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"Are you not a New Orleans boy?" she asked as I lifted my képi and drew rein.

"No," he said, "my last name is Durand." He gave it the French pronunciation.

"We're going to get married, mamma, mamma;

I stiffened proudly, turned and mounted my steed, but her eyes drew mine. I pressed close, bent over the saddle-bow, and said, "Good-bye, Camille."

"Oh, no, no! I cannot let you!" She clutched the hand she had been stroking.

At the edge of the wood, where we had parted, I tied my horse, and crept along the moonlight shadows of the melon-patch to the stable. The door was ajar. In the interior gloom I passed my hands over the necks and heads of what I recognized to be the pair of small mules I had seen at Gallatin. Near a third stall were pegs for saddle and bridle, but they were empty. So was the stall; the mare was gone.

"But if she--oh, yes!--Yes, to be sure; she could easily have got here yesterday afternoon."

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