made frantic by their terror, and led by the priests of Obeah, fell upon the whites indiscriminately. They fled to the ships in the harbour--to the sea--anywhere, anywhere, from those huge animal natures whose eyes were flaming with rage, and whose souls were without pity. Nearly one hundred of these fugitives finally reached Norfolk and Virginia. Some had been warned either by their own souls, or by friends, and had money and jewels with them; others were quite destitute; many were sick, and their condition was pitiable. All desired to reach the French settlements in Louisiana, but transit by water was most uncertain, nearly all the usual shipping being employed in the more congenial business of privateering. Then, in the midst of their distress, comes into port one day Captain Christopher Bloommaert. He had with him a fine English frigate, the prize of his skill and valour. And when he understood the case of these poor souls, he called his men together and proposed to them the God-like voyage of carrying the miserables to New Orleans. ‘’Tis but a little way out of our purposed course,’ he said, ‘and who knows on what tack good fortune may meet us?’ And the men answered with a shout of ready assent, and so they finally reached New Orleans. I saw them land. Many of them were old friends of my family, and I heard such stories from their lips as make men mad. One old planter, who had money with him, bought my estate, and took those with him to its shelter who had neither money nor friends. Their kindness to each other was wonderful. As for me, I hastened away from scenes that had cast a pall over all my life. Yet I forget not; to forget would be an impossible mercy.” Then madame talked comfortably to the young man, and after a while tea was brought in, and Annette, grave and silent for once, made it; and quietly watched, and listened, and served. St. Ange liked her better in this mood. The other Annette, with her little coquetries, had not pleased him half so well. When he left she understood that she had gained favour in his eyes; he kissed her hand with an enthralling grace and respect--or, at least, Annette found it so. And that night, though she felt certain Leonard Murray was singing the new songs with Sappha, she told herself that she “did not care if he was. Achille was twice as interesting; he was, indeed, a romantic, a tragic hero--and very nearly a lover. And he was so captivating, so unusually handsome!” She went over the rather long list of young men with whom she was friendly, and positively assured herself that all were commonplace compared with this wonderful Achille. And, to be sure, his small but elegant figure, his pale passionate face, set in those straight black locks, his caressing voice, his subtle smile, his gentle pressure of the hand--all these charms were not the prominent ones of the practical, business-like young men with whom she was most familiar.