St. Ange was petrified.
"Good-bye, dear Jools," continued the parson. "I'm in the Lord's haynds, and he's very merciful, which I hope and trust you'll find it out. Good-bye!"—the schooner swang slowly off before the breeze—"goodbye!"
St. Ange roused himself.
"Posson Jone'! make me hany'ow dis promise: you never, never,
NEVER will come back to New Orleans."
"Ah, Jools, the Lord willin', I'll never leave home again!"
"All right!" cried the Creole; "I thing he's willin'. Adieu, Posson Jone'. My faith'! you are the so fighting an' moz rilligious man as I never saw! Adieu! Adieu!"
Baptiste uttered a cry and presently ran by his master toward the schooner, his hands full of clods.
St. Ange looked just in time to see the sable form of Colossus of
Rhodes emerge from the vessel's hold, and the pastor of Smyrna and
Bethesda seize him in his embrace.
"O Colossus! you outlandish old nigger! Thank the Lord! Thank the
Lord!"
The little Creole almost wept. He ran down the towpath, laughing and swearing, and making confused allusion to the entire PERSONNEL and furniture of the lower regions.