Isham Frederic Stewart
The Strollers

“You do care what–may become of me?”

“You should do so much–be so much in the world,” she answered, thoughtfully.

“Sans peur et sans reproche!” he cried, half-amused, half-cheerlessly. “What a pity I met you–too late!”

They were now at the broad entrance of the brilliantly-lighted hotel. Several loungers, smoking their after-dinner cigars, gazed at the couple curiously.

“Mauville’s a lucky dog,” said one.

“Yes; he was born with a silver spoon,” replied the person addressed.

As he passed through the envious throng, the land baron had regained his self-command, although his face was marked with an unusual pallor. In his mind one thought was paramount–that the walk begun at the burial-ground was drawing to an end; their last walk; the finale of all between them! Yet he could call to mind nothing further to say. His story had been told; the conclusion reached. She, too, had spoken, and he knew she would never speak differently. Bewildered and unable to adjust his new and strange feelings, it dawned upon him he had never understood himself and her; that he had never really known what love was, and he stood abashed, confronted by his own ignorance. Passion, caprice, fancy, he had seen depth in their shallows, but now looked down and discerned the pebbly bottom. All this and much more surged through his brain as he made his way through the crowd, and, entering the corridor of the hotel, took formal leave of the young girl at the stairway.

“Good-night, Miss Carew,” he said, gravely.

“Good-night,” she replied. And then, on the steps, she turned and looked down at him, extending her hand: “Thank you!”

That half-timid, low “thank you!” he knew was all he would ever receive from her. He hardly felt the hand-clasp; he was hardly conscious when she turned away. A heavier hand fell upon his shoulder.

“You sly dog!” said a thick voice. “Well, a judge of a good horse is a judge of a handsome woman! We’re making up a few bets on the horses to-morrow. Colonel Ogelby will ride Dolly D, and I’m to ride my Gladiator. It’ll be a gentlemen’s race.”

“Aren’t we gentlemen?” growled a professional turfsman.

“Gad! it’s the first time I ever heard a jockey pretend to be one!” chuckled the first speaker. “What do you say, Mauville?”

“What do I say?” repeated the land baron, striving to collect his thoughts. “What–why, I’ll make it an even thousand, if you ride your own horse, you’ll–”

“Win?” interrupted the proud owner.

“No; fall off before he’s at the second quarter!”

“Done!” said the man, immediately.

“Huzza!” shouted the crowd.

“That’s the way they bet on a gentlemen’s race!” jeered the gleeful jockey.

“Drinks on Gladiator!” exclaimed some one. And as no southern gentleman was ever known to refuse to drink to a horse or a woman, the party carried the discussion to the bar-room.

BOOK III
THE FINAL CUE

CHAPTER I
OVERLOOKING THE COURT-YARD

“In the will of the Marquis de Ligne, probated yesterday, all of the property, real and personal, is left to his daughter, Constance,” wrote Straws in his paper shortly after the passing of the French nobleman. “The document states this disposition of property is made as ‘an act of atonement and justice to my daughter, whose mother I deserted, taking advantage of the French law to annul my marriage in England.’ The legitimacy of the birth of this, his only child, is thereupon fully acknowledged by the marquis after a lapse of many years and long after the heretofore unrecognized wife had died, deserted and forgotten. Thrown on her own resources, the young child, with no other friend than Manager Barnes, battled with the world; now playing in taverns or barns, like the players of interludes, the strollers of old, or ‘vagabonds’, as the great and mighty Junius, from his lofty plane, termed them. The story of that period of ‘vagrant’ life adds one more chapter to the annals of strolling players which already include such names as Kemble, Siddons and Kean.

“From the Junius category to a public favorite of New Orleans has been no slight transition, and now, to appear in the rôle of daughter of a marquis and heiress to a considerable estate–truly man–and woman–play many parts in this brief span called life! But in making her sole heir the marquis specifies a condition which will bring regrets to many of the admirers of the actress. He robs her of her birthright from her mother. The will stipulates that the recipient give up her profession, not because it is other than a noble one, but ‘that she may the better devote herself to the duties of her new position and by her beneficence and charity remove the stain left upon an honored name by my second wife, the Duchesse D’Argens’.”

The marquis’ reference to “charity” and “beneficence” was in such ill-accord with his character that it might be suspected an adroit attorney, in drawing up the document, had surreptitiously inserted it. His proud allusion to his honored name and slurring suggestion of the taint put upon it by his second wife demonstrated the marquis was not above the foibles of his kind, overlooking his own light conduct and dwelling on that of his noble helpmate. It was the final taunt, and, as the lady had long since been laid in God’s Acre, where there is only silence divine, it received no answer, and the world was welcome to digest and gorge it and make the most of it.

But although the marquis and his lady had no further interest in subsequent events, growing out of their brief sojourn on earth, the contents of the will afforded a theme of gossip for the living and molded the affairs of one in new shape and manner. On the same day this public exposition appeared, Barnes and the young actress were seated in the law office of Marks and Culver, a room overlooking a court-yard, brightened by statues and urns of flowers. A plaster bust of Justinian gazed benignly through the window at a fountain; a steel engraving of Jeremy Bentham watched the butterflies, and Hobbes and John Austin, austere in portraiture, frowned darkly down upon the flowering garden. While the manager and Constance waited for the attorney to appear, they were discussing, not for the first time, the proviso of the will to which Straws had regretfully alluded.

“Yes,” said Barnes, folding the newspaper which contained Straws’ article and placing it in his pocket; “you should certainly give up the stage. We must think of the disappointments, the possible failure, the slender reward. There was your mother–such an actress!–yet toward the last the people flocked to a younger rival. I have often thought anxiously of your future, for I am old–yes, there is no denying it!–and any day I may leave you, dependent solely upon yourself.”

“Do not speak like that,” she answered, tenderly. “We shall be together many, many years.”

“Always, if I had my way,” he returned, heartily.

“But with this legacy you are superior to the fickle public. In fact, you are now a part of the capricious public, my dear,” he added in a jocular tone, “and may applaud the ‘heavy father,’ myself, or prattle about prevailing styles while the buskined tragedian is strutting below your box. Why turn to a blind bargain? Fame is a jade, only caught after our illusions are gone and she seems not half so sweet as when pursuing her in our dreams!”

But as he spoke, with forced lightness, beneath which, however, the young girl could readily detect the vein of anxiety and regret, she was regarding him with the clear eyes of affection. His face, seamed with many lines and bearing the deeply engraved handwriting of time, spoke plainly of declining years; every lineament was eloquent with vicissitudes endured; and as she discerningly read that varied past of which her own brief career had been a part, there entered her mind a brighter picture of a tranquil life for him at last, where in old age he could exchange uncertainty and activity for security and rest. How could she refuse to do as he desired? How often since fate had wrought this change in her life had she asked herself the question?

Her work, it is true, had grown dearer to her than ever; of late she had thrown herself into her task with an ardor and earnestness lifting each portrayal to a higher plane. Is it that only with sorrow comes the fulness of art; that its golden gates are never swung entirely open to the soul bearing no burden?

Closed to ruder buffetings, is it only to the sesame of a sad voice those portals spring magically back? But for his sake she must needs pause on the threshold of attainment, and stifle that ambition which of itself precluded consideration of a calm, uneventful existence. She was young and full of courage, but the pathos of his years smote her heart; something inexplicable had awakened her fears for him; she believed him far from well of late, although he laughed at her apprehensions and protested he had never been better in his life.

Now, reading the anxiety in his face as he watched her, she smiled reassuringly, her glance, full of love, meeting his.

“Everything shall be as you wish,” she said, softly. “You know what is best!”

The manager’s face lighted perceptibly, but before he could answer, the door opened, and Culver, the attorney, entered. With ruddy countenance and youthful bearing, in antithesis to the hair, silvered with white, he was one of those southern gentlemen who grow old gracefully. The law was his taskmaster; he practised from a sense of duty, but ever held that those who rushed to court were likely to repeat the experience of Voltaire, who had twice been ruined: once when he lost a law suit; the second time, when he won one! Nevertheless, people persisted in coming to Culver wantonly welcoming unknown ills.

“Well, Miss Carew,” he now exclaimed, after warmly greeting his visitors, “have you disburdened yourself of prejudice against this estate? Wealth may be a little hardship at first, but soon you won’t mind it.”

“Not a bit!” spoke up Barnes. “It’s as easy to get used to as–poverty, and we’ve had plenty of that!”

“You know the other condition?” she said, half-defiantly, half-sadly. “You are to be with me always.”

“How can you teach an old dog new tricks?” protested Barnes. “How can you make a fine man about town out of a ‘heavy father?’”

“The ‘heavy father’ is my father. I never knew any other. I am glad I never did.”

“Hoity-toity!” he exclaimed scoffingly, but pleased nevertheless.

“You can’t put me off that way,” she said, decisively, with a sudden flash in her eyes he knew too well to cross. “Either you leave the stage, too, or–”

“Of course, my dear, of course–”

“Then it’s all settled you will accept the encumbrance to which you have fallen heir,” resumed Culver. “Even if there had been no will in your favor, the State of Louisiana follows the French law, and the testator can under no circumstances alienate more than half his property, if he leave issue or descendants. Had the old will remained, its provisions could not have been legally carried out.”

“The old will?” said Barnes. “Then there was another will?”

“One made before he was aware of your existence, Miss Carew, in favor of his ward, Ernest Saint-Prosper.”

“Ernest Saint-Prosper!”

Constance’s cheeks flamed crimson, and her quick start of surprise did not escape the observant lawyer. Barnes, too, looked amazed over this unexpected intelligence.

“Saint-Prosper was the marquis’ ward?” he cried.

The attorney transferred his gaze from the expressive features of his fair client to the open countenance of the manager. “Yes,” he said.

“And would have inherited this property but for Constance?”

“Exactly! But you knew him, Mr. Barnes?”

“He was an occupant of the chariot, sir,” replied the manager, with some feeling. “We met in the Shadengo Valley; the company was in sore straits, and–and–to make a long story short!–he joined our band and traversed the continent with us. And so he was the marquis’ ward! It seems almost incredible!”

“Yes,” affirmed Culver; “when General Saint-Prosper, his father, died, Ernest Saint-Prosper, who was then but a boy, became the marquis’ ward and a member of his household.”

“Well, well, how things do come about!” ruminated Barnes. “To think he should have been the prospective heir, and Constance, the real one!”

“Where is he now?” asked the attorney, thoughtfully.

“He has gone to Mexico; enlisted! But how do you know he–”

“Had expectations? The marquis told me about a quarrel they had had; he was a staunch imperialist; the young man as firm a republican! What would be the natural outcome? They parted in bitter anger.”

“And then the marquis made him his heir?” exclaimed the manager, incredulously. “How do you reconcile that?”

The attorney smiled. “Through the oddity of my client! ‘Draw up my will,’ said the marquis to me one day, ‘leaving all my property to this republican young dog. That will cut off the distant relatives who made the sign of the cross behind my back as though I were the evil one. They expect it all; he expects nothing! It will be a rare joke. I leave them my affection–and the privilege of having masses said for my soul.’ The marquis was always of a satirical temperament.”

“So it seems,” commented the manager. “But he changed his mind and his will again?”

“After he met Miss Carew.”

“Met me!” exclaimed Constance, aroused from a maze of reflection.

“Near the cathedral! He walked and talked with you.”

“That poor old man–”

“And then came here, acknowledged you as his daughter, and drew up the final document.”

“That accounts for a call I had from him!” cried Barnes, telling the story of the marquis’ visit. “Strange, I did not suspect something of the truth at the time,” he concluded, “for his manner was certainly unusual.”

A perplexed light shone in the girl’s eyes; she clasped and unclasped her hands quickly, turning to the lawyer.

“Their quarrel was only a political difference?” she asked at length.

“Yes,” said the other, slowly. “Saint-Prosper refused to support the fugitive king. Throughout the parliamentary government, the restoration under Louis XVIII, and the reign of King Charles X, the marquis had ever a devout faith in the divine right of monarchs. He annulled his marriage in England with your mother to marry the Duchesse D’Argens, a relative of the royal princess. But Charles abdicated and the duchesse died. All this, however, is painful to you, Miss Carew?”

“Only such as relates to my mother,” she replied in a clear tone. “I suppose I should feel grateful for this fortune, but I am afraid I do not. Please go on.”

Culver leaned back in his chair, his glance bent upon a discolored statue of Psyche in the court-yard. “Had the marquis attended to his garden, like Candide, or your humble servant, and eschewed the company of kings he might have been as care-free as he was wretched. His monarchs were knocked down like nine-pins. Louis XVIII was a man of straw; Charles X, a feather-top, and Louis Philippe, a toy ruler. The marquis’ domestic life was as unblest as his political career. The frail duchesse left him a progeny of scandals. These, the only offspring of the iniquitous dame, were piquantly dressed in the journals for public parade. Fancy, then, his delight in disinheriting his wife’s relatives, and leaving you, his daughter, his fortune and his name!”

“His name?” she repeated, sadly. With averted face she watched the fountain in the garden. “If he had given it to my mother,” she continued, “but now–I do not care for it. Her name is all I want.” Her voice trembled and she exclaimed passionately: “I should rather Mr. Saint-Prosper would keep the property and I–my work! After denying my mother and deserting her, how can I accept anything from him?”

“Under the new will,” said Culver, “the estate does not revert to Mr. Saint-Prosper in any event. But you might divide it with him?” he added, suddenly.

“How could I do that?” she asked, without looking up.

“Marry him!” laughed the attorney.

But the jest met with scant response, his fair client remaining motionless as a statue, while Barnes gazed at her furtively. Culver’s smile gradually faded; uncertain how to proceed, realizing his humor had somehow miscarried, he was not sorry when the manager arose, saying:

“Well, my dear, it is time we were at the theater.”

“Won’t you accept this nosegay from my garden, Miss Carew?” urged the lawyer in a propitiatory tone as they were leaving.

And the attorney not only accompanied them to the door, but down-stairs to the street, where he stood for a moment watching them drive down the thoroughfare. Then he slowly returned, breathing heavily–invidious contradiction of his youthful assumption!–and shaking his head, as he mounted to his room.

“Culver, you certainly put your foot in it that time!” he muttered. “How she froze at my suggestion! Has there been some passage of arms between them? Apparently! But here am I, pondering over romances with all this legal business staring me in the face!” His glance swept a chaos of declarations, bills, affidavits and claims. “Confound the musty old courthouse and the bustling Yankee lawyers who set such a disturbing pace! There is no longer gentlemanly leisure in New Orleans.”

He seated himself with a sigh before a neglected brief. In the distance the towers of the cathedral could be seen, reminding the attorney of the adjacent halls of justice in the scraggy-looking square, with its turmoil, its beggars, and apple women in the lobbies; its ancient, offensive smell, its rickety stairs, its labyrinth of passages and its Babel of tongues. Above him, however, the plaster bust of Justinian, out of those blank, sightless eyes, continued the contemplation of the garden as though turning from the complex jurisprudence of the ancients and moderns to the simple existence of butterflies and flowers.

CHAPTER II
ONLY A SHADOW

There is an aphorism to the effect that one can not spend and have; also, a saying about the whirlwind, both of which in time came home to the land baron. For several generations the Mauville family, bearing one of the proudest names in Louisiana, had held marked prestige under Spanish and French rule, while extensive plantations indicated the commercial ascendency of the patroon’s ancestors. The thrift of his forefathers, however, passed lightly over Edward Mauville. Sent to Paris by his mother, a widow, who could deny him nothing, in the course of a few years he had squandered two plantations and several hundred negroes. Her death placed him in undisputed possession of the residue of the estate, when finding the exacting details of commerce irksome, in a moment of weakness, he was induced to dispose of some of his possessions to Yankee speculators who had come in with the flood of northern energy. Most of the money thus realized he placed in loose investments, while the remainder gradually disappeared in indulging his pleasures.

At this critical stage in his fortunes–or misfortunes–the patroon’s legacy had seemed timely, and his trip to the North followed. But from a swarm of creditors, to a nest of anti-renters, was out of the frying-pan into the fire, hastening his return to the Crescent City, where he was soon forced to make an assignment of the remaining property. A score of hungry lawyers hovered around the sinking estate, greedily jealous lest some one of their number should batten too gluttonously at this general collation. It was the one topic of interest in the musty, dusty courthouse until the end appeared with the following announcement in the local papers:

“Annonce! Vente importante de Nègres! Mauville estate in bankruptcy!”

And thereafter were specified the different lots of negroes to be sold.

Coincident with these disasters came news from the North regarding his supposedly immense interests in New York State. A constitutional convention had abolished all feudal tenures and freed the fields from baronial burdens. At a breath–like a house of cards–the northern heritage was swept away and about all that remained of the principality was the worthless ancient deed itself, representing one of the largest colonial grants.

But even the sale of the negroes and his other merchandise and property failed to satisfy his clamorous creditors or to pay his gambling debts. Those obligations at cards it was necessary to meet, so he moved out of his bachelor apartments, turned over his expensive furnishings and bric-à-brac to the gamblers and snapped his fingers at the over-anxious constables and lawyers.

As time went by evidence of his reverses insidiously crept into his personal appearance. He who had been the leader now clung to the tail-ends of style, and it was a novel sensation when one day he noticed a friend scrutinizing his garments much in the same critical manner that he had himself erstwhile affected. This glance rested casually on the hat; strayed carelessly to the waistcoat; wandered absently to the trousers, down one leg and up the other; superciliously jumped over the waistcoat and paused the infinitesimal part of a second on the necktie. Mauville learned in that moment how the eye may wither and humble, without giving any ostensible reason for offense. The attitude of this mincing fribble, as he danced twittingly away, was the first intimation Mauville had received that he would soon be relegated to the ranks of gay adventurers thronging the city. He who had watched his estates vanish with an unruffled countenance now became disconcerted over the width of his trousers and the shape of his hat.

His new home was in the house of an aged quadroon who had been a servant in his family many years ago–how long no one seemed to remember!–and who had been his nurse before she had received her freedom. She enjoyed the distinction of being feared in the neighborhood; her fetishes had a power no other witch’s possessed, and many of the negroes would have done anything to have possessed these infallible charms, save crossing her threshold to get them. Mauville, when he found fortune slipping away from him and ruin staring him in the face, had been glad to transfer his abode to this unhallowed place; going into hiding, as it were, until the storm should blow by, when he expected to emerge, confident as ever.

But inaction soon chafed his restless nature, and drove him forth in spite of himself from the streets in that quarter of the town where the roofs of various-colored houses formed strange geometrical figures and the windows were bright with flaring head-dresses, beneath which looked out curious visages of ebony. Returning one day from such a peregrination, he determined to end a routine of existence so humiliating to his pride.

Pausing before a doorway, the land baron looked this way and that, and seeing only the rotating eyes of a pickaninny fastened upon him, hurried through the entrance. Hanging upon the walls were red and green pods and bunches of dried herbs of unquestionable virtue belonging to the old crone’s pharmacopœia. Mauville slowly ascended the dark stairs and reached his retreat, a small apartment, with furniture of cane-work and floor covered with sea-grass; the ceiling low and the windows narrow, opening upon a miniature balcony that offered space for one and no more.

“Is dat yo’, honey?” said an adoring voice on the landing.

“Yes, auntie,” replied the land baron, as an old crone emerged from an ill-lighted recess and stood before him.

Now the light from the doorway fell upon her, and surely five score years were written on her curiously wrinkled face–five score, or more, for even the negroes did not profess to know how old she was. Her bent figure, watery eyes and high shrill voice bore additional testimony to her age.

“Yo’s home earlier dan usual, dearie?” she resumed. “But yo’ supper’s all ready. Sit down here.”

“I’m not hungry, auntie,” he returned.

“Not hungry, honey?” she cried, laughing shrilly. “Yo’ wait!” And she disappeared into an adjoining room, soon to emerge with a steaming platter, which she set on the snow-white cover of the little table. Removing the lid from the dish, she hobbled back a few steps to regard her guest with triumphant expectation. “Dat make yo’ eat.”

“What a cook you are, mammy!” he said, lightly. “You would give a longing tooth to satiety.”

“De debil blow de fire,” she answered, chuckling.

“Then the devil is a chef de cuisine. This sauce is bewitching.”

“Yo’ like it?” Delighted.

“Tis a spell in itself. Confess, mammy, Old Nick mixed it?”

“No, he only blow de fire,” she reiterated, with a grin.

“Any one been to see me, mammy?”

“Only dat Mexican gemmen; dat gemmen been here befo’ who take yo’ message about de troops; when dey go from New Orleans; how many dey am!”

“You know that, auntie?” he asked quickly. “You know that I–”

“Yes, honey,” she answered, shaking her head. “Yo’ be berry careful, Mar’s’r Edward.”

“What did he want?” said the land baron, quickly.

“He gib me dis.” And the crone handed her visitor a slip of paper on which a few words were written. “What dat mean?”

“It means I am going away, mammy,” pushing back his chair.

“Gwine away!” she repeated. “When’s yo’ gwine?”

“To-morrow; perhaps to-night even; down the river, auntie!” Rising and surveying himself in a mirror.

“How long yo’ gwine away foh?”

“Perhaps forever, auntie!”

“Not foh good, Mar’s’r Edward? Not foh good?” He nodded and she broke into loud wailings. “Yo’s gwine and yo’ old mammy’ll see yo’ no moh–no moh! I knows why yo’s gwine, Mar’s’r Edward. I’s heard yo’ talkin’ about her in yo’ sleep. But yo’ stay and yo’ mammy has a love-charm foh yo’; den she’s yo’s, foh suah.”

This offer, coming from one of her uncanny reputation, would have been accepted with implicit faith by most of the dwellers in that locality, superstitious to the last degree, but Mauville laughed carelessly.

“Pshaw, mammy! Do you think I would fly from a woman? Do I look as though I needed a charm?”

“No; she mus’ worship yo’!” cried the infatuated crone.

Then a change passed over her puckered face and she lifted her arms despairingly, rocking her body to and fro, while she mumbled unintelligible words which would have caused the negroes to draw away from her with awe, for the spell was on her. But the land baron only regarded her carelessly as she muttered something pertaining to spells and omens.

“Come, auntie,” he said impatiently at last, “you know I don’t believe in this tom-foolery.”

She turned to him vehemently. “Don’t go whar yo’ thinkin’ ob gwine, honey,” she implored. “Yo’ll nebber come back, foh suah–foh suah! I see yo’ lyin’ dar, honey, in de dark valley–whar de mists am risin’–and I hears a bugle soundin’–and de tramp of horses. Dey am all gone, honey–and de mists come back–but yo’ am dar–lying dar–de mountains around yo’–yo’ am dar fo’ebber and ebber and–” Here she broke into wild sobbing and moaning, tossing her white hair with her trembling withered arms, a moving picture of an inspired dusky sibyl. Mauville shrugged his shoulders.

“We’re losing time, mammy,” he exclaimed. “Stop this nonsense and go pack a few things for me. I have some letters to write.”

The old woman reluctantly obeyed, and the land baron penned a somewhat lengthy epistle to his one-time master in Paris, the Abbé Moneau, whose disapproval of the Anglo-Saxon encroachments–witness Louisiana!–and zeal for the colonization of the Latin races are matters of history. Having completed his epistle, the land baron placed it in the old crone’s hand to mail with: “If that man calls again, tell him I’ll meet him to-night,” and, leaving the room, shot through the doorway, once more rapidly walking down the shabby thoroughfare. The aged negro woman stumbled out upon the balcony and gazed after the departing figure still moaning softly to herself and shaking her head in anguish.

“Fo’ebber and ebber,” she repeated in a wailing tone. Below a colored boy gazed at her in wonderment.

“What debblement am she up to now?” he said to a girl seated in a doorway. “When de old witch am like dat–”

“Come in dar, yo’ black imp!” And a vigorous arm pulled the lad abruptly through the opening. “Ef she sees yo’, she can strike yo’ dead, foh suah!”

The crone could no longer distinguish Mauville–her eyes were nearly sightless–but she continued to look in the direction he had taken, sobbing as before: “Fo’ebber and ebber! Fo’ebber and ebber!”

Once more upon a fashionable thoroughfare, the land baron’s footstep relaxed and he relapsed into his languorous, indolent air. The shadows of twilight were darkening the streets and a Caribbee-scented breeze was wafted from the gulf across the city. It swept through the broad avenues and narrow highways, and sighed among the trees of the old garden. Seating himself absently on one of the public benches, Mauville removed his hat to allow the cool air to fan his brow. Presently he moved on; up Canal Street, where the long rows of gas lights now gleamed through the foliage; thence into a side thoroughfare, as dark as the other street was bright, pausing before a doorway, illumined by a single yellow flame that flickered in the draft and threatened to leave the entrance in total obscurity. Mounting two flights of stairs, no better lighted than the hall below, the land baron reached a doorway, where he paused and knocked. In answer to his summons a slide was quickly slipped back, and through the aperture floated an alcoholic breath.

“Who is it?”

“A Knight of the Golden Square,” said the caller, impatiently. “Open the door.”

The man obeyed and the land baron was admitted to the hall of an organization which had its inception in Texas; a society not unlike the Secret Session Legation of the Civil War, having for its object the overthrow of the government, the carrying of mails and despatches and other like business. Here was gathered a choice aggregation of Mexican sympathizers, a conclave hostile to the North. Composed of many nationalities, the polished continental adventurer rubbed shoulders with the Spanish politicians; the swarthy agents of Santa Anna brushed against the secret enemies of northern aggression. A small bar, unpretentious but convenient, occupied a portion of one end of the room, and a brisk manipulator of juleps presided over this popular corner.