reole 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!

And now she is a little thing, her white wake following her afar across
the green waters, the call of the bugle floating softly back. And now
she is a speck. And now a little smoky stain against the eastern blue is
all,--and now she is gone. Gone! Gone!

Farewell, soldier boys! Light-hearted, little-forecasting, brave,
merry boys! God accept you, our offering of first fruits! See that
mother--that wife--take them away; it is too much. Comfort them, father,
brother; tell them their tears may be for naught.

"And yet--and yet--we cannot forget
That many brave boys must fall."

Never so glad a day had risen upon the he