The preparations were finally completed. Robed in dark waterproof garments Jeanne took the basket given her by her father and, accompanied by Feliciane, a mulatto woman, set forth, again upon a mission. But this time the girl was downcast in spirit, and had not the lofty exaltation of an approving conscience.
The two walked in silence through the dark streets of the city. The woman glided swiftly along as if accustomed to the journey, making many devious windings and turnings. Jeanne’s progress was slower and the mulatto often had to pause to wait until she could catch up with her.
“Missy be keerful hyar,” whispered the woman, when at length the outskirts of the city were reached. “Keep close ter de trees.”
Jeanne obeyed. The sentinel’s lonely figure could scarcely be discerned in the darkness. Unconscious of their proximity the man was singing softly to himself as he patrolled his post steadily. To the girl it seemed as though her heart beats must betray their presence. The black touched her hand gently and, as the guard turned to retrace his steps, they glided silently past him, and were lost in the darkness. The skiff was found, and the strong steady strokes of the woman soon pulled them out upon the waters of Lake Ponchartrain.
“We got by all right, lill’ missy, didn’t we?” chuckled she.
“Yes,” assented Jeanne. “Is it far, Feliciane?”
“A long way,” was the response. “We won’t git back ’tel de mohnin’.”
“Until morning?” echoed Jeanne in dismay. “Will we have to be out in this rain all that time?”
“Yes, honey. It’s bes’ fer it ter rain. De Yanks can’t see yer den. Missus she laikes fer it ter rain when she go.”
“Does she ever go?” asked Jeanne sitting up very straight. “I thought that she was afraid to go.”