The light-hearted lieutenant aroused the birds from their roosts by the gusto of his boisterous baritone in his improvised song. He stopped short and said abruptly, “Jack, why the deuce didn’t you fall in love with the little Princess and marry her yourself?” “Hold hard, Tom. My cousin Lucy is the object of too much serious concern to us all to be made the subject of jest just now, even by you, comrade, and what you ask is infernal nonsense anyhow,” replied Jack, somewhat confused and with more heat than seemed justifiable. “Oh! I beg your pardon, Jack. You know that I’m such a thoughtless fool, I didn’t think how the question might sound,” said Tom quickly, in embarrassment. Captain Dunlap made no mistake in promising the lieutenant of the U.S.N. a good dinner, rare wine and fine cigars. John Dunlap in the desert of Sahara would have surrounded himself, somehow, with all the accessories necessary to an ideal host. Good-natured Tom Maxon exercised himself to the utmost in cheering the old gentleman and dispelling any loneliness or gloom that he might feel. Tom told amusing anecdotes of the irascible admiral, recounted odd experiences and funny incidents in his term of service among the Philippinoes and Chinese; he sang queer parodies on popular ballads, and rollicking, jolly sea songs until the old gentleman, temporarily forgetting his care and grief, was laughing like a schoolboy. When they were seated, feet upon the railing, _a la Americaine_, on the broad piazza, listening to the songs of the tropical night birds, as they smoked their cigars, the lieutenant recalled the subject of the location of Mr. Dunlap’s house, by saying, “I mentioned to Jack, while on my way here, sir, that it seemed to me that you would be safer nearer the American Consulate in case any trouble should arise concerning the concessions to the whites made by Dupree.” “Oh! I don’t think that there is any occasion for alarm. To bluff and bluster is part of the negro nature. The whole talk is inspired by the agitation caused by the Voo Doo priests and priestesses among the superstitious blacks from the mountains. By the way, Jack, our old friend the witch who wished to sail in your ship with us when we left for Boston, still haunts my premises.” As if to corroborate what the speaker had just said, a wailing chant arose on the tranquil night air, coming from just beyond the wall around the garden, “Oh! Tu Konk, my Tu Konk” “Send back the black blood.” “There she is now,” exclaimed Jack and Mr. Dunlap at the same time. “My black boy who waits at the table told me that the old crone was holding meetings nightly in worship of Voo Doo, and that too in the very suburbs of the city,” said Mr. Dunlap when the sound of old Sybella’s voice died away in the distance. “Where is Burton tonight?” asked Jack as if recalling something.