’s efflorescent masterpieces, to delight the senses of the immortals on high.

And her celestial ladyship peers down on the sparkling waters of the Gulf, and continually kisses its face, and with magnificent impartiality distributes her favors, as well, on the broad bosom of the restless, sullen, ever-changing Mississippi—that Titan of many moods—and the youngest of the watery trinity, Lake Pontchartrain; and does not even neglect the more modest, lagoon-like bayous, unexpectedly scattered, here and there, on the marge of the virginal forests. And the personage in the Moon smiles tenderly.

On Ste. Philippe Street, in a broad, white-brick theater, honeycombed with gambling dens, ablaze with light, and made conspicuous by the two huge wrought-iron lanterns hanging pendant on either side of the entrance, a theater ball is in progress.

The Philippe Street Theater, like that of Condè Street, is, as all the world knows, one of those celebrated edifices of amusement wherein are held the brilliant quadroon balls which are the talk of half the South.

What, you have not heard of the quadroon, mon ami? Nom d’un nom! What deplorable ignorance! The quadroon caste, mon pauvre ami, are descended from the merry chevaliers of the colonial military Frenchmen, grown coarsened by intimate contact with Spanish-American frontier life, and, on the other hand, from the most comely specimens of the less negroidal types of the newly brought-over slaves, bought at the auction-block of New Orleans. And now, after perhaps seventy or eighty years, their half-caste female descendants, one-fourth negro though they are, are among the most beautiful of all the beauties of this lotus land of the South; and, truth to tell, oftentimes are hardly recognizable for the class they are.

The balls? Ah, the balls that were gotten up for them! What beauty! What gayety! What elegance! What a brilliant attendance! The quadroon balls alone were sufficient to give New Orleans a unique place in history.

How often would the aristocrats, the Creole gentry, desert their friends at the fashionable Theatre d’Orleans to spend the rest of the evening at the equally exclusive, quadroon theater balls! Here were to be found the flower of the masculine world of Little Paris—planters, officials, gentlemen of leisure, merchants, bankers—scions of the proudest names in Louisiana, the “jeunesse dorée”—the gilded youth. Were the quadroons their equals? Of course not! But what would you? When one seeks amusement....

To have danced, quarreled, and made passionate love at the quadroon theater ball was as necessary a part of a gentleman’s education as to have a course in debauchery in Orleans Street, in gambling for high stakes in Royal Street, or in having fought at least one duel at Slaughterhouse Point. And it was a pleasureable duty participated in by every Creole gentleman from his later adolescence to his second childhood.

The theater balls were a habit. As was the masquerade—the Mardi Gras.

II

Pierre Dominique and François de Moulin, in spirits as lightsome as their costumes were gay, marched arm-in-arm down the moonlight-drenched street, headed for the cluster of lights that told of the presence of the theater ball.

“And he sayce to me,” De Moulin was saying, “‘you do nod realize eet, mon ami, bud zis war es going to be brought home to us—an’ dam’ soon, at zat!’ An’ when I laugh he sayce, ‘ze next step de British are going to take will be an attemp’ to invade Louisiana!’”

“I’m not so sure, Grymes isn’t right,” said Lafitte, thoughtfully, for once. “Jean tells me that he’s sure of it. Du Boulanger got through the blockade last week—he was coming from France—and he told Jean that it isn’t a rumor, but a fact; that none of us have the slightest conception of the blow that Great Britain contemplates dealing us. He pointed out that the war between England and France is at an end, that Napoleon is safe in exile, and, therefore, that she is now able to send her whole military and naval power against us—and you know what that means!”

De Moulin nodded.

“You may be right. Accord’n to Grymes, zere ees at zis moment an armada on ze sea, zat consists of at least fifty warsheeps an’ a zousand guns; manned by ze veterans of Trafalgar an ze Nile. But of course it’s all rumor.”

“Where there’s smoke, there’s bound to be a fire,” said Pierre, dryly. “I’ll admit that I don’t believe the story that the Duke of Wellington, himself, is to be in command, but I do believe that something is afoot. Anyway, Du Boulanger thought it important enough to go to Claiborne and warn him. But the pompous ass laughed at him.”

“If he wanted zat man to believe anyzing, he should ’ave told him exactly ze opposite!” muttered François. “Ze more I zink of some people, ze less I zink of zem!” with sage plagiarism.

For a moment or two they walked on in silence. A block ahead of them a dark figure vanished around the corner of a stone wall on the Rue Polymnia; a guichinango, perhaps—a garrotter, or night cutthroat, with which the city abounded. When they reached the corner, however, he had disappeared.

“Speaking of Grymes,” said François, “have you heard zat he ess in financial difficulties?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised, when I remember how he gambled away his fee two years ago,” referring to the Virginian’s visit to Grande Terre. Jean Lafitte had sent him home in a yawl boat loaded to the gunwales with chests containing the forty thousand dollars that was his and Livingston’s fees, for the legal defense of Pierre Lafitte, in gold and silver coins. And all New Orleans knew the story of how Grymes had gambled away his share of the treasure before he had even returned to the city, having stopped to visit several planter friends en route. It had been the talk of the town, mulled over and magnified a hundred times in the clubs and on the banquettes.

“Two years,” murmured De Moulin. “What a lot ’as happened in zose two years! Heah it’s 1814 an’ ze war isn’t over yet. I wonder what will happen in ze next two years?”

“According to Du Boulanger, quite a lot will happen!” retorted Pierre. “He says that the fleet’s bringing along a complete set of civil officials to govern us, after they’ve annexed us to His Majesty’s dominions. The officers are said to be bringing their wives, so they must no doubt expect to make a rather longish stay. And Du Boulanger says that British speculators expect to bring home fourteen millions of dollars in loot—loot from our homes!”

“Enough about ze war!” cried François, gaily. “We have bud one life to live, Pierre—let’s get what we can out of eet. If ze war comes, we’ll fight. In ze meantime we’ll flirt! Allons!”

And arm in arm they approached the bright entrance of the theater ballroom and began to ascend the stairs, exchanging pleasantries with a descending pair of convivial friends.

In the great long room where the ball was in progress, they found an animated and noisy crowd. In the flickering light of the colored lamps a merrymaking mob of both sexes, members of the demi-monde in the main, but with a fair sprinkling of the masculine upper class, were dancing to the music of violins and guitars, whose piercing melody rose even above the lively buzz of the chattering groups.

As the pair entered, the dance came to an end and the floor began to clear, until the center was almost empty. But as the music struck up again, with the preliminary rattle of castanets, instead of beginning to dance, the crowd formed a circle.

And as they eagerly craned their necks there was a slight commotion and a babel of voices at the upper end of the room, and a girl was half pushed into the circle—a quadroon, true, but beautiful as only beauties are that are found among her caste—languorous, provocative eyes, sheenful hair of storm-cloud hue, and a slim, lithesome, perfectly proportioned figure.

“Eet ees ze adorable Dolores,” whispered François. “She ees going to dance—bud wait an’ see!”

Even as he spoke the “adorable Dolores,” with a swish of skirts and a tap of little red heels, had begun to dance. The queen of the demi-monde, for as such was she known, although of mixed descent, looked to be Spanish to her dainty finger tips, and danced with the daring abandon inherited from some light-footed Andalusian ancestress. To the rattle of castanets, and the delirious throb of the music, she whirled and pirouetted, the admired cynosure of all eyes.

At the finish of her dance the crowd closed around her with acclamation and applause, and the music struck up again.

Shouldering his way through the throng, using his elbow to good advantage, De Moulin with some difficulty reached her side, to find her beseiged by a dozen gallants, begging her for the next dance.

“Ef ze gentlemen will pardon her”—his voice carried over the shoulders of the group—“ma’amselle, I believe, ’as honored me wiz zis dance!” And he smiled ingenuously into her startled eyes as he pushed his way to her side.

A chorus of voices protested, but he took her arm decisively, looking deep into her eyes, a proceeding rather popular with his friends of the other sex.

“Am I not right?” he asked, and winked almost imperceptibly. For a moment she hesitated, colored, then smiled. Without another word he began to lead her to the floor.

Pierre Lafitte, watching the little scene from the rear, chuckled.

“In the meantime, we’ll flirt!” he quoted, and laughed.

But his laugh died away, for he saw a third figure suddenly confront the Creole and his fair companion and lay his hand on the girl’s arm. With surprise he recognized the gangling figure of the Yankee, Cyrus Nash, friend of Hemingway, the district attorney, who had seconded the latter in his duel with John Grymes.

“This dance is mine, Mister dee Moolan!” cried the Yankee, angrily. “What do you mean by—”

De Moulin looked at him in surprise.

“Why, it’s Meestaire Nash!” he murmured, with feigned cordiality. “And ’ow ees youah nose, sair?” innocently.

Nash reddened, acutely conscious of the fact that the member mentioned was now the object of a hundred curious stares. For a moment he merely spluttered incoherently.

“You—you—I’ll break every bone in your body!”

“M’sieu wishes to fight?” cried François, with alacrity. “He ’ave wait a long time—two years, n’est-ce-pas? I ’ave been greatly disappoint!”

“Who said anything about—” began the other, but paused. “So you want to fight, do you? Any time’ll suit me! But it will be with bare hands, Frenchy!” His fists doubled with anger as he stepped forward threateningly. Dolores sprang between them theatrically, secretly overjoyed to have two men of the haut monde publicly quarreling over her; ignorant of the real cause of their enmity.

“Stop—stop—m’sieurs! You muz not fight! I gave dis dance to—”

“—Me!” broke in François, urbanely. “If m’sieu wants to fight, for why he don’t join ze army?”

A shout of laughter went up, in which even Dolores joined, at which Nash paled with anger.

“Will you fight?” he demanded.

“No!” responded François, promptly. Dolores looked at him in dismay. Was she to be cheated out of this?

“You’re scared!” exclaimed Nash, triumphantly.

De Moulin laughed, and stared pointedly at the other’s nose.

“Perhaps I am. But I only fight as gentlemen do, not like lackeys,” contemptuously.

“All right!” snapped Nash, desperately. “I’ll meet you with pistols!” Dolores brightened and looked at François eagerly.

“But I only fight with gentlemen,” added the latter, suavely, at which Nash sprang forward, cursing furiously. “Bud since you ’ave insult’ zese ladies here wit’ your language,” the Creole continued, “I weel fight you right now and will horsewhip you afterward!” The dancer simpered, and the crowd yelled encouragement. The music had long since abruptly stopped.

“You muz nod fight ’count of me,” Dolores put in faintly, hoping that they would pay her no attention. To her delight, and the envy of certain of her dearest friends, her wish was gratified, but beyond even her wildest dreams, for other gallants in the room, anxious to share the limelight, pressed forward with offers to fight the “Yan-kee,” on the flimsy grounds of his insult to the “ladies.” Evidently his profanity of a few minutes before was to cost him dear.

As the tumult heightened, De Moulin, who was now sorry that he had given way to the temptation of baiting the man he disliked, wondered how the matter could be peaceably terminated; not because he was afraid to fight, but because of what he knew the crowd would do to the rash New Englander, in their eagerness to win admiration from their women-folk. For a moment he hesitated, and his eyes, meeting those of Lafitte, flashed a message.

But at this moment some adventurous spirit fired a shot, and a lamp fell to the floor, shattered. Women screamed and men cursed, forgetting their chivalric intentions; there was a flashing of knives. Close upon the heels of the first shot came a second, and a third, all fired harmlessly overhead, but adding materially to the confusion. The Latin is quick to take advantage of an opportunity to fight—especially a heaven-sent moment like this when one could safely and conveniently wipe out old scores with a dexterous blade or an errant bullet, and still add one’s bit to the pleasure of the evening—for a ballroom fracas was no less than a pleasure, here in the demi-monde.

Both Lafitte and De Moulin well knew these things, and simultaneously decided to make themselves conspicuous by their absence, as some others were already doing. They did not relish the prospect of having their names connected with any such affair.

Cyrus Nash stood, an impotent figure in his bewilderment, a well-justified apprehension taking its place as he uncertainly regarded the rapidly darkening room, whose confusion was increasing tenfold. François had unaccountably disappeared, he could hear the “adorable” Dolores shrieking, and felt himself hemmed in, powerless to extricate himself from the mêlée.

“Follow me!” Of a sudden he heard François’s voice in his ear and felt a hand on his arm. The next moment he was being hurried along by two men toward the door, the trio’s combined weight forcing a quick exit through the milling throng. It was now completely dark, and the gun-fire, yells, and screams had increased in volume. The suddenness of what had taken place seemed dream-like, nightmarish, unreal.

A moment later the three reached the door, were stopped for a space by an inrush of newcomers anxious not to miss the excitement, and with some difficulty reached the bottom of the stairs and the outer air, which, once gained, they hurried down the street, to pause a block away, panting from their exertions, the gaiety of their raiment somewhat spoiled.

“Meestaire Nash,” said De Moulin, abruptly, “I apologize for what I said; you were right to be angry!” As he spoke they heard the sounds of battle from the theater ballroom increase, the ranks of the disputants evidently having been augmented from the gambling dens.

“Forget it,” said the Yankee, “and thank you for getting me out of there. I take back what I said, sir! You are a gentleman!” And he held out his hand, which François shook warmly. Then, for a moment, they listened, and watched several women emerge hurriedly from the building in the next block.

“That Dolores,” said Cyrus Nash, reflectively, “sure did make a fool out of me. You know, Mister dee Moolan, she really had promised me that dance!”

“I know it!” admitted François, chuckling.

“Then why—” began Nash.

But Pierre Lafitte interrupted. “Simply,” he explained, “because François came to flirt and had not counted on a fight. Mais, sacré nom! What’s a pretty wench more or less between friends?”

And arm in arm the trio marched off down the moonlight-spattered street.

Chapter the Eighteenth:

In Which Jean Lafitte Is Sorely Tempted, and, Incidentally, Sees a Vision

I

“Dix milles diables!” exclaimed Dominique You, bitterly, as he spat ferociously on the sand. “Dey weel ruin us yet. Here de planters weel pay a thousand dollaires a haid, and our pens are empty. If we could only get one shipload more we could mek a fortune!”

Jean Lafitte, walking by his side toward the beach, made no reply, seemingly buried in thought, while the old man who had fought with Paul Jones rambled on in the same strain. “Ten thousand devils,” indeed! Slaves were scarce in these days of blockades and war, and the planters were willing to pay any price for them.

By now the two Baratarians had reached the landing on the shore, where ship’s cargoes were being rapidly borne to and fro. A loaded vessel had but recently arrived, and the slaves, under the unpleasantly insinuating lashes of the overseers, were busily unloading the small boats. Evidently her cargo had consisted in the main of wines, Spanish and French, for it was being brought ashore in all varieties of containers—barrels, casks, tierces, pipes, hampers, octaves, and baskets.

Small wonder that the cellars of Bordeaux Manor bore a striking resemblance to the paradise of a Bacchanalian! Bacchus himself would have felt very much at home there, as had one John Grymes, on his memorable visit some two years before.

Jean languidly inspected the labels of several casks. Of late, it seemed, everything he did was done languidly. Wartime though it was, life seemed to hold no interest for the bosse of Barataria.

Dominique You disappeared into the near-by throng.

The day was extremely warm; not a breeze stirred, it seemed. It was early September, and no hint of coolness was offered by the placid sea, which was glittering with every imaginable tint, from palest aquamarine to the brightest emerald—from the pure blue light of the turquoise to the dark deep blue of the sapphire.

Of a sudden, almost unbelievably so, came the detonation of a ship’s cannon.

There, around the easternmost end of a thickly wooded point, appeared the bowsprit, and gradually the hulk, of a frigate, which, it could be seen, was anchoring directly off the entrance of the narrow pass giving ingress to the inner bay. From her masthead flew the naval banner of—Great Britain.

And then, as Lafitte watched, a gig was lowered, manned, and passengered with three scarlet-coated figures in the sternsheets. It then entered the pass and made for shore.

By this time a number of armed Baratarians had assembled awaiting its coming, while others hurriedly made for their own ships at anchor in the bay, to prepare to repel any threatened attack, if necessary. Jean Lafitte, a commanding figure, with Dominique You, alone, by his side, awaited their arrival at the marge of the water.

The gig was soon landed, and the three scarleted officers disembarked and stood for a moment, looking about them. At a word from Lafitte, Dominique approached them and engaged them in a conversation, at the end of which he pointed toward Jean. The three Britishers then came forward, one of them, a ruddy, bewhiskered man wearing the uniform of a captain in the royal navy.

For a moment, the Baratarian and the Englishman eyed each other.

“Captain Lafitte, I believe?” ventured the latter, politely. Lafitte bowed, and his bow was even more correct than that of the punctilious visitor, given in return.

“I am Captain Lockyer, sir, of His Majesty’s frigate Sophia. I have important dispatches for you, from Colonel Nichols, at Pensacola.”

Lafitte showed his surprise, but attempted to cover it.

“Indeed? Won’t you gentlemen accompany me to my quarters, where we can talk comfortably?” On the captain’s quick acquiescence he turned and accompanied them through the silent, sullen, red-shirted crowd. Lafitte well knew that his men resented the presence of the Britishers, but he was nothing if not hospitable. And he was also very curious. What message could this Britisher have for him, a pirate?

Within the Manor, Captain Lockyer presented Lafitte with the dispatches he had mentioned, which were inclosed in a packet addressed to “Jean Lafitte, Esquire, Commandant at Barataria,” and resplendently sealed.

On opening it, Jean found it to contain a number of printed forms, and a letter addressed to himself. As he read the first few lines of the letter he could not suppress a slight start, but remained impassive until he had finished.

“I suppose you know the contents of this letter, Captain Lockyer?” he asked, quietly.

The Britisher nodded gravely.

“I do, and I would strongly advise you to accept.”

Jean rose from the table slowly.

“If you gentlemen will pardon me, I would like to retire for a moment. Colonel Nichols’s offer greatly surprises me, and I would like to think it over.”

“By all means,” nodded the captain. “It is hardly to be expected that you....” his voice trailed off vaguely, for Jean had bowed, and was already leaving.

A moment later he was closeted with Dominique You.

“What do dese canaille want?” demanded the latter.

“Enough—” said Jean, his brow clouding.

Dominique looked at him keenly from under beetling brows.

“I can guess.”

“What?” demanded Jean, startled.

“Dey want your help.”

“You are right, old friend. Here are the papers. Most of them are merely proclamations made by Nichols, commander of the British forces in the Gulf, to the Louisianians, promising and threatening all sorts of things—”

“I know,” impatiently. “I ’ave seen dem.”

“And the other is a letter, asking my aid.”

The old Creole cursed softly.

“Wait. They don’t want it for nothing. Parbleu—no! They offer me thirty thousand dollars cash.”

Dominique You looked pained.

“Thirty thousan’ dollaires? To de bosse of Barataria? C’est pour rire!” It was to laugh, indeed. Jean Lafitte, money lord of the Mississippi ... thirty thousand dollars! A bagatelle!

Lafitte, however, looked serious.

“That is not all, Dominique. They offer me a captain’s commission in the royal navy—quite an honor, n’est-ce-pas? And they offer us all amnesty—pardon for our past deeds.”

“Dose dam’ Anglais offeh us Baratarians a’nesty?” demanded the other, unbelievingly. “Sacré Dieu! Dey offah us—” For a moment words failed him. “But foah what, bosse?”

“For our aid. Colonel Nichols wants us, in return, to enlist in the British navy, and to help them especially in their contemplated attack on New Orleans.”

“You weel not accept, bosse? Non?” asked the Creole, anxiously.

“And why not?” returned Jean, coolly. But there was a curious gleam in his eyes. Dominique stared at him, aghast.

“It is a strong temptation,” went on Lafitte, reflectively, “very strong. And I will admit that I am sorely tempted.”

His companion regarded him with puzzlement. Something he could not divine was in his young chief’s voice. Was he posing? For what reason?

“I am not an American,” continued Lafitte, slowly, as if arguing with himself— “neither by birth nor by inclination....”

“You are a Frenchman,” said Dominique, uncertainly, “but—”

“As it is,” soliloquizing, “we must face the truth. We Baratarians ever face the prospect of the hangman’s noose, for we are naught but pirates, mon ami....” His lieutenant nodded unwillingly. “And besides, Colonel Nichols promises to destroy Grande Terre and hang us all as pirates, if I refuse. So, you see, I have the men to think of.”

“Dat is nod the bosse of Barataria speakin’!” cried Dominique. “Jean Lafitte is nod a coward ... pardieu, non!”

“Thank you ... I hope not. But the men—”

“De men go where you lead,” declared the Creole.

For a moment Jean was buried in thought.

“With my help,” he murmured, “these British dogs could take New Orleans ... which means Louisiana! I—Lafitte, can lead them through the swamps and bayous to the very gates of the city before anyone could possibly know of our coming....”

“C’est vrai....”

“On my decision hangs the destiny of this territory ... on me, a pirate, with a price on my head. On me, whom Claiborne hunts like a dog! Have I reason to love the American government? Why should I not accept?” he demanded, bitterly.

Dominique did not answer. He was confused, realizing that Lafitte spoke the truth. After all, what did America mean to them? And what an exquisite revenge this would be on the vengeful Governor!

In his mind’s eye, already, the man who had fought with Paul Jones saw the triumphant entry of the red-shirted Baratarians with their red-coated allies into New Orleans. After all, he thought, it was the best policy to ally themselves with the stronger side—and undoubtedly the might of England was the more fearsome. Perhaps the British were destined to take back their own—for was not America really theirs?

And both he and his master were wealthy—ready to retire. Was not the prospect of an honorable position—in security—a pleasant one?

“Why should I resist this temptation?” demanded Lafitte again. “I have everything to gain and nothing to lose....”

Curiously enough, he thought of Virginia Grymes.... If things had been different ... and, then, he could have—But had he not been thinking of nothing but her during these lonely two years? He was forced to admit it to himself—he still loved her; yet, knowing that she was not for him, that was all the more reason, perhaps, why he should assist her country’s enemies.

Suddenly, as if a man in a dream, he saw her again as she had been that eventful night in the moonlight—when she had cried in that prophetic moment: “Some day our United States will be the greatest country on earth.... I know it!”... God! how beautiful she had looked, and how convincing were her fervored words!

And in that mystic moment Lafitte knew ... knew that he had never had the intention of proving traitor to his adopted country, his friends, his—he stopped; daring to go no further, even in thought. Come what may, he would give his life, if necessary, for his country. He knew it was his now; had been all along—and he would persist in working for its welfare even if that country itself would demand his life for his past deeds.

Unconsciously he shuddered at the thought of the narrow escape he had had. By what a small margin had he saved his honor—his ideals! And it had taken that momentary vision of Virginia to light his way.

On this moment he had hinged his whole future—and he had now irrevocably made his decision. His head told him that he would do wrong by refusing the British offer—that, logically, it was the best thing to do, for he had all to gain and nothing to lose. His was not the rôle of a Benedict Arnold, for he was not even an American! But his heart—that capricious, headstrong, arbiter of human destinies—assured him that he did right. That although he lost everything, including life, he would retain his honor.... And the heart triumphed over the head, which was rather unusual for Jean Lafitte. But, then, the heart is commonly supposed to be the abode of Love.

And so it came to pass that Jean Lafitte, at this turning-point of his life, took unto himself the counsels of his heart, and thus threw into the great cauldron of the future the destinies of a nation—and his happiness.

For the simple reason that Jean Lafitte was Jean Lafitte.

II

“Well, Mister Lafitte,” demanded Captain Lockyer, affably, “what is your decision?” He had turned halfway round to the door as Lafitte entered, followed by Dominique You.

For a moment Jean did not answer, but his eyes sparkled. His companion’s eyes were suspiciously moist. The British officers did not notice this, however.

“I am very sorry, Captain, but I cannot yet give you my decision.”

Captain Lockyer looked askance.

“You see,” went on Jean, slowly, “first, I must consult with my associates, many of whom are not at Grande Terre at present. Then, again, there are several truculent Baratarians who must be er—convinced—or else....”

The Britisher looked knowing. He winked openly as he chuckled.

“I understand,” he said, insinuatingly. “It is to be expected, of course.”

At the moment both Jean and Dominique You were mentally cursing him in unison. But their features were impassive.

“You see,” went on Lafitte, “there are many of our men who er—er—have an embarrassing aversion toward your countrymen. Indeed, I regret to say that it is rather marked, in some cases!”

Dominique You coughed unobtrusively, but his face retained its unaccustomed blandness.

“I know,” replied the doughty commander of the Sophia. “About how much time would you want for your—er—persuasion?” He grinned sneeringly.

“About a fortnight,” responded Jean, casually.

“Very well, then. I’ll be back for your answer in exactly fifteen days. How does that suit you?”

“It is excellent,” answered the Baratarian, coldly.

Captain Lockyer rose to his feet. His subordinates followed suit.

“I’m sure you’ll like your new life much better,” he went on, conversationally, “and it will be a real pleasure to have you with us when we thrash those American yokels.”

“As you so well did in ’seventy-six!” remarked Jean, dryly.

Captain Lockyer flushed. For a moment it seemed as if he were about to spring at the Baratarian, so obviously angry was he.

In the nick of time, however, he caught the gleam in the eyes of the other that spelled “Danger,” and interpreted it rightly. Captain Lockyer was no coward, but he suddenly realized that he was not on his own deck, but in the stronghold of the pirate.

And then he suddenly remembered the importance of his mission. He must needs be diplomatic. Later—

He laughed hollowly.

“You have a ready wit, Mister Lafitte,” he said, attempting cordiality.

Lafitte bowed in response.

“Well,” continued Captain Lockyer, suavely, “I will be back for your answer in exactly fifteen days. Of course,” patronizingly, “it can be but one way....”

Lafitte smiled.

“You are right, mon capitaine, it can be but one way,” with meaning.

Dominique You coughed again. His face was losing its blandness. Lafitte could not resist smiling.

But when he was again alone, Jean forgot the Britisher and his mission for a moment. He was thinking of a girl in the moonlight—of a woman’s declaration of ideals that had suddenly sprung from the obscure recesses of the years to influence a decision of momentous import to a whole nation.

In that fleeting clairvoyant instant Jean Lafitte saw what it is given to few men to see—and recognize.

He saw that he had reached a turning-point in his life.

Being only human, he was appalled. And thrilled. And vaguely disquieted.

Jean sighed.

Chapter the Nineteenth:

Wherein Laurent Mercier Beards the Lion and His Excellency Calls a Council

I

His Excellency frowned.

“Am I to understand, sir, that you wish to interview me in reference to Mr. Lafitte?”

The Honorable Laurent Mercier nodded briefly. He was a spare, hatchet-faced gentleman whose voluble manner and haughty nose at once bespoke his French extraction. Like the Lafittes, he spoke an almost perfect English, which was a rather uncommon accomplishment for Creoles, but this may partly be accounted for when one learns that the Honorable Mercier was a prominent member of that august law-making body known as the State Legislature. It may be added that Monsieur Mercier was addicted to making addresses. For this reason, plus the knowledge that the great majority of his speeches had ever been in favor of some form of protection or benefit to his open friends and private business associates—the Lafittes—State Senator Mercier was not exactly ardently popular with His Excellency the Governor.

His Excellency frowned again, portentously.

“I might at least have been spared the infliction of further listening to eulogies of Mr. Lafitte, and the many benefits his piratical trade is bestowing upon our community!” the gubernatorial voice continued with frigid sarcasm.

The Honorable Mercier smiled sweetly.

“If your Excellency will allow me to proceed,” he suggested suavely, “you will learn that what I have come to say concerns the welfare of the state....”

“If I am not mistaken, that phrase is ordinarily the ostensible object of your—er—remarks!” remarked the Governor, with thinly veiled hostility.

“Exactly!” agreed the Creole, courteously, “but I have not come here, Your Excellency, for the purpose of indulging in personalities, however—er—enjoyable they may be.”

His Excellency loftily overlooked this.

“Therefore, as I am very busy,” he suggested, “could it be convenient for you to come another—?” No pretense of courtesy here! When Greek meets Greek—they talk Greek! Likewise, when political enemy meets political enemy....

The Creole imperceptibly straightened.

“When a question of vital importance, concerning the welfare of the state, arises, whom, if not His Excellency, should be informed?” he demanded, brusquely. If possible, the haughtiness of his demeanor exceeded that of the chief executive, himself. Without giving the other time to answer, he went on.

“May I ask, Your Excellency, as to whether or not you received a letter from Monsieur Lafitte this morning, by special messenger?” His manner was imperative.

Governor Claiborne frowned for the third time, angrily. His glance unconsciously strayed to some papers before him, for a brief moment.

“The rascally pirate did have the audacity to write me!” he admitted, irefully.

The Honorable Mercier nodded.

“And no doubt Your Excellency has taken steps in the matter?” he asked, inquiringly.

“I—have—not!” declared Claiborne, flatly.

Laurent Mercier looked respectfully astonished.

“You do not doubt Monsieur Lafitte’s—word, m’sieur?”

His Excellency grew almost apoplectic.

“His word!” he cried, scornfully. “The word of a damned pirate? An outlaw with a price on his head?” He choked momentarily.

The Creole looked pained, but said nothing.

“Of course, I don’t believe it, sir! Not a word of it! The damned rascal is merely trying to hoodwink me—pull the wool over my eyes! It is a fairy-tale, sir, that—about the British. Pure nonsense! I could see at once that his scoundrelly offer was only made in the hope that it would avert the just punishment the government is about to bring down on his piratical head—”

“What exactly did he say?” asked the other, as if he were merely an interested auditor. The Governor grimly enlightened him.

“His letter is full of lying patriotic and altruistic phrases. He admits that, though ‘being fully guilty of having evaded the payment of certain customs duties,’” quoted Claiborne, ironically, “‘he had never lost his loyalty and affection for the United States, and that, notwithstanding the fact that there was a price on his head, he would never miss the opportunity of serving his adopted country.’ The impudence of it!” He laughed harshly.