Not far away was a potato-house, built over a cellar. To this frail structure he set fire. The dry timbers soon fell into the pit, and he stood there as if to warm himself. Night was his time for real work and he would wait. The sun was almost down. He turned away, and looking along the road that wound through the woods, he saw old Gideon coming. Quickly he hastened to the road-side and stood behind a tree, with a knife in his hand. Gid came slowly along. And just as he came abreast of the tree, his pop-eyes saw the fellow. He threw up his arm and caught the knife on the barrel of his gun; then leaping, with the gun clubbed, he struck at the Frenchman, but the fellow was too quick for him. "Oh, if I only had a cartridge!" the old man said with a groan, running after him. "I'd rather have a load of shot right now than a mortgage on Jerusalem. But I'll follow you--I'll get you." Larnage was running, looking back, expecting to be shot; and stubbing his toe he fell--head-long into the potato-cellar, into the pit of red-hot coals. Ashes and a black smoke arose, and with frightful cries he scrambled out, and with his charred clothes falling off him, he ran to the bayou and plunged headforemost into the water. Gid saw him sink and rise; saw him sink again; and long he waited, but the man did not rise again. * * * * * Down along the bayou where negro cabins were thickly set, fires were springing up; and there, running from place to place, following white men who bore torches, was Father Brennon. "Don't burn this house!" he cried. "It belongs to the church." "Damn the church!" a man replied. "But this house belongs to an innocent man--he would not seek to kill the whites--he's gone to the hills." "I reckon you are right," said the man, and onward he ran, waving his torch, the priest keeping close behind him. * * * * * From the woods the men were coming, and as Gid drew near to the Cranceford house he saw Jim Taylor passing through the gate; and a few moments later, turning a corner of the porch, he found the giant standing there with his arm about--Louise. "Ho, the young rabbit!" the old man cried. "Frog," she laughed, running forward and giving him both her hands. "Why, how did you get here?" he asked. "I heard that the militia had been ordered home and I got here as soon as I could. I have been home about two hours and mother and I--but where is father?" "Hasn't he come yet? Why, I thought he was here. We've all been scattered since the last stand." "I will go and look for him," said the giant, taking up his gun from against the wall. "I'm going with you," Louise declared. "Go on in the house, Uncle Gideon, and don't tell mother where I'm gone. Now, you needn't say a word--I'm going." Down the road they went, and out into the woods. Far away they saw the cabins blazing, on the banks of the bayou, and occasionally a gun was heard, a dull bark, deep in the woods.