But before the gloom had settled down upon us it was a gay dream. "Mistoo Itchlin, in fact 'ow you ligue my uniefawm? You think it suit my style? They got about two poun' of gole lace on that uniefawm. Yesseh. Me, the h-only thing--I don' ligue those epaulette'. So soon ev'ybody see that on me, 'tis 'Lieut'nan'!' in thiz place, an' 'Lieut'nan'!' in that place. My de'seh, you'd thing I'm a majo'-gen'l, in fact. Well, of co'se, I don' ligue that." "And so you're a lieutenant?" "Third! Of the Chasseurs-a-Pied! Coon he'p 't, in fact; the fellehs elected me. Goin' at Pensacola tomaw. Dr. Seveeah _con_tinue my sala'y whilce I'm gone. no matteh the len'th. Me, I don' care, so long the sala'y _con_tinue, if that waugh las' ten yeah! You ah pe'haps goin' ad the ball to-nighd, Mistoo Itchlin? I dunno 'ow 'tis--I suppose you'll be aztonizh' w'en I infawm you--that ball wemine me of that battle of Wattaloo! Did you evva yeh those line' of Lawd By'on,-- 'Theh was a soun' of wibalwy by night, W'en--'Ush-'ark!--A deep saun' stwike'--? Thaz by Lawd By'on. Yesseh. Well"-- The Creole lifted his right hand energetically, laid its inner edge against the brass buttons of his _kepi_, and then waved it gracefully abroad:-- "_Au 'evoi'_, Mistoo Itchlin. I leave you to defen' the city." "To-morrow," in those days of unreadiness and disconnection, glided just beyond reach continually. When at times its realization was at length grasped, it was away over on the far side of a fortnight or farther. However, the to-morrow for Narcisse came at last. A quiet order for attention runs down the column. Attention it is. Another order follows, higher-keyed, longer drawn out, and with one sharp "clack!" the sword-bayoneted rifles go to the shoulders of as fine a battalion as any in the land of Dixie. "_En avant!_"--Narcisse's heart stands still for joy--"_Marche!_" The bugle rings, the drums beat; "tramp, tramp," in quick succession, go the short-stepping, nimble Creole feet, and the old walls of the Rue Chartres ring again with the pealing huzza, as they rang in the days of Villere and Lafreniere, and in the days of the young Galvez, and in the days of Jackson. The old Ponchartrain cars move off, packed. Down at the "Old Lake End" the steamer for Mobile receives the burden. The gong clangs in her engine-room, the walking-beam silently stirs, there is a hiss of water underneath, the gang-plank is in, the wet hawser-ends whip through the hawse-holes,--she moves; clang goes the gong again--she glides--or is it the crowded wharf that is gliding?--No.--Snatch the kisses! snatch them! Adieu! Adieu! She's off, huzza--she's off! Now she stands away. See the mass of gay colors--red, gold, blue, yellow, with glitter of steel and flutter of flags, a black veil of smoke sweeping over. Wave, mothers and daughters, wives, sisters, sweethearts--wave, wave; you little know the future!