"What?"

"The maiden's consent!"

"No, it don't! They never ast 'em—they just married 'em, that was all. An' every time, they lived happy ever after. An' they founded families that——"

"Jimmy!" I raised a hand. "That will do."

"Well, anyhow, I wouldn't pay any attention to Aunt Lucinda about it. She's strong for yon varlet, for he's got the dough."

"And isn't your Auntie Helena also—but no, on second thought, I will not ask you that——"

"Why no, sure not—it's better to demand it of her own fair lips, an' not take no for a answer. They always live happy ever after."

—"Of course, Jimmy."

—"And so would you."

"I know it! I know it!"

"Well, then, why just don't you?"

"Good leftenant, Black Bart will take your counsel into full advisement. Later, we shall see. Meantime, we must have a care for our good ship's safety, for none may tell what plans yon varlet may be laying to circumvent us."

So saying, I sought out Peterson and asked him for his maps and charts.

There was, as I found by consulting these, a deep bayou, an old river bed, that ran inland some thirty miles, apparently tapping a rich plantation country which was not served by the regular river boats.

"Do you know anything about this old channel, Peterson?" I inquired.

"Nothing at all except from hearsay and what you see here," he replied. "I don't know whether or not it has a bar at either end, but likely enough it has at both, though we might crowd through."

"And how about the gasoline supply?"

"Enough to get us in, at least. And, I say, here's a sort of plantation post-office marked. There's just a bare chance we could get a drum or so in there. I don't think we can, though."

"What's she drawing now as she runs, Peterson?"

"Four feet two inches. She's a shade low by the stern. We've quite a lot of supplies aboard, this early in the cruise. But I don't suppose we've got enough."

"Well, Peterson," said I, "water leaves no trail. If there's no one watching when we open up this next bend, run for the bayou, and we'll see if we can get under cover. Of course, it's all a mistake about Mr. Davidson's wiring on to have us stopped—though we can't blame him, since he hasn't any idea who it is that has run away with the boat. But now, it suits me better to double in here, and let the chase try to find us on the main river; if there is any chase. You see, I don't want to disturb the ladies unduly, and they might not understand it all if we were overhauled and asked to explain our change in the ownership."

"Quite right, sir, and very good. I catch the idea. But, sir——"

He hesitated.

"Yes?"

"Well, sir, if I might be so bold, what are your plans about the two ladies?"

"I have none which will effect your navigation of the boat, Peterson."

The old man flushed a shade. "Excuse me, Mr. Harry. I know you'll do nothing out of the way. But the old hen—I beg pardon——"

"You mean the revered aunt, Peterson."

"Yes, sir, the revered aunt. Well, sir, the revered aunt, dash her!——"

"Yes, dash her starry toplights, Peterson; and even if need be, shiver her timbers! Go on——"

"Why, she's been tryin' to pull off a weddin' on this boat ever since we left Mackinaw."

"Why not? You mean that Mr. Davidson and the revered aunt were getting on well?"

"Oh, no, bless your heart, no! It was the young lady, Miss Emory. And she——"

I raised my hand. "Never mind, Peterson. We can't discuss that at all. But now, I'm minded to give my friend Mr. Davidson a little game of follow-my-leader. And just to show how we'll do that, we'll begin with a preliminary go at hide-and-seek. Take the chance, Peterson, and run into the bayou. I'll put off the small boat for soundings. If we can get gas, and can get in, and can get out unnoticed, maybe we can run by New Orleans in the night, and none the wiser."

"And where then, Mr. Harry?"

"Peterson, the high seas have no bridges, and if they had, I should not cross them yet. Perhaps if I did, I then should burn them behind me."

"She's a mortal fine young woman, Mr. Harry, a mortal fine one. I'll be sworn he makes a hard run for her. But so can we—eh, Mr. Harry? He'll like enough pocket us in here, though."

I made no answer to this. The old man left me to take the wheel, and I noted his head wag from side to side.



CHAPTER XIX

IN WHICH I ESTABLISH A MODUS VIVENDI

As good fortune would have it, we swung in, opposite the screened mouth of Henry's Bayou, at a time when the stream was free of all craft that might have observed us, although far across the forest we could see a black column of smoke, marking a river steamer coming up.

"Quick with that long boat, Lafitte," I ordered; and he drew our old craft alongside as we slowed down. "Get over yonder and sound for a bar. Take the boat hook. If you get four feet, we'll try it."

My hardy young ruffian was nothing if not prompt, nor was he less efficient than the average deck-hand. It was he who did the sounding while Willie, our factotum, pulled slowly in toward the mouth of the old river bed. I watched them through the glasses, noting that rarely could Lafitte find any bottom at all with the long shaft of the boat hook. "She's all right, Peterson," said I. "Follow on in, slowly—I don't want that steamer yonder to catch us."

"Why don't you?" A voice I should know, to which all my body would thrill, did I hear it in any corner of the world, spoke at my elbow. I started for a half instant before I made reply, looking into her dark eyes, sensible again of the perfume most delirium-producing for a man: the scent of a woman's hair.

"Because, Helena," said I, "I wish our boat to lie unnoticed for a time, till the hue and cry has lulled a bit."

"And then?" She bent on me her gaze, so difficult to resist, and smiled at me with the corners of her lips, so subtly irresistible. I felt a rush of fire sweep through all my being, and something she must have noted, for she gave back a bit and stood more aloof along the rail.

"And then," said I savagely, "this boat runs by all the towns, till we reach the Gulf, and the open sea."

"And then?"

"And then, Helena, we sail the ocean blue, you and I."

"For how long?"

"Forever, Helena. Or, at least, until——"

"Until when?"

"Until you say you will marry me, Helena."

She made no answer now at all beyond a scornful shrug of her shoulders. "Suppose I can not?" she said at last.

"If you can not, all the same you must and shall!" said I. "You shall be prisoner until you do."

"Is there no law for such as you?"

"No. None on the high sea. None in my heart. Only one law I know any more, Helena—I who have upheld the law, obeyed it, reverenced it."

"And that?"

"The law of the centuries, of the forest, of the sea. The law of love, Helena."

"Ah, you go about it handsomely! If you wished me to despise you, to hate you, this would be very fit, what you say."

"You may hate me, despise me, Helena. Let it be so. But you shall not ignore me, as you have these three years."

"It was your fault; your wish—as well as my wish. We agreed to that. Why bring it up again? When the news came that you had quit your profession, and just at the time you had lost all your father's fortune and your own, had turned your back and run away, when you should have stayed and fought—well, do you think a girl cares for that sort of man? No. A man must do something in this world. He mustn't quit. He's got to fight."

"Not even if he has nothing to work for?"

"No, not even then. There are plenty of girls in the world——"

"One."

—"And a man mustn't throw away his life for any one woman. That isn't right. He has his work to do, his place to make and hold. That's what a woman wants in a man. But you didn't. Now, you come and say we must forget all the years of off-and-on, all the time we—we—wasted, don't you know? And because I am, for a little while, in your hands, you talk to me in a way of which you ought to be ashamed. You threaten me, a woman. You even almost compromise me. This will make talk. You speak to me as though, indeed, you were a buccaneer, and I, indeed, in your power absolutely. If I did not know you——"

"You do not. Forget the man you knew. I am not he."

She spread out her hands mockingly, and yet more I felt my anger rise.

"I am another man. I am my father, and his great grandfather, and all his ancestors, pirates all. I know what I covet, and by the Lord! nothing shall stop me, least of all the law. I shall take my own where I find it."

"And now listen!" I concluded. "I am master on this ship, no matter how I got it. Late poor, as you say, I shall be richer soon, for I shall take, law or no law, consent or no consent, what I want, what I will have. And that is you!

"Each day, at eleven, Helena," I concluded, "I shall meet you on the after deck, and shall try to be kind, try to be courteous——"

"Why, Harry——"

"Try to be calm, too. I want to give you time to think. And I, too, must think. For a time, I wondered what was right, in case you had really pledged yourself to another man."

"Suppose I had?" she asked, sphinx-like.

"I will try to discover that. Not that it would make any difference in my plans."

"You would take what was another's?" She still gazed at me, sphinx-like.

"Yes! By the Lord, Helena, my father did, and his, and so would I! So would I, if that were you! Let him fend for himself."

She turned from the rail, her color a little heightened, affected to yawn, stretched her arms.

We were now passing over the bar, slowly, feeling our way, our skiff alongside, and the shelter of the curving, tree-covered bayou banks now beginning to hide us from view, though the bellowing steamer below had not yet entered our bend.

"Who is that boy?" she inquired lazily.

"That, madam, is no less than the celebrated freebooter, Jean Lafitte, who so long made this lower coast his rendezvous."

"Nonsense! And you're filling his head with wild ideas."

"Say not so; 'twas he and your blessed blue-eyed pirate nephew, the cutthroat L'Olonnois, who filled my head with wild ideas."

"How, then?"

"They took me prisoner, on my own—I mean, at the little place where I stop, up in the country. And not till by stern deeds I had won their confidence, did they accept me as comrade, and, at last, as leader—as I may modestly claim to be. And do not think that you can wheedle either of them away from Black Bart. L'Olonnois remembers you spanked him once, and has sworn a bitter vengeance."

"Why did you happen to start sailing down this way?"

"Because I learned Cal Davidson had started—with you."

"And all that way you had it in mind to overtake us?"

"Yes; and have done so; and have taken his ship away from him, and for all I know his bride."

"He was your friend."

"I thought so. I suppose he never knew that you and I used to—well, to know each other, before I lost my money."

"He never spoke of that."

"No difference, unless all for the better, for I shall, now, never give you up to any man on earth."

"And I thought you the best product of our civilization, a man of education, of breeding."

"No, not breeding, unless savagery gives it. I'm civilized no longer. When you stand near me, and your hair—go below, Helena! Go at once!"

She turned, moved slowly toward her door.

I finished calmly as I could. "To-morrow, at eleven, I shall give you an audience here on the deck. We shall have time. This is a wilderness. You can not get away, and I hope no one will find you. That is my risk. And oh! Helena," I added, suddenly, feeling my heart soften at the pallor of her face—"Oh, Helena, Helena, try to think gently of me as you can, for all these miles I have followed after you; and all these years I have thought of you. You do not know—you do not know! It has been one long agony. Now go, please. I promise to keep myself as courteous as I can. You and I and Aunt Lucinda will just have a pleasant voyage together until—until that time. Try to be kind to me, Helena, as I shall try to be with you."

Silent, unsmiling, she disappeared beyond her cabin door, nor would she eat dinner even in her cabin, although Aunt Lucinda did; and found the ninety-three was helping her neuralgia.

I know not if they slept, but I slept not at all. The shadows hung black about us as we lay at anchor four miles inland, silent, and with no lights burning to betray us. Now and again, I could hear faint voices of the night, betimes croakings, splashings in the black water about us. It was as though the jungle had enclosed us, deep and secret-keeping. And in my heart the fierce fever of the jungle's teachings burned, so that I might not sleep.

But in the morning Helena was fresh, all in white, and with no more than a faint blue of shadow beneath her eyes. She honored us at breakfast, and made no manner of reference to what had gone on the evening before. This, then, I saw, was to be our modus vivendi; convention, the social customs we all had known, the art, the gloss, the veneer of life, as life runs on in society as we have organized it! Ah, she fought cunningly!

"Black Bart," said L'Olonnois, after breakfast as we all stood on deck—Helena, Auntie Lucinda and all—"what's all them things floatin' around in the water?"

"They look like bottles, leftenant," said I; "perhaps they may have floated in here. How do you suppose they came here, Mrs. Daniver?" I asked.

"How should I know?" sniffed that lady.

"Well, good leftenant, go overside, you and Jean, and gather up all those bottles, and carry them with my compliments to the ladies at their cabin. You can have the satisfaction of throwing them all overboard later on, Mrs. Daniver. Only, remember, that there is no current in the bayou, and they will stay where they fall for weeks, unless for the wind."

"And where shall we be, then?" demanded Auntie Lucinda, who had eaten a hearty breakfast, and I must say was looking uncommon fit for one so afflicted with neuralgia.

"Oh, very likely here, in the same place, my dear Mrs. Daniver," said I, "unless war should break out meantime. At present we all seem to have a very good modus vivendi, and as I have no pressing engagements, I can conceive of nothing more charming than passing the winter here in your society." Saying which I bowed, and turning to Helena, "At eleven, then, if you please?"



CHAPTER XX

IN WHICH I HAVE POLITE CONVERSATION, BUT LITTLE ELSE

I had myself quite forgotten my appointed hour of eleven, feeling so sure that it would not be remembered, as of covenant, by the party of the second part, so to speak, and was sitting on the forward deck looking out over the interesting pictures of the landscape that lay about us. It was the morning of a Sabbath, and a Sabbath calm lay all about us—silence, and hush, and arrested action. The sun itself, warm at a time when soon the breezes must have been chill at my northern home, was veiled in a soft and tender mist, which brought into yet lower tones the pale greens and grays of the southern forest which came close to the bayou's edge. The forest about us not yet fallen before the devastating northern lumbermen—men such as my father had been, who cared nothing for a tree or a country save as it might come to cash—was in part cypress, in part cottonwood, but on the ridge were many oaks, and over all hung the soft gray Spanish moss. The bayou itself, once the river, but now released from all the river's troubling duties, held its unceasing calm, fitted the complete retirement of the spot, and scarce a ripple broke it anywhere. Over it, on ahead, now and then passed a long-legged white crane, bound for some distant and inaccessible swamp; all things fitting perfectly into this quiet Sabbath picture.

My cigar was excellent, I had my copy of Epictetus at hand, and all seemed well with the world save one thing. Here, at hand, was everything man could ask, all comforts, many luxuries; and I knew, though Helena did not, that the safe increase of my fortune—that fortune which some had called tainted, and which I myself valued little, soon as I had helped increase it by the exercise of my profession—was quite enough to maintain equal comfort or luxury for us all our lives. But she was obstinate, and so was I. She would not say whether she loved Cal Davidson, and I would never undeceive her as to my supposed poverty. Why, the very fact that she had dismissed me when she thought my fortune gone—that, alone, should have proved her unworthy of a man's second thought. Therefore, ergo, hence, and consequently, I could not have been a man; for I swear I was giving her a second thought, and a thousandth; until I rebelled at a weakness that could not put a mere woman out of mind.

And then, I slowly turned my head, and saw her standing on the after deck. Her footfall was not audible on the rubber deck-mats, and she had not spoken. I resolved, as soon as I had leisure, to ask some scientific friends to explain how it was possible that with no sound or other appeal to any of the sensorial nerves, I could, at a distance of seventy-five feet, become conscious of the presence of a person no more than five feet five, who had not spoken a word, and was standing idly looking out over the ship's rail, in quite the opposite direction from that in which I sat. And then the ship's clock struck six bells, and recalled the appointment at eleven. Hastily I dropped Epictetus and my cigar, and hurried aft.

"Good morning again, Helena," said I.

She stood looking on out over the water for a time, but, at length, turned toward me, just a finger up as to stifle a yawn. "Really," said she, "while I am hardly so situated that I can well escape it or resent it, it does seem to me that you might well be just a trifle less familiar. Why not 'Miss Emory'?"

"Because, Helena, I like 'Helena' better."

A slow anger came into her eyes. She beat a swift foot on the deck.

"Don't," I said. "Don't stamp with your feet. It reminds me of a Belgian hare, and I do not like them, potted or caged."

"I might as well be one," she broke out, "as well be one, caged here as we are, and insulted by a—a——"

"A ruthless buccaneer——"

"Yes, a ruthless buccaneer, who has remembered only brutalities."

"And forgotten all amenities? Why, Helena, how could you! And after all the cork-tipped cigarettes I have given you, and all the ninety-three I have given your Auntie Lucinda—why look at the empty message bottles she and you have thrown out into the helpless and unhelping bayou—a perfect fleet of them, bobbing around. Shan't I send the boys overboard to gather them in for you again?"

"A fine education you are giving those boys, aren't you, filling their heads with lawless ideas! A fine debt we'll all owe you for ruining the character of my nephew Jimmy. He was such a nice nephew, too."

"Your admiration is mutual, Miss Emory—I mean, Helena. He says you are a very nice auntie, and your divinity fudges are not surpassed and seldom equaled. It is an accomplishment, however, of no special use to a poor pirate's bride; as I intend you shall be."

She had turned her back on me now.

"Besides, as to that," I went on, "I am only affording these young gentlemen the same advantages offered by the advertisements of the United States navy recruiting service—good wages, good fare, and an opportunity to see the world. Come now, we'll all see the world together. Shall we not, Miss Emory—I mean, Helena?"

"We can't live here forever, anyhow," said she.

"I could," was my swift answer. "Forever, in just this quiet scene. Forever, with all the world forgot, and just you standing there as you are, the most beautiful girl I ever saw; and once, I thought, the kindest."

"That I am not."

"No. I was much mistaken in you, much disappointed. It grieved me to see you fall below the standard I had set for you. I thought your ideals high and fine. They were not, as I learned to my sorrow. You were just like all the rest. You cared only for my money, because it could give you ease, luxury, station. When that was gone, you cared nothing for me."

I stood looking at her lovely shoulders for some time, but she made no sign.

"And therefore, finding you so fallen," I resumed, "finding you only, after all, like the other worthless, parasitic women of the day, Miss Emory—Helena, I mean—I resolved to do what I could to educate you. And so I offer you the same footing that I do your nephew—good wages, good fare, and an opportunity to see the world."

No answer whatever.

"Do you remember the Bay of Naples, at sunset, as we saw it when we first steamed in on the old City of Berlin, Helena?"

No answer.

"And do you recall Fuji-yama, with the white top—remember the rickshaw rides together, Helena?"

No answer.

"And then, the fiords of Norway, and the mountains? Or the chalk cliffs off Dover? And those sweet green fields of England—as we rode up to London town? And the taxis there, just you and I, Helena, with Aunt Lucinda happily evaded—just you and I? Yes, I am thinking of forcing Aunt Lucinda to walk the plank ere long, Helena. I want a world all my own, Helena, the world that was meant for us, Helena, made for us—a world with no living thing in it but yonder mocking-bird that's singing; and you, and me."

"Could you not dispense with the mocking-bird—and me?" she asked.

"No," (I winced at her thrust, however). "No, not with you. And you know in your heart, in the bottom of your trifling and fickle and worthless heart, Helena Emory, that if it came to the test, and if life and all the world and all happiness were to be either all yours or all mine, I'd go anywhere, do anything, and leave it all to you rather than keep any for myself."

"Go, then!"

"If I might, I should. But male and female made He them. I spoke of us as units human, but not as the unit homo. Much as I despise you, Helena, I can not separate you from myself in my own thought. We seem to me to be like old Webster's idea of the Union—'one and indivisible.' And since I can not divide us in any thought, I, John Doe, alias Black Bart, alias the man you once called Harry, have resolved that we shall go undivided, sink or swim, survive or perish. If the world were indeed my oyster, I should open it for us both; but saying both, I should see only you. Isn't it odd, Helena?"

"It is eleven-thirty," said she.

"Almost time for luncheon. Do you think me a 'good provider,' Helena?"

"Humph! Mr. Davidson was. While your stolen stores last in your stolen boat, I suppose we shall not be hungry."

"Or thirsty?" She shrugged.

"Or barren of cork-tips of the evening? Or devoid of guitar strings?"

"I shall need none."

"Ah, but you will! It belikes me much, fair maid, to disport me at ease this very eve, here on the deck, under the moon, and to hear you yourself and none other, fairest of all my captives, touch the lute, or whatever you may call it, to that same air you and I, fair maid, heard long ago together at a lattice under the Spanish moon. A swain touched then his lute, or whatever you may call it, to his Dulcinea. Here 'tis in the reverse. The fair maid, having no option, shall touch the lute, or whatever you call it, to John Doe, Black Bart, or whatever you may call him; who is her captor, who feels himself about to love her beyond all reason; and who, if he find no relief, presently, in music—which is better than drink—will go mad, go mad, and be what he should not be, a cruel master; whereas all he asks of fate is that he shall be only a kind captor and a gentle friend."

Her head held very high, she passed me without a word and threw open the door of her suite.



... And that night, that very night, that very wondrous, silent, throbbing night of the Sabbath and the South, when all the air was as it seemed to me in saturation, in a suspense of ecstasy, to be broken, to be precipitated by a word, a motion, a caress, a note ... that night, I say, as I sat on the forward deck alone, I heard, far off and faint as though indeed it were the lute of Andalusia, the low, slow, deep throb of a guitar!... My whole heart stopped. I was no more than a focused demand of life. Reason was gone from me, not intellect but emotion—that is its basic thing after all, emotion born on earth but reaching to the stars.... I listened, not hearing.... It was the air we had heard long ago, a love song of old Spain, written, perhaps, before DeSoto and his men perished in these very bayous and forests that now shielded us against all tumult, all turmoil, all things unhappy or unpleasant. The full tide of life and love swept through my veins as I listened.

I rose, I hastened. At her door I paused. "Helena!" I called raucously. "Helena." And she made no reply. "Helena," I called again. "It was the same old air. This is Spain again! Ah, I thank you for that same old air. Helena, forgive me. May I come in—will you come out?"

I halted. A cold voice came from the companionway door. "You have a poor ear for music, John Doe. It is not the same. Do you think I would take orders from you, or any other man?"

I stood irresolute a moment, and then did what I should not have done. I pulled open her door. "Come out," I demanded. But then I closed the door and went away. She was sitting, her head bowed on the instrument she had played. And when she looked up, startled at my rudeness, I saw her eyes wet with tears.



CHAPTER XXI

IN WHICH WE MAKE A RUN FOR IT

"Gadzooks! Black Bart," remarked L'Olonnois at the breakfast table the next morning, "and where is the captive maiden?"

"I do not know," was my answer. "Better go find out, Jimmy."

He departed, but presently, returned somewhat troubled.

"My Auntie Helen," said he, "I mean the captive maid, why, she says she's got a headache and don't want no breakfast."

"Not even a grapefruit and a cup of coffee?" I demanded, anxiously and, it must be admitted, somewhat guiltily; for I knew that the soul of Helena was grieved and whatever the trouble, the fault was my own. Surely I had placed the poor captive in a most difficult position, and loving her as I did, how could I continue to give her discomfort? My resolution almost weakened. I was considerably disturbed.

And yet as I faced the alternative of setting her free, and once more taking up the aimless and unhappy life I had led these last three years without sight of her, something—I suppose the great selfishness which lies under love—rose up and said me nay; and I began to make excuses in favor of my desire, as that, surely, soon she would come to a more reasonable way of thought. And in one thing, at least, I was honest with myself, deceitful as are lovers with themselves, and arguing ever in their own favor—I did not know why Helena had wept, and it was perhaps my right to know.

One selfishness with another, I resolved to go on with this matter, though knowing full well how difficult would be my battle with her, how unequal; for I was armed only with a great love, backed by no art at all, whereas, she merely would continue to unmask against me new batteries of defense—severe politeness, formality with me; laughter and scornfulness of me; anger, pitifulness, at last even tears; and always the dread assault of her eyes, and the scent of her hair and the sweet wistfulness of her mouth,—all, all the charms of all women united in her one self, to attack, to assail, to harass, and to make wholly wretched the man who loved her more than anything in life, and who was driven almost to using any means, so only that she might not be away, not be out of sense and sight; as out of mind and out of heart she never more might be. So that, all in all, it were, indeed, hard question whether she or I were the more wretched. Surely grapefruit and toast and coffee seemed to me but inventions of the powers of darkness at that breakfast.

Not so my hardy mates, however, who ate with the keen appetite of youth, from fruit through bacon and toast and back again, both talking all the while. Nor, as the event proved, altogether unwisely. Indeed, it was stout Jean Lafitte who resolved my doubts, and by suggesting the simple medicine of action rather than meditation, sufficed for the removal of one of my two minds.

"What ho! Black Bart," said he, after his third helping of bacon, "why does our good ship lie here idle at her anchor?" Question direct, like Jean himself, and demanding direct answer.

"Ask Captain Peterson," said I. "He perhaps can tell where we can get more gasoline."

"No, he can't. I asked him this morning."

"Then 'twould seem we must lie here all winter, unless discovered by some relief expedition."

"Why don't we start a relief expedition of our own?" demanded he.

"And how?"

"Why, me and Willy, the deck-hand, we'll take the long boat an' go out an' explore this region roundabout. Somebody may have gasoline somewhere, and if so, we can git it, can't we?"

"Your idea is excellent, Jean Lafitte," said I. "Within the hour you shall set forth to see whether or not there is any settlement on this bayou. And that you may not need use violence when secrecy is our wish, here is a fat purse for our stores. And hasten, for of a truth, Jean Lafitte, I am most aweary of this very morning, and I long to see the white seas roll once more."

It was determined, therefore, that we should fare onward—in case we could fare at all—with our ship's company as it now was; for, of course, none but myself knew what was afoot between Black Bart and his captive. And well enough I knew that in keeping Helena Emory thus close to me, I was breeding sleepless nights and anxious days.

This day itself was anxious enough, nor could all of Epictetus teach me calm philosophy, distracted as I was over this situation, complex as it was. As to the fortune of the long boat, we knew nothing until, at three of the afternoon, I saw a white speck of a sail round the bend of our bayou, and saw that was hoisted, spirit fashion, over our boat, which now, with following wind, rapidly drew in toward us.

"It's all right," called out Jean Lafitte, when he came within hail; and I saw now that he, indeed, had a boat's load of gasoline in tanks, cans and all manner of receptacles.

"Town and a store, down there five miles," he explained as I caught his gunwale with boat hook. "You can git anything there. Now, the Giants an' the Cubs, why, they tied in the 'leventh inning yesterday. An' say——"

"Enough," said I, "let me hear nothing of the cursed Giants or the yet more accursed Cubs, for I have more serious work afoot! Tell me, is there a bar cutting off the other end of the bayou; and how long is the bayou?"

"Sixteen miles," answered the useful Lafitte, "an' she seems like good water all the way. They say there's seven foot on the bar, and the wood boats run in and out."

"Good! And did you tell them who you were, and why you wanted gasoline?"

"No. I only said our automobeel was broke down, an' we wanted the baseball scores. That was all. They ast who was we. I said you was John Doe—you see, I didn't want to tell your real name, so I didn't say Black Bart."

"And you didn't mention our boat?"

"Of course not! Whose business is it what pirates does? They strike hardest when least expected. To-night we can run in an' rob the store, easy."

"Jean!" I cried, horrified, "what do you mean? Let me hear no more such talk, or by my halidom! back you go to your home by first train. I'll not be responsible for the ruin of any boy's morals in this way."

"Well what do you think about that, Jimmy!" said Jean, somewhat cast down and much mystified. "Ain't we pirates, an' don't pirates live on booty?"

"Booty enough you have in your boat, Jean," said I, "and let us get it aboard and in our tanks, for to-night we sail."

"For to rob the store?" anxiously.

"No, once more for the Spanish Main, my hearties! I seek a greater treasure; and plenty of danger, believe me, lies between here and there."

"When'll we start?" queried L'Olonnois eagerly.

"To-night, at six bells. Make all ready," was my reply.

And that very night, with our search-light half covered, and at slow speed and with the sounding lead going, Peterson felt his way out from our moorings and along the full length of Henry's Bayou, silently as he might. We saw few signs of life beyond now and then a distant light in some negro cabin, and with all the lights doused we swept by like a ghost in the night, along the front of the plantation at whose store my men had got their gasoline. At last we broke open the lower end of the bayou, which, coming in from the main stream in a long open reach, showed like a lane of faint light in the forest; and to my great relief presently, felt the current of the great stream pick us up, and saw the channel lights ahead, so that we knew we might for a time, at least, advance in safety.

In all this work, my two faithful lieutenants were awake and alert; but I saw nothing of Helena that day, nor had message either from her or her aunt in the full round of twenty-four hours since last we met. Had she sought deliberately to repay me for the grief I caused her, Helena could have devised no better plan than her silence and her absence from my sight, after what time I had seen her weep.

Suddenly a thought of more practical sort came to my mind. "Jimmy," I called.

"Aye, aye, Sir;" and L'Olonnois saluted.

"You remember all those bottles floating around in the bayou—did you take them all up?"

"Aye, aye, Sir, an' she throwed a lot more in, out o' the cabin window. I was shootin' at 'em with the twenty-two, an' busted some."

"But not all?"

"Oh, no, some was left."

"And we sailed away, leaving there, no doubt, the full story of our voyage."

"Like enough," said L'Olonnois. "I didn't think of that."

"Nor I. For once, the vigilance of Black Bart faltered, L'Olonnois, and he must yet, mayhap, make better amends for his fault. Full speed ahead, now, Peterson," I added later as I went forward. "Run for New Orleans and with all you can get out of her."

"Very good, Mr. Harry," said the old man; and I could feel the throb of her whole superstructure, from stack to keelson, when he called on the double-sixties of the Belle Helene for all their power. Nor did any seek to stay us in our swift rush down the river.



CHAPTER XXII

IN WHICH I WALK AND TALK WITH HELENA

It was nine of as fine a winter morning as the South ever saw when at last, having passed without pause all intervening ports, we found ourselves at the city of New Orleans. Rather, in the vicinity of that city; for when we reached the railway ferry above the town, I ran alongshore and we made fast the Belle Helene at a somewhat precarious landing place. I now called Peterson to me.

"It's a fine morning, Peterson," said I.

"Yes, sir, but I think 'tis going to rain." (Peterson was always gloomy.)

"You must go down-town, Peterson," said I. "The through train from the West is late and just now is coming into the ferry. You can take it easily. We have got to have still more gasoline, for there is a long trip ahead of us, and I am not sure what may be the chance for supplies below the city."

"Are you going into the Gulf, Mr. Harry?"

"Yes, Peterson. You will continue to navigate the boat; and, meantime, you may be quartermaster also. I shall be obliged to remain here until you return."

The old man touched his cap. "Very good, sir, but I'm almost sure not to return."

"Listen, Peterson," I went on, well used to his customary depression of soul, "go to the ship's furnisher, Lavallier and Thibodeau, toward the Old Market. Tell them to have all our supplies at slip K, below the railway warehouses, not later than nine this evening. We want four drums of gasoline. Also, get two thousand rounds of ammunition for the twelve gages, ducking loads, for we may want to do some shooting. We also want two or three cases of grapefruit and oranges, and any good fresh vegetables in market. All these things must be ready on the levee at nine, without fail. Here is my letter of credit, and a bank draft, signed against it—I think you will find they know me still."

The old man touched his cap again but hesitated. "I'm sure to be asked something," he said somewhat nervously.

"Say nothing about any change of ownership of this boat, Peterson, and don't even give the boat's name, unless you must. Just say we will meet their shipping clerk at slip K, this evening, at nine. Hurry back, Peterson. And bring a newspaper, please."

"Is any one else going down-town?" asked Peterson. "I may run into trouble."

"No, we shall all remain aboard."

He departed mournfully enough, seeing that the ferry boat now was coming across with the railway train. I continued my own moody pacing up and down the deck. Truth was, I had not seen Helena for more than twenty-four hours, nor had any word come from the ladies' cabin to give me hope I ever would see her again of her own will. My surprise, therefore, was great enough when I heard the after cabin door close gently as she came out upon the deck.

When last I saw her she had been in tears. Now she was all smiles and radiant as the dawn! Her gown, moreover, was one I had never seen before, and she, herself, seemed monstrous pleased with it, for, by some miracle, fresh as though from the hands of her maid at home, she knew herself fair and fit enough to make more trouble for mankind.

"Good morning," said she, casually, as though we had parted but lately and that conventionally. "Isn't it fine?"

"It is a beautiful picture," said I, "and you fit into it. I am glad to see you looking so well."

"I wish I could say as much for you," said she. "You look like a forlorn hope."

"I am nothing better."

"And as though you had not slept."

"I have not, Helena."

"Why not?" her eyes wide open in surprise.

"Because I knew I had either hurt or offended you; and I would do neither."

"You have done both so often that it should not cost you your sleep," said she slowly. "But if you really want to be kind, why can you not have mercy on a girl who has been packed in a hat box for a month? Let me go ashore."

"Can you not breathe quite as well where you are, Helena?"

"But I can't walk."

"Oh, yes, you can; and I will walk beside you here on deck."

"But I would like to pick flowers, over there by the embankment."

"The train is too close," said I, smiling grimly.

Her color heightened just a little, but she did not answer my suspicions. "Please let me walk with you over there," she said. "I used not to need ask twice."

"Our situation is now reversed, Helena."

"Please, let me walk with you, Sir!"

"I dare not. We might both forget ourselves and go off to New Orleans for a lark without Aunt Lucinda."

"Oh, I am going to call Aunt Lucinda, too."

"Pardon, but you are going to do nothing of the kind. Even with her as chaperon, did we get down there in the old city once more, like the children we once were, Helena, we would forget our duty, would, perhaps, forget our purpose here. Mademoiselle, I dare not take that risk."

"Please, Sir, may I walk with you over yonder for just a little time?" she said, as though it were her first request. She was tying her quaint little white bonnet strings under her chin now. I raised a hand.

"You ask a man to put himself into the power of the woman he loves most in all the world. When a man needs resolution, dare he look into the eyes of that woman, feel her hand on his arm, have her walk close to him as they promenade?"

"Dear me! Is it so bad as that?"

"Worse, Helena."

"Then I am to continue a prisoner in that hat box?"

"Until you love me, Helena, as I do you."

"As I told you, that would be a long time."

"Yes! For never in the world can you love me as I do you. I had forgotten that."

"If only you could forget everything and just be a nice young man," said she. "It is such fun. This dear old town, don't you know? Now, with a nice young man to go about with Aunt Lucinda and me——"

"How would a man like Calvin Davidson do?" I demanded bitterly.

"Very well. He is nice enough."

"I suppose so. He is rich, able to have his horses and cars—even his private yacht. He can order a dinner in any country in the world, or tell you the standing of any club, in either league, at any minute of the day or night. Could I say more for his education? He has two country places and a city house and a business which nets him a hundred thousand a year. How can he help being nice? I do not resemble Mr. Davidson in any particular, except that I am wearing one of his waistcoats. Also, Helena, I am wearing a suit of flannels which I have borrowed from John, his Chinese cook. You can readily see I am a poor man. How, then, can I be nice?"

"No one would see us here," said she, sublimely irrelevant, as usual. "There are some little yellow flowers over there on the bank. Maybe I could find some violets."

There was a wistfulness in her gaze which made appeal. I could not resist. "Helena," said I suddenly, "give me your parole that you will not try to escape, and I will walk with you among yonder flowers. You look as though just from a Watteau fan, my dear. It is fall, but seems spring, and the world seems made for flowers and shepherds and love, my dear. Do you give me your word?"

"If I do, may I walk alone?"

"No, with me."

"I'll not try to take the train. On my honor, I will not."

I looked deep into her eyes and saw, as always, only truth there—her deep brown eyes, filled with some deep liquid light whose color I never could say—looked till my own senses swam. I could scarcely speak.

"I take your parole, Helena," I said. "You never lied to me or any other human being in the world."

"You don't know me," said she. "I used often to lie to mama, and frequently do yet to Aunt Lucinda. But not if I say I give my word—my real word."

"When will you give me your real word, Helena? You know what I mean—when will you say that you love me and no one else?"

"Never!" said she promptly. "I hate you very much. You have been presumptuous and overbearing."

"Why then should you promenade with me?"

"Fault of anything better, Sir!" But she took my hand lightly, smiling as I assisted her down the landing way.

"But tell me," she added as we made our way slowly up the muddy slope, "really, Harry, how long is this thing to last? When are we going back home?"

"How can you ask? And how can I reply, save in one way, after taking the advice of yonder pirate captain, your blue-eyed nephew? He says they always live happy ever after. Listen, Helena. Gaze upon this waistcoat! Forget its stripes, and imagine it to be sprigged silk of a day long gone by. Let us play that romance is not yet dead. These are not cuffs, but ruffles at my wrists—for all Cal Davidson's extraordinary taste in shirts. All the world lies before us, and it is yesterday once more. The Mediterranean, Helena, how blue it is—the Bermudas, how fine they are of a winter day! And yonder lies motley Egypt and her sands. Or Paris, Helena; or Vienna, the voluptuous, with her gay ways of life. Or Nagasaki, Helena—little brown folks running about, and all the world white in blossoms. All the world, Helena, with only you and I in it, and with not a care until, at least, we have eaten the last of our tinned goods of the ship's supplies; since I am poor. But if I could give you all that, would I be nice?"

"Would that suit you, Harry?" she asked soberly; "just gallivanting?"

"You know it would not. You know I want no vacation lasting all my life, nor does any real man. You know it was yourself that forced me out of my man's place and robbed me of my greatest right."

"Yes," said she, "a man's place is to fight and to work. It's the same to-day. But," she added, "you ran away; and you lost."

"But am I not trying to recoup my fortune, Helena? You see, I have already acquired a yacht, although but a few weeks ago I started in the world with scarcely more than my bare hands. Could Monte Cristo have done more?"

"It isn't money a woman wants in a man."

"What is it, then?"

"I don't know," said she. "Oh, come, we mustn't go to arguing these things all over again! I'm weary of it. And certainly Aunt Lucinda and I both are weary of our hat box yonder. That's what I asked you, how long?"

"As long as I like, Helena, you and your Aunt Lucinda shall dwell there. What would you say to three years or so?"

She seemed not to hear. "I believe I've found a four leaf clover," said she.

"Much good fortune may it bring you."

"Let me try my fortune," said she, and began plucking off the leaves. "He loves me, he loves me not; he loves me, he loves me not."

"There!" she said, holding up the naked stem triumphantly; "I knew it."

"It would be a fairer test, had you a daisy, Helena," said I, "or something with more leaves; not that I know whose has been this ordeal. Suppose it were myself, and that you tried this one." I handed her a trefoil, but she waved it aside.

"I will try to find you a four leaf clover for your own, after a while," said she, and bobbed me a very pretty courtesy. Angered, I caught at the stick I was carrying with so sudden a grip that I broke it in two.

"I did not know your hands were so strong, Harry," said she.

"Would they were stronger!" was my retort. "And were I in charge of the affairs of Providence, the first thing I would do would be to wring the neck of every woman in the world."

"And then set out to put them together again, Harry? Don't be silly."

"Oh, yes, naturally. But you must admit, Helena, that women have no sense of reason whatever. For instance, if you really were trying out the fortune of some man on a daisy's head, you would not accept the decree of fate, any more than you could tell why you loved him or loved him not. Why does a woman love a man, Helena? You say I must not be silly—should I then be wise?"

"No, you are much too wise, so that you often bore me."

"Nor should he be poor?"

"No."

"Nor rich?"

"Certainly not. Rich men also usually are bores—they talk about themselves too much."

"Should he be a tall man?"

"Not too tall, for they're lanky, nor short, because they get fat. You see, each girl has her own ideal about such matters. Then, she always marries a man as different as possible from her ideal."

"Why does she marry a man at all, Helena?"

"She never knows. Why should she? But look—" she pointed out across the water—"the train is leaving the ferry boat. Isn't that Captain Peterson going aboard the train?"

"Yes, Helena, I've sent him down-town to get some light reading for you and your Aunt Lucinda—Fox's Book of Martyrs, and the Critique of Pure Reason—the latter especially recommended to yourself. I would I had in print a copy of my magnum opus, my treatment on native American culicidae. My book on the mosquito is going to be handsomely illustrated, Helena, believe me."

She turned upon me with a curious look. "Harry," said she, "you've changed in some ways. If I were not so bored by life in yonder hat box, I might even be interested in you for a few minutes. You used always to be so sober, but now, sometimes, I wonder if I understand you. Honestly, you were an awful stick, and no girl likes a stick about her. What do girls care which dynasty it was that built the pyramids?—it's Biskra they want to see. And we don't care when or why Baron Haussmann built the Boulevard Haussmann in Paris—it's the boulevard itself interests us."

"It is the fate of genius to be cast aside," said I. "No doubt even I shall be forgotten—even after my book on the culicidae shall have been completed."

"—So that," she went on, not noticing me, "there is that one point in your favor."

"Then there is a chance?"

"Oh, yes, for me to study you as you once did me—as one of the culicidae, I presume. But if you would listen to reason, and end this foolishness, and set us all ashore, why, I would be almost willing to forgive you, and we might be friends again,—only friends, Harry, as we once were. Why not, Harry?"

"You wheedle well," said I, "but you forget that what you ask is impossible. I am Black Bart the Avenger, and the hand of every man is against me. I am too deep in this adventure to end it here. Why? I did not even dare go down-town for fear I might be arrested. Nothing remains but further flight, and when you ask me to fly and leave you here, you ask what is impossible."

She stood for a time silent, a trifle paler, her flowers fallen from her hand, clearly unhappy, but clearly not yet beaten. "Come," said she coldly, "we must not be brutal to Aunt Lucinda also. Let us go back."

"Yes," said I, "now you have back your parole."

"I think I should like an artichoke for luncheon," said she. "Vinaigrette, you know." And she passed aft, her head hidden by her white parasol, but I knew with chin as high as though she were Marie Antoinette herself. Nor did I feel much happier than had I been her executioner.



CHAPTER XXIII

IN WHICH IS A PRETTY KETTLE OF FISH

Miss Helena Emory had her artichoke for luncheon, and judging from my own, my boy John never had prepared a better, good as he was with artichokes; but we ate apart, the ladies not coming to our table. It was late afternoon before I saw Helena again, once more come on deck. She was sitting in a steamer chair with her face leaning against her hand, and looking out across the water at the passing shipping. She sat motionless a long time, the whole droop of her figure, the poise of her tender curved chin, wistful and unhappy, although she said no word. For myself, I did not accost her. I, too, looked up and down the great river, not knowing at what moment some discerning eye might spy us out, and I longed for nothing so much as that night or Peterson would come.

He did come at last, late in the afternoon, on an outbound train, and he hurried aboard as rapidly as he might. The first thing he did was to hand me a copy of an afternoon paper. I opened it eagerly enough, already well assured of what news it might carry.

On the front page, under a large, black head, was a despatch from Baton Rouge relaying other despatches received at that point, from many points between Plaquimine and Bayou Sara. These, in short, told the story of the most high-handed attempt at river piracy known in recent years. The private yacht of Calvin Davidson, a wealthy northern business man, on his way South for the winter, had been seized by a band of masked ruffians, who boarded her while the yacht's owner was temporarily absent on important business in the city of Natchez. These ruffians, abandoning their own boat, had at once gone on down-stream. They had been hailed by officers of Baton Rouge, acting under advice by wire from Mr. Davidson, on his way down from Natchez. The robber band had paid no attention to the officers of the law, but had continued their course. In some way the stolen craft had mysteriously disappeared that afternoon and night, nor had any word of her yet been received from points as far south as Plaquimine. A bottle thrown overboard by one of the prisoners taken on the yacht contained a message to Mr. Davidson, with the request that he should meet the sender at New Orleans; but there was no signature to the note.

Many mysterious circumstances surrounded this sensational piece of piracy, according to the journalistic view-point. On board the Belle Helene were two ladies, the beautiful young heiress, Miss Helena Emory, well known in northern social circles, and her aunt, Mrs. Lucinda Daniver, widow of the late Commodore Daniver, United States Navy. Mr. Davidson himself was unable to assign any reason for this bold act of this abduction, although he feared the worst for the comfort or even the safety of the two ladies, whose fate at this writing remained unknown. The greatest mystery surrounded the identity of the leader of this bold deed, whose name Mr. Davidson could not imagine. He was reported to suspect that these same river pirates, earlier in the day, attacked and perhaps made away with a friend of his whose name is not yet given. A cigarette case was found in the abandoned boat, which Mr. Davidson thought looked somewhat familiar to him, although he could not say as to its ownership. He could and did aver positively, however, that a photograph in a leather case on the abandoned boat was a portrait of none other than Miss Helena Emory, one of the captives made away with by the river ruffians. Mr. Davidson could assign no explanation of these circumstances.

Later despatches received at Baton Rouge, so the New Orleans journal said, might or might not clear up the mystery of the stolen yacht's disappearance, although the senders seemed much excited. One story from a down-river point, brought in by an excited negro, told of a dozen bottles found floating in the bayou. The negro, however, had broken them all open, and declared they had contained nothing but bits of paper, which he had thrown away. He also told a wild story that the plantation store at Hamlin's Landing, on Bayou Henry, had been looted in broad daylight, by a young man and a boy, apparently members of the pirate crew. The younger of the two ruffians was masked, and on being asked for pay for gasoline, refused it at the point of his weapons, declaring that pirates never paid.

While no attention should be paid to rumors such as the latter, the despatches went on to say, it was obvious that a most high-handed outrage had been perpetrated. It was supposed that the swift yacht had been hurried forward, and had passed New Orleans in the night. Once out of the river, and among the shallow bays of the Gulf Coast, the ruffians might, perhaps, for some time evade pursuit, just as did the craft of Jean Lafitte, himself, a century ago. Meantime, only the greatest anxiety could pervade the hearts of the friends of these ladies thus placed in the power of ruthless bandits. Such an outrage upon civilization could, of course, occur only under the administration of the Republican party. The journal therefore hoped:—and so forth, and so forth.

"Peterson," said I, after digesting this interesting information, "you've read this. What have you to say?"

Peterson was more despondent even than was his wont. "It looks mighty bad, Mr. Harry," said he, "and I don't profess to understand it."

"Did you order the supplies?"

"Oh, yes, but they may forget to send them after all."

"It is your intention to stick by me, Peterson?"

"Well, there must be some mistake," he said, "but I don't see what else I can do."

"There is a mistake, Peterson," said I. "This is more newspaper sensation. Mr. Davidson is excited over something he doesn't understand. If I had him here now I could explain it all easily. But, before the matter can be explained in this way, we must wait until this excitement dies down. Why, at this gait, it would hardly be safe for either of us to be recognized here in town. We might be arrested and put to a lot of trouble. The best thing we can do is to run on down the river and wait until Davidson gets down and until we get this thing adjusted. That is why I wanted the supplies to-night."

"But suppose we are discovered to-night?"

"We take that chance, but I fancy that I have certain legal rights, after all, and I own this boat. Fortune favors the bold. I shall make no attempt to hide, either now or then, Peterson. At the same time, while we will not run away from plain sight, there is no need to take unnecessary chances. Drop some white sail-cloth over the yacht's name on her bows, and on the fantail. Have one or two of the boys go overboard in slings and seem to be painting her sides. That will give the look that we are safe to lie here some time—which is the last thing the Belle Helene really would do, or will do. They think we've run past the city already, and they'll be watching at Quarantine, and along the Lake Borgne Canal. Most of the yachts go out that way, headed for Florida. We'll go the other way. It's an adventure, Peterson, and one which any viking, like yourself, ought to relish."

"So I do, Mr. Harry," said he, "but I hardly knew which course to lay."

"Blood will tell, Peterson," said I. "Your ancestors were Danish pirates; mine were English pirates."

"For God's sake, Mr. Harry, don't talk that way. We mustn't go against the law."

"I'm not sure that we have as yet, Peterson, for the law says nothing about abduction of ladies in pairs, or for purposes truly honorable. Frankly, Peterson—and because you've been long in my employ—I'll tell you something. I intend to marry that young lady if she's not already married to Mr. Davidson."

"Lord, Mr. Harry, she ain't—at least not since she come aboard the boat."

"In that case," said I, drawing a long breath, "this is not such a bad world after all."

"Not at all, Mr. Harry. I was going to say, as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, but of course I don't know about what she'll say. She looks to me like one of these girls that's been petted a good deal, and Mr. Harry, believe me, I always fight shy of a pet horse, or a pet boat, or a pet woman—they're always hard to handle, and they raise the devil when they get a chance. I hope you'll pardon me, sir."

"On the contrary, Peterson, I am grateful to you. You are on double pay from the time I took command. Moreover, I promise you the best cruise we ever had together. Once among the shallow bays on the coast down there, we can take care of ourselves while this chase cools down. We're faster than anything on the Gulf, and draw less water than most of them of anything like our speed. You take care of the boat and I'll take care of the girl—or try to. I have attachment papers all made out, to file on the boat if need be—and I also have an attachment for the girl, when it comes to that."

The old man shook his head. "I've got the easiest job," said he.



CHAPTER XXIV

IN WHICH WE HAVE A SENSATION

With no more than these slight precautions which I have indicated, we lay all that afternoon in plain view of the world; and because all the world could not suspect us of such hardihood, all the world went by without suspecting that the stolen Belle Helene and her ruthless pirate crew were there in full sight and apparently inviting or defying apprehension. Sometimes a passing craft would salute us as we lay, and we returned the courtesy without fail. I know not whether more bottles were cast overboard by Aunt Lucinda, but if so, we heard of none. At last, after what seemed days to me, though no more than hours, the shade of twilight fell across the river, the outlines of the passing boats grew less distinct. Now and again we could hear the wail of railway whistle, or see the curved snake of the lighted train dashing across the alluvial lands toward the ferry. Here and there, beyond, pin points of red lights shone. At last the night fell full, and, gladly enough, I gave the order for the continuance of our journey.

We slipped down-stream gently and silently, yet speedily withal, seeking to time our arrival, as nearly as we might, to the hour assigned for the delivery of our supplies at the dock.

"I'm none too easy in my mind," said my old skipper to me, as we stood together forward.

"Why not, Peterson?"

"It's them two boys," said he. "You talk of pirates—there's the bloodiest pair of pirates as ever was. I hardly know whether my own life's safe or not, to hear them talk."

"Never do you mind, Peterson," said I. "Those boys may be useful to us yet. The one with blue eyes has proved himself able to keep the ladies in their cabin, and as for the one who was going to run you through when we took the boat, he still may have to work to keep Williams down in the engine-room when we make our landing."

"It may come out all right," said the old man gloomily, "but sometimes I fear for the worst."

"You always do, Peterson, and that is no frame of mind for a healthy pirate. But here we are below the railway warehouse district, and I think nearly opposite slip K, where we land. Port your helm, and run in slow. We've got to have gasoline, although I must say my two bullies took aboard quite a store up there at the Bayou."

"Port it is, sir," said Peterson gloomily, still smoking. And he made as neat a landing as ever in his life.

A shadowy form arose amidst the blackness of the dock and came directly forward to take our line.

"Who's that?" I demanded. "Are you from Lavallier and Thibodeau?"

"Yes, M'sieu," came the answer. "Those supply is here."

"All right. Help him get the stuff aboard, Peterson."

They went about their work. Just as turning I saw standing at my elbow, the slight form of L'Olonnois, his arms folded and hat drawn upon his brow.

"Bid the varlets hasten," he hissed to me. "Time passes."

"Back to your post, L'Olonnois," I rejoined. "See that the captives remain in their room."

Jean Lafitte, too, proved unable to restrain his curiosity, and this time his habit of close observation was of benefit in an unexpected way.

"Hist, Black Bart!" he whispered distinctly, clutching my arm. "What boat is that?"

He pointed in the dim light to a low lying, battered power boat moored in the same slip with us. Something in her look seemed familiar.

"I can't see her name," said Jean Lafitte, "but she looks a lot like our own old boat."

I hastily stepped on the wharf and got a closer look in the wavering beams of an arc light at the name on the boat's bows. There, in indistinct and shaky, but unmistakable characters, was the title painted by my young ruffians, weeks earlier—Sea Rover!

"Jean Lafitte," I whispered, "you are right, and now indeed we must have a care. Yon varlet has beaten us into New Orleans."

"Let's board her and take her," hissed Jean Lafitte. "We can do it easy."

"No, wait," said I. "Perhaps we can think of a better plan. Wait till we get two drums of gasoline aboard. Then we'll make a run for it, if yon varlet is here on the Sea Rover. Probably not, for every one seems gone to bed."

"I'll find out," said Jean Lafitte boldly, and before I could stop him was gone, springing lightly on the deck of the Sea Rover.

"Hello in there," he hailed. "Are you all asleep?"

A voice muttered something from the shallow cabin, I could not tell what. "We got a barrel of rum for you from Thibodeau's," said Jean Lafitte.

"No, you ain't. Must be some mistake," said a sleepy voice; and now a tousled head appeared, indistinct in the gloom. "Anyhow, I don't know anything about it, and it'll have to stay on the dock until morning. I'm only the engineer, I come from Natchez. Mr. Davidson, he's up-town."

"Oh, all right," said Jean Lafitte, apparently mollified, and soon was at my side again. So then, we had the information we sought. I was sure my own engineer, Williams, was busy as usual below, oiling and polishing his double sixties.

"Hurry now," I whispered to Peterson. "Get that stuff aboard quick. Don't forget the crates of fruit and vegetables."

We were nearly done with this work, when for a moment all seemed on the point of going wrong with us. I heard shufflings and door slammings from the after cabin. "Help! Help!" sounded the voice of Aunt Lucinda, somewhat muffled. It chanced that my engineer, Williams, at that moment poked his head up his ladder to get a breath of fresh air.

"What's that?" he demanded of me as I passed. "I thought I heard some one calling."

"Oh, you did, Williams," said I. "It was Mrs. Daniver. She suffers much with neuralgia and is in great pain. I shouldn't wonder if I should have to go up-town and get a physician for her even yet. But, Williams, in any case we'll be sailing soon, and I want you to overhaul the screen of the intake pipe for that port boiler. We're getting into very sandy waters, and of course you don't want anything to happen to your engines. Can you attend to that at once?"

"Surely, sir," said he, and went below again. I closed the hatch on him. Meantime I hurried aft, to see what could be done toward quelling any possible uproar. My blue-eyed lieutenant, L'Olonnois, had been as efficient in his way as Jean Lafitte. Now, in full character, he was enjoying himself immensely. When I saw him, he was standing with his feet spread wide apart in the center of the cabin floor, with drawn sword in his hand.

"Lady," said he, addressing himself to Aunt Lucinda, "it irks me as a gentleman to be rude with one so fair, but let me hear one more word from you, and your life's blood shall dye the deck, and you shall walk the plank at the morning sun. You deal with L'Olonnois, who knows no fear!"

Deep silence, broken presently by a little laugh; and I heard Helena's voice in remonstrance. "Don't be so silly, Jimmie!"

"Silly, indeed," boomed the deep voice of Aunt Lucinda, catching sight of me at the door. "Yonder is the villain who put him up to this."

"Oh, is that you?" said Helena, coming toward me. "Where are we, Harry?"

"In the port of New Orleans, Miss Helena," was my answer, "a city of some three hundred thousand souls, noted for its manufacture of sugar, and its large shipments abroad of the staple cotton."

"May I come on deck?" she queried after a while.

"We are alongside the levee, and there is little to see. We shall be sailing now in a few moments."

"But mayn't I come up and see New Orleans, even for a minute as we pass by? I'll be good."

"You may come up under parole," said I, throwing open the door. "But you must bring your aunt's parole also. You must give no alarm, for we have every reason here for silence."

She turned back and held some converse with Auntie Lucinda, and by what spell I know not, won the promise of the latter to remain silent and make no attempt at escape. A little later she was at my side in the dim light cast by a flickering and distant arc light at the street.

"I have your word, then?" I demanded of her.

"Yes. You can't blame me for wanting to get out, to see what is going on."

"A great deal may be going on here any moment," said I. "In fact, if I could show you the evening newspapers—which I purpose doing to-morrow morning—it might seem to you that a great deal already has gone on. For one thing, Cal Davidson is in town ahead of us. That's his boat yonder, rubbing sides with us. He doesn't know we're here. He himself is off up-town, at the Boston Club, probably, or perhaps some of the cafes—he knows a thousand people here."

"So do I, Harry," said she. "To think of going by in this plight! And to think of leaving New Orleans without even one little supper at Luigi's, Harry—it breaks my heart."

"We are almost ready to sail, Helena. Suppose we see Luigi's some other time. Things are getting pretty close about us here."

"Any pirate should be a man of courage," said she; "he should be ever willing to take a chance."

"Very well; have I not taken several chances already?"

"And again, a pirate ought to be kind toward all women, oughtn't he, Harry? I asked you this afternoon, why couldn't we be friends again and stop all this foolishness. Let's forget everything and just be friends."

"What! Again, Helena? Have I not tried that and found it a failure?"

"You have no courage. You are no pirate. I challenge you to a test."

"What is it, Helena?"

"Let us go up-town and have a little supper at Luigi's, the way we used to, Harry, when we really were friends."

"What, with Cal Davidson loose in the town and his boat lying here?"

"That is the adventure!"

"You would turn me over to the authorities?"

"No, but I would sell my parole for a mess of woodcock, Harry." She laid a hand upon my arm. "I can't tell you how much I want a little supper at Luigi's, Harry. I like the Chianti there. Between us we could afford thirty cents a bottle, could we not? Now, if I gave my parole—and of course, every one would be here at the boat just the same—But of course, I did not expect you would."

"Why did you not?"

"Because it is an adventure, because it will take something of real courage, I fancy, to meet a risk like that!"

"There would be some risk for us all," said I truly.

"There you go, balancing and not deciding. You are no pirate."

"What will you give me if I go, Helena?" said I.

"Nothing beyond thanking you. One thing, you must not think that I would trick or trap you."

"Many a criminal has been trapped by a woman whom he loves," said I slowly. "But you would not do that if I had your word, even though you hated me. And you do hate me very much, do you not?"

"Yes, very much. But if you took me by New Orleans without a supper at Luigi's, I should hate you even more."

"Jean—Jean Lafitte," I called out in a low tone of voice.

"Aye, aye, Sir!" he saluted, as he came to the place where we stood, like some seasoned sailorman, regardless of youthful hours of sleep.

"I am going up-town with the captive maiden. Do you stand here on watch. We shall be gone about three hours."

"Hully gee!" ejaculated Jean Lafitte, but at once he saluted again. "'Tis well, Black Bart," said he.

"Tell Captain Peterson to let no one come on board this boat under any pretense; nor must any one leave it until I get back. If any one asks for me, say I'm up-town."

"Isn't Aunt Lucinda going, too?" demanded Helena.

"She certainly is not!"

"Is it—is it quite correct for me to go alone with you?"

"That is your part of the adventure, Helena," said I calmly. An instant later I had led her across the dingy warehouse dock, over dusty streets, to a crooked street-car line over which I could hear approaching one of the infrequent cars.



CHAPTER XXV

IN WHICH WE MEET THE OTHER MAN, ALSO ANOTHER WOMAN

Luigi's place, as all men know, is situated upon a small, crooked and very dirty street, yet none the less, it is an abode of contentment for those who know good living. When Helena and I entered the door I felt as one again at home. Here were the sanded floors, the old water-bottles, the large chandelier with its cut glasses in the middle of the room, the small tables with their coarse clean linen. The same old French waiters stood here and there about, each with impeccable apron and very peccable shoes, as is the wont of all waiters. But the waiters at Luigi's are more than waiters; they are friends, and they never forget a face. Therefore, as always, I had no occasion for surprise when Jean, my waiter these many years at Luigi's, stepped forward as though it had been but last week and not three years ago when he had seen me. He called me by name, greeted me again to his city, and gently aided Helena with her wraps and gloves.

"And M'sieu can not long remain away from us, forever?" said he.

"It has been three years, Jean," said I, "more is the pity. But now, I can remain three hours—will that serve? At the end of that time we must away."

Jean was human, yet discreet. He knew that when last he saw me I was a single man. Now he had doubts. He stood hovering about, a question on his tongue, smitten of admiration much as had been my dog, Partial, at his first sight of Helena. At last he made excuse to step close behind my chair under pretense of finding my napkin.

"Enfin, M'sieu?" said he, smiling.

"Pas encore, Jean!" I replied.

I saw a slow flush on Helena's cheek, but she gave no other sign that she had overheard. So I began forthwith making much ado about ordering our supper, which as usual really was much a matter of Jean's taste.

"We have to-night in the ice-boxes, M'sieu," said that artist, "some cock oysters which are dreams. Moreover, I have laid aside two canvasbacks, the best I ever saw—it was in the hope that some really good friend of mine would come in. Behold, I am happy—I must have been expecting you. Believe me, we have never had better birds than these. They are excellent."

"Perhaps the oysters, Jean," said I, "very small and dark. I presume possibly a very small fillet of trout this evening, and the sauce—you still can make it, Jean? Such entrees as you like, of course. But, since Mademoiselle—" and here I smiled—"and I, also, are very hungry this evening, we wish a woodcock after the canvasback, if you do not mind. Perhaps it is not too much?"

"Mais non!" replied Jean. "You are of those who know well that to eat too much is not to dine well. But I shall bring you two oysters, mariniere—a sauce my own wife invented. And yes, some small bird, beccasine, broiled lightly—perhaps you will enjoy it after the canvasback, although I assure you those are excellent indeed. We have few sweets here, as M'sieu knows, but cheese, if you like, and of course coffee; and always we have the red wine which I remember M'sieu liked so much."

"It is with you, Jean," said I. And Helena, turning, smiled upon him swiftly, in such fashion that he scarce touched the floor at all as he walked out for his radishes and olives.

"Isn't it nice?" said Helena. "Isn't it like the old times? I always loved this old town. It seems so homelike."

"Please do not use that word, Helena," said I. "I wish to be entirely happy to-night, in the belief that some time I shall know what home is."

"Do you think Jean knew me also?" she demanded. "Certainly, I have been here also before."

"No one who has ever seen you, Helena, ever forgets you. But Jean is, of course, discreet."

"Suppose he knew that I was here to-night against my free will, and only under parole?"

"Jean is wise; he knows such things ought not to be, even if they are. And he understood me when I said, 'not yet.'"

"Yes," said she; "quite right. Pas encore!"

Jean returned, and as a special favor to an old patron asked us politely if we would enjoy a look through the kitchen and the ice-boxes. As usual, we accepted this invitation, and passed back through the green swing doors, following our guide along the row of charcoal fires, through a dingy room decorated with shining coppers and bits of glass and silver. These ice-boxes were such as to offer continual delight to any epicure, what with their rows of fat clean fishes and crabs and oysters, the birds nicely plucked, all the dainties which this rich market of the South could afford, from papabotte to terrapin. Helena herself selected two woodcock and approved the judgment of Jean in canvasback. Presently she turned to me, a flush of embarrassment upon her face.

"Harry," she said, "I don't like to say anything, but you know—you've been telling me you were so poor. Now, a girl doesn't want to make it difficult——"

"Mademoiselle," said I, bowing, "I am quite able to foot the bill to-night. I had just sold some hay before I started from home."

"Well, I'm awfully hungry," she admitted; "besides, it's such a lark."

"Yes," said I; and presently, as we reached our table again, I showed her the afternoon papers, which as yet she had not seen. She read through the account of our escapade, her lips compressed; but presently she folded the paper and laid it down without comment.

"At any minute, you see," said I, "I may be apprehended and our little supper brought to an end. That is why I hastened with the order. I do not wish to hurry you in any way, however, and we shall use the full three hours. Although, of course, you see that the bird of time indeed is on the wing to-night, as well as those other birds on the broilers."

She only looked at me steadily and made no comment. "Once suspected here," said I, "all is over for me, and you are free again. It would be entirely easy for you to make some sign or movement which I, perhaps, could not detect. Perhaps, at any moment, some one may enter who knows you—as I've said, no one can look at you and forget you, Helena. But please let none of this affect your appetite. Our little supper is our little adventure. I hope you will enjoy both, my dear."

"You did take some chance, did you not?" she said slowly.

"It might be a chance."

"But you will be so nervous you can't enjoy your spread."

"Not in the least, Helena. A nervous man has no business in the trade of piracy;—but, ah! the fillet of trout, Helena."

Jean was proud of his art, the chef proud also, and the chef knew we were here. A general air of comfort seemed to settle down upon our little corner of the restaurant, a quiet contentment. For the most part, folk came here who had no hurry and no anxiety, and it was a sort of club for many persons who knew how to eat and to live and to enjoy life quietly, as life should be enjoyed. None dreamed, of course, that aught but equal leisure existed for our little table, where sat a rather lank and shabby man in flannels, and a very especially beautiful young woman in half evening dress. At Luigi's, every one is polite to every one else, and the curiosity is but that of fraternity. Perhaps, some eyes were cast our way, I could not tell.

Jean, in slow solemnity and pleasant ease, brought on many things not nominated in the bond. At length he arranged his duck-press on his little table near us, and having squeezed the elixir from the two dissected fowls, began to stir the juices into a sauce of his own, made with sherry wine and a touch of file, many things which Jean knows best. He was just in the act of pouring this most delectable sauce over the two bits of tender fowl upon our hot plates, when, happening to look up, I saw some one entering the door.

"Jean, if you please," said I, deliberately pulling the coat-rack in front of our table, "Mademoiselle perhaps feels a slight draft. Would you fetch a screen?"

He turned. "Helena," said I, after a moment, "now our adventure has come."

"What do you mean?" said she. "Why do you do that?"—she nodded at the screen. "Why, I say?"

"I have your parole?"

"Yes."

"I am glad it is yes!" said I. "You could break it now and escape so easily. One little move on your part and my punishment is at hand."

"Who was it?" she asked, suspecting.

"No one much," said I, "only our esteemed friend, Mr. Calvin Davidson, whose waistcoat I am now wearing. Some one is with him, I don't know who it is. A very nice-looking lady, next to the most beautiful woman in this room, I must say."

"Let me see," said she; and I allowed her to look through the crack in the screen.

"She certainly is very stunning," said I, "is she not? Tall, dark, a trifle superb—I wonder—I wonder sometimes, Helena, if Cal Davidson is true to Poll?"

"Nonsense!" was her retort. "But as you say, here is our adventure, or at least yours. How do you propose to get out of it?"

"I don't know yet," said I. "Just at present I do not wish this canvasback to get cold. We have remaining before us two hours or more, ample time to make any plan which may be needed. Coffee, I have found, is excellent for plans. Let us make no plans until we have had our coffee, after our little dinner. That will be an hour or so yet. Plenty of time to plan, Helena," said I. "And please do not slight this bird—it is delicious."

Her eyes still were sparkling. "I'm rather glad I came," said she.

"So am I, and I shall be glad when we are back. But meantime I trust you, Helena, absolutely. I will even tell you more. Davidson's boat, the one which we left him instead of the Belle Helene, is lying in the same slip with ours, rubbing noses with our yacht yonder, as I showed you. Our men have talked with his. They do not yet suspect that we are the vessel which everybody wants to find. I am very thankful their engineer was so sleepy. I learned there at the wharf that Cal Davidson was down-town at his club. He seems to have departed long enough to find excellent company, as usual. I am glad that he has done so, for in all likelihood he will not return to his own boat before to-morrow morning. He will prefer his room at the club to his bunk on the Sea Rover, if I know Cal Davidson. And by that time I hope to be far away."

"Does he know who you are—does he know who it was that took the Belle Helene?"

"I think not. But, very stupidly—being so anxious to see the original—I left a photograph of yourself on our old boat, the Sea Rover. Item, one cigarette case with my initials. Of course, Cal Davidson may guess the simple truth, or he may make a mystery of these things. It seems he prefers to make a mystery; and I am sure that suits me much better."

"But knowing these things—knowing that his boat was lying right at the dock alongside of us—why did you stop?"

"I thought it was you, Helena, who suggested this little adventure at Luigi's! And I promise you I am enjoying it very much. It seems so much like old times."

"But that can't ever be over again, Harry."

"Naturally not. But often new times are quite as good as old ones. I can conceive of such a thing in our case. No, I shall use this privilege of your society to the limit, Helena, fearing I may not see you soon again, after once I have put you back in your hat box. You coaxed me to leave the boat, and I shall tell you when to return."

"Why not now?"

"No, at twelve o'clock. Not earlier."

"And you propose sitting here with me till then?"

"I could imagine no better pastime, were I condemned to die at sunrise. Tell me, do you wish me to call Mr. Davidson?"

"Of course I do not, since I gave you my word. Besides, I know that girl with him. It's Sally Byington. Some call her good-looking, but I am sure I don't know why."

"Fie upon you! She is superb. In short, Helena, I am not sure but she is finer-looking than yourself!"

"Indeed!"

"Yes. Cal Davidson, whatever may be his taste in neckties or waistcoats, seems to me excellent in this other regard. Perhaps just a trifle flamboyant for Luigi's, but certainly stunning."

"Our relations are not such as to lead me to discuss our friends," she rejoined haughtily. "And, as you say, our duck is getting cold. I adore these canvasbacks. I would like to come back to-morrow and have another." She cut savagely into her fowl.

"Alas, Helena, to-morrow you will be far away. In time I hope to reconcile you to the simple life of piracy. Indeed, unless all plans go wrong, we may very likely have canvasbacks on the boat; although I can not promise you that John will be as good a chef as our friend here at Luigi's. All good buccaneers use their fair captives well."

"Indeed! And why do you not ask Sally Byington into your list of prisoners, since you fancy her so much."

"Nay, say not so, Helena. I trust I am somewhat catholic in taste regarding ladies, as any gentleman should be, yet after all, I am gentler in my preferences. Quite aside from that, I find one fair captive quite enough to make me abundant trouble."

At about this time Jean approached behind the screen, bearing a copy of a late edition of an evening paper, which fortunately he seemed not closely to have scanned. I took it quickly and placed it with the front page down.

"Monsieur no doubt has heard of the great sensation?" commented Jean.

"No, what is that, Jean?"

"The papers have been full of nothing else. It seems a band of cutthroat river pirates have stolen a gentleman's yacht, and so far as can be told, have escaped with it down the river, perhaps entirely to the Gulf."

"That, Jean," said I, "is a most extraordinary thing. Are you sure of the facts?"

"Naturally—is it not all in the paper? This gentleman then has his yacht anchored at Natchez, and he goes ashore on important business. Comes then this band of river ruffians in the dark, and as though pirates of a hundred years ago, and led by Jean Lafitte himself, they capture the vessel!"

"Mon Dieu! Jean you do not say so?"

"But assuredly I say so; nor is that all, Monsieur. On board this yacht was a young and beautiful lady of great wealth and beauty, as well—the fiancee, so it is said, of this gentleman who owns the yacht. What is the action of these pirates in regard to this beautiful young lady and her aunt, who also is upon the yacht for the cruise? Do they place these ladies ashore? No, they imprison them upon the boat, and so, pouf! off for the gulf. Nor has any trace of them been found from that time till now. A rumor goes that the gentleman who owns the yacht is at this time in New Orleans, but as for that unfortunate young lady, where is she to-night? I demand that, Monsieur. Ah! And she is beautiful."

"Now, is not this a most extraordinary tale you bring, Jean? Let us hope it is not true. Why, if it were true, that ruffian might escape and hide for days or weeks in the bayous around Barataria, even as Jean Lafitte did a hundred years ago."

"Assuredly he might. Ah, I know it well, that country. But Jean Lafitte was no pirate, simply a merchant who did not pay duties. And he sold silks and laces cheap to the people hereabout—I could show you the very causeway they built across the marsh, to reach the place where he landed his boats at the heads of one of the great bays—it is not far from the plantation of Monsieur Edouard Manning, below New Iberia. Believe me, Monsieur, the country folk hunt yet for the buried treasure of Jean Lafitte; and sometimes they find it."

"You please me, Jean. Tell me more of that extraordinary person."

"Extraordinary, you may call him, Monsieur. And he had a way with women, so it is said—even his captives came to admire him in time, so generous and bold was he."

"A daredevil fellow I doubt not, Jean?"

"You may say that. But of great good and many kindnesses to all the folk in the lower parts of this state in times gone by. Now—say it not aloud, Monsieur—scarce a family in all Acadia but has map and key to some buried treasure of Jean Lafitte. Why, Monsieur, here in this very cafe, once worked a negro boy. He, being sick, I help him as a gentleman does those negro, to be sure, and he was of heart enough to thank me for that. So one day he came to me and told me a story of a treasure of a descendant of Lafitte. He himself, this negro, had helped his master to bury that same treasure."

"And does he know the place now? Could he point it out?"

"Assuredly, and the master who buried it now is dead."

"Then why does not the negro boy go and dig it up again, very naturally?"

"Ah, for the best reasons. That old Frenchman, descendant of Jean Lafitte, was no fool. What does he in this burial of treasure? Ah! He takes him a white parrot, a black cat and a live monkey, and these three, all of them, he buries on top of the treasure-box and covers all with earth and grass above the earth. And then above the grave he says such a malediction upon any who may disturb it as would alone frighten to the death any person coming there and braving such a curse. I suggested to the negro boy that he should show me the spot. Monsieur, he grew pale in terror. Not for a million pounds of solid gold would he go near that place, him."