"Amen!" said Lafitte, reverently. He turned away.
"But where are you going, M'sieu' Jean?" cried Piff-Paff. "Do you not know that a reward of five hundred dollars is offered for your arrest?"
"I know." Lafitte shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. "I go to offer my services to General Jackson."
"Gen-e-ral Jackson!" echoed Piff-Paff. His jaws dropped. He stood like one suddenly turned to stone while the chief's retreating footsteps rang down the alleyway. "General Jack-son!" he repeated, mechanically. "But he shall not!"
With a roar of rage he leaped for the saber—his old saber which hung by the forge. "Myself, I will slay the traitor Jack-son before M'sieu' Jean dishonors himself! I, Blaise Lefort, will save him."
He dashed out. Marcel followed, buckling on his cross-hilted sword as he ran.
"Nevertheless it is I who will destroy the traitor!" he muttered.
"I have already said it."
The narrow streets of the old town presented a unique spectacle.
The tall dormer-window houses with their latticed balconies looked
down upon hurrying crowds almost as motley as those of the carnival.
But the faces of these men and women were earnest, grimly determined.
And soldiers, soldiers everywhere! United States soldiers in trim uniforms; Coffee's Tennesseeans in brown shirts and slouched hats; Planche's gaily clad Creole infantry; D'Aquin's freemen of color; Indians in blankets and leggings—all carrying guns, all stepping briskly to drumbeat and fife-call.
Pennons, guidons and banners tossed about in the orderly confusion;
American and French flags waved together from balconies and windows.