In the great smithy of the Lafitte brothers, which served as a blind for their smuggling operations, the forges were already aglow, the army of black slaves at work, and Pierre Lafitte, who, although outlawed like his brother, knew himself secure in this citadel, was giving orders. At sight of Marcel he leaped forward. "Why, Marcel!" he cried. "Why, my poor lad, what--" But Marcel had thrust the packet into his hand, and dropped as one dead at his feet. "Those Americans, they are traitors, oh, of the blackest black!" The familiar phrase in his father's well-known voice fell upon Marcel's returning consciousness. He listened with closed eyes. "And that General An-drrew Jack-_son_, look you, Coulon, he has the liver of a Spaniard. He will betray Louisiana. That sees itself!" "That sees itself," echoed old Coulon. Marcel opened his eyes. "Who is General Andrew Jackson?" he demanded, surprised at the stiffness of his own tongue. And those hands, pale and inert, lying on the coverlet before him, could they be his own? And why should he, Marcel, be in his bed in broad daylight? Suddenly he remembered that yesterday he had fetched a despatch to Monsieur Pierre from the Great Chief-- "Did M'sieu' Pierre--" he began, eagerly, trying to rise on his elbow. "Thank God!" ejaculated old Lefort, commonly called "Piff-Paff," springing to the bedside. "The boy is himself once more. But not so fast, my little Marcel, not so fast!" Many weeks, it appeared, had passed since Marcel had been borne in the strong arms of Pierre Lafitte to Lefort's cottage near the smithy. Fever and delirium had set in before the worn figure was laid on the couch. "But now," tears were streaming down the weather-beaten face of the old gunner, "now, by God's help, we shall get on our feet!" "But _who_ is General Andrew Jackson?" persisted Marcel, querulously. "General An-drrew Jack-_son_," replied Coulon, seeing that the father's throat was choked with sobs, "General An-drrew Jack-_son_ is an American. He arrives from day to day at New Orleans. He is in league with those British who are Americans in disguise. He comes to betray Louisiana to the Spaniard." "The monster!" said Marcel, drowsily. His recovery thenceforth was rapid. Old Lefort's private forge was in his own court-yard. Here, among the rustling bananas and the flowering pomegranates, where he had played, a motherless infant, the slim, emaciated lad sat or walked about in the November sunshine. And while Marcel hung about, the smith, hammering out the delicate Lefort wrought-iron work so prized in New Orleans to-day, anathematized indiscriminately General Jackson, the Spaniards, the British and the Americans. Meanwhile strange sounds filtered into the courtyard from without--the beat of drums, the shrill concord of fifes, the measured tread of marching feet. Marcel heard and wondered. He was not permitted to walk abroad, but what he saw from his window under the roof quickened his blood.