So, through the red of the fiery sky, up into the blue, passed the pure spirit of little Saint Idyl.
The river seemed afire now with floating chariots of flame.
Slowly, majestically, upward into this fiery sea rode the fleet.
Although many of the negroes had run frightened into the woods, the conflagration revealed an almost unbroken line on either side of the river, watching the spectacular pageant with awe-stricken, ashy faces.
At Bijou a line of men—not the Riffraffs—sat astride the cannon, over the mouths of which they hung their hats or coats.
"I tell yer deze heah Yankees mus' be monst'ous-sized men. Look at de big eye-holes 'longside o' de ship," said one—a young black fellow.
"Eye-holes!" retorted an old man sitting apart; "dem ain't no eye-holes, chillen. Dey gun-holes! Dat what dey is! An' ef you don't keep yo' faces straight dey'll 'splode out on you 'fo' you know it."
The first speaker rolled backward down the levee, half a dozen following. The old man sat unmoved. Presently a little woolly head peered over the bank.
"What de name o' dat fust man-o'-war, gran'dad?"