Many weeks, it appeared, had passed since Marcel had been borne in the strong arms of Pierre Lafitte to Lefort's cottage near the smithy. Fever and delirium had set in before the worn figure was laid on the couch.
"But now," tears were streaming down the weather-beaten face of the old gunner, "now, by God's help, we shall get on our feet!"
"But who is General Andrew Jackson?" persisted Marcel, querulously.
"General An-drrew Jack-son," replied Coulon, seeing that the father's throat was choked with sobs, "General An-drrew Jack-son is an American. He arrives from day to day at New Orleans. He is in league with those British who are Americans in disguise. He comes to betray Louisiana to the Spaniard."
"The monster!" said Marcel, drowsily.
His recovery thenceforth was rapid. Old Lefort's private forge was in his own court-yard. Here, among the rustling bananas and the flowering pomegranates, where he had played, a motherless infant, the slim, emaciated lad sat or walked about in the November sunshine. And while Marcel hung about, the smith, hammering out the delicate Lefort wrought-iron work so prized in New Orleans to-day, anathematized indiscriminately General Jackson, the Spaniards, the British and the Americans.
Meanwhile strange sounds filtered into the courtyard from without—the beat of drums, the shrill concord of fifes, the measured tread of marching feet.
Marcel heard and wondered. He was not permitted to walk abroad, but what he saw from his window under the roof quickened his blood.
"Is it that Governor Claiborne has heeded the Great Chief's warning?" he asked of his father.
"The governor is an American," said Piff-Paff. "All Americans are perfidious. But the traitor of traitors is General An-drrew Jack-son. Be quiet, my son. Do you wish to die of fever?"