to slide. But somebody'd be sure to put out and
haul it in as a prize,--flotsam and what-you-may-call-'em. You see these
old niggers all along here with their skiffs tacking on to every hit of
drift-wood that's worth having."

"But, Ferry, do you think they'd venture out in such a storm as Sunday
last?--think anything could live in it short of a decked ship?"

"No, probably not. Certainly not Anatole's boat."

"Well, that's just what I'm afraid of, and what Cram and Reynolds
dread."

"Do they? Well, so far as that storm's concerned, it would have blown it
down-stream until it came to the big bend below here to the east. Then,
by rights, it ought to have blown against the left bank. But every inch
of it has been scouted all the way to quarantine. The whole river was
filled with drift, though, and it might have been wedged in a lot of
logs and swept out anyhow. Splendid ship, that! Who is she, do you
suppose?"

The great black hull with its lofty tracery of masts and spars was now
just about opposite the barracks, slowly and majestically ascending the
stream.

"One of those big British freight steamers that moor there below the
French Market, I reckon. They seldom come up at night unless it's in the
full of the moon, and even then they move with the utmost caution. See,
she's slowing up now."

"Hello! Listen! What's that?" exclaimed Ferry, starting to his feet.

A distant, muffled cry. A distant shot. The sentry at the sally-port
dashed through the echoing vault, then bang! came the loud roar of his
piece, followed by the yell of--

"Fire! fire! _The guard!_"

With one spring Ferry was down the levee and darted like a deer across
the road, Kinsey lumbering heavily after. Even as he sped through the
stone-flagged way, the hoarse roar of the drum at the guard-house,
followed instantly by the blare of the bugle from the battery quarters,
sounded the stirring alarm. A shrill, agonized female voice was madly
screaming for help. Guards and sentries were rushing to the scene, and
flames were bursting from the front window of Doyle's quarters. Swift
though Ferry ran, others were closer to the spot. Half a dozen active
young soldiers, members of the infantry guard, had sprung to the rescue.
When Ferry dashed up to the gallery he was just in time to stumble over
a writhing and prostrate form, to help extinguish the blazing clothing
of another, to seize his water-bucket and douse its contents over a
third,--one yelling,