“My God!”
He plunged down the levee and bounded through the low weeds to the edge of the bank. It was sheer, and the water about four feet below. He did not stand quite on the edge, but fell upon his knees a couple of yards away, wringing his hands, moaning, weeping, and staring through his watery eyes at a fine, long crevice just discernible under the matted grass, and curving outward on each hand toward the river.
“My God!” he sobbed aloud—“My God!” and even while he called, his God answered: the tough Bermuda grass stretched and snapped, the crevice slowly became a gap, and softly, gradually, with no sound but the closing of the water at last, a ton or more of earth settled into the boiling eddy and disappeared.
At the same instant a pulse of the breeze brought from the garden behind the joyous, thoughtless laughter of the fair mistresses of Belles Demoiselles.
The old colonel sprang up and clambered over the levee. Then forcing himself to a more composed movement, he hastened into the house and ordered his horse.
“Tell my children to make merry while I am gone,” he left word. “I shall be back to-night,” and the big horse’s hoofs clattered down a by-road leading to the city.
“Charlie,” said the planter, riding up to a window from which the old man’s nightcap was thrust out, “what you say, Charlie—my house for yours? Eh, Charlie, what you say?”
“’Ello!” said Charlie. “From where you come from dis time of to-night?”
“I come from the Exchange.” A small fraction of the truth.
“What you want?” said matter-of-fact Charlie.