ur eyes. Below us, crowded between the levee and
the row of houses, were dozens of squalid market-stalls tended by
cotton-clad negroes. Beyond, across the bare Place d'Armes, a blackened
gap in the line of houses bore witness to the devastation of the year
gone by, while here and there a roof, struck by the setting sun, gleamed
fiery red with its new tiles. The levee was deserted save for the
negroes and the river men.

"Time for siesta, Michie," said Xavier, joining us; "I will show you ze
inn of which I spik. She is kep' by my fren', Madame Bouvet."

"Xavier," said Nick, looking at the rolling flood of the river, "suppose
this levee should break?"

"Ah," said Xavier, "then some Spaniard who never have a bath--he feel
what water is lak."

Followed by Benjy with the saddle-bags, we went down the steps set in the
levee into this strange, foreign city. It was like unto nothing we had
ever seen, nor can I give an adequate notion of how it affected us,--such
a mixture it seemed of dirt and poverty and wealth and romance. The
narrow, muddy streets ran with filth, and on each side along the houses
was a sun-baked walk held up by the curved sides of broken flatboats,
where two men might scarcely pass. The houses, too, had an odd and
foreign look, some of wood, some of upright logs and plaster, and newer
ones, Spanish in style, of adobe, with curving roofs of red tiles and
strong eaves spreading over the banquette (as the sidewalk was called),
casting shadows on lemon-colored walls. Since New Orleans was in a
swamp, the older houses for the most part were lifted some seven feet
above the ground, and many of these houses had wide galleries on the
street side. Here and there a shop was set in the wall; a watchmaker was
to be seen poring over his work at a tiny window, a shoemaker
cross-legged on the floor. Again, at an open wicket, we caught a glimpse
through a cool archway into a flowering court-yard. Stalwart negresses
with bright kerchiefs made way for us on the banquette. Hands on hips,
they swung along erect, with baskets of cakes and sweetmeats on their
heads, musically crying their wares.

At length, turning a corner, we came to a white wooden house on the Rue
Royale, with a flight of steps leading up to the entrance. In place of a
door a flimsy curtain hung in the doorway, and, pushing this aside, we
followed Xavier through a darkened hall to a wide gallery that overlooked
a court-yard. This court-yard was shaded by