ite flag of
France. On sea and land were we alike successful.

An hour after Pensacola fell, the Spanish ships struck their colors to
Champmeslin. Our greatest loss was the total destruction of the
Seamew, blown up by a red-hot shot, which fell in her powder magazine.

At the surrender I caught my old commander's eye. He motioned me to
draw nearer. I obeyed most reluctantly, for I expected a stern rebuke
from the rugged soldier who never forgave the slightest deviation from
his orders. Instead, Bienville overwhelmed me with praise. He grasped
my hand, and spoke loud enough for all the troops to hear:

"Before our assembled armies I am proud to acknowledge your share in
France's triumph this day; proud and grateful for your fidelity at
Versailles and Paris. Your example of loyalty and courage is one
worthy to be emulated by all the sons of France. The King shall have
your name for further recognition."

This was a great deal for Bienville to say, especially at such a time.
My own lips were dumb.

"Take your proper place, sir."

And mechanically I walked to the head of my cheering guards. I was
amazed. And Serigny? Had he made up his mind to overlook my
defection? Had the Governor forgiven my failure to return in le
Dauphin? Surely not. The noble voice of Bienville broke into my
puzzled thought:

"Captain de Mouret, you will receive the surrender of Don Alphonso, our
knightly and courteous foe."

It thrilled me with pride that I should receive so famous a sword, for
knightlier foeman than Alphonso never trod a deck nor tossed his
gauntlet in the lists. I stepped forward to the Spanish lines where
their vanquished admiral tendered me the insignia of his command, when
on a sudden thought I put back the proffered sword, assuring him so
noble a soldier ought never to stand disarmed, and no hand but his
should touch that valiant blade. My delighted lads cheered again like
mad, and Bienville himself seemed much pleased at my courtesy.

"Bravo! Placide," he exclaimed, clapping his hands, his rugged face
aglow with martial joy. His countenance changed, however, when his eye
fell upon the cringing figure of Matamora, the commandant of perfidious
memory.

"You, too, Matamora? What, not yet killed! Hast saved thy precious
skin again? More's the pity. And do you think to merit the respect
accorded manhood and good faith? By the name of honor, no. Here boy,"
and he beckoned to the negro slave who s