His eye, large and black, was bold and open like that of a war-horse, and his jaws shut together with the firmness of iron.

He was dressed in a suit of Attakapas cottonade, and his shirt unbuttoned and thrown back from the throat and bosom, sailor-wise, showed a herculean breast; hard and grizzled.

There was no fierceness or defiance in his look, no harsh ungentleness, no symptom of his unlawful life or violent temper; but rather a peaceful and peaceable fearlessness.

Across the whole face, not marked in one or another feature, but as it were laid softly upon the countenance like an almost imperceptible veil, was the imprint of some great grief.

A careless eye might easily overlook it, but, once seen, there it hung--faint, but unmistakable.
The Governor bowed.
"_Parlez-vous francais_ ?" asked the figure.
"I would rather talk English, if you can do so," said the Governor.
"My name, Jean Poquelin." "How can I serve you, Mr.Poquelin ?" "My 'ouse is yond'; _dans le marais la-bas_." The Governor bowed.
"Dat _marais_ billong to me." "Yes, sir." "To me; Jean Poquelin; I hown 'im meself." "Well, sir ?" "He don't billong to you; I get him from me father." "That is perfectly true, Mr.Poquelin, as far as I am aware." "You want to make strit pass yond' ?" "I do not know, sir; it is quite probable; but the city will indemnify you for any loss you may suffer--you will get paid, you understand." "Strit can't pass dare." "You will have to see the municipal authorities about that, Mr.
Poquelin." A bitter smile came upon the old man's face: "_Pardon, Monsieur_, you is not _le Gouverneur_ ?" "Yes." "_Mais_, yes.