In an unlucky moment he made bold to lay hold of the parson, but a piece of the broken barriers in the hands of a flat-boatman felled him to the sod, the terrible crowd swept over him, the lariat was cut and the giant parson hurled the tiger upon the buffalo's back.

In another instant both brutes were dead at the hands of the mob; Jones was lifted from his feet, and prating of Scripture and the millennium, of Paul at Ephesus and Daniel in the "buffler's" den, was borne aloft upon the shoulders of the huzzaing _Americains_.

Half an hour later he was sleeping heavily on the floor of a cell in the _calaboza_.
When Parson Jones awoke, a bell was somewhere tolling for midnight.
Somebody was at the door of his cell with a key.

The lock grated, the door swung, the turnkey looked in and stepped back, and a ray of moonlight fell upon M.Jules St.-Ange.

The prisoner sat upon the empty shackles and ring-bolt in the centre of the floor.
"Misty Posson Jone'," said the visitor, softly.
"O Jools!" "_Mais_, w'at de matter, Posson Jone' ?" "My sins, Jools, my sins!" "Ah! Posson Jone', is that something to cry, because a man get sometime a litt' bit intoxicate?
_Mais_, if a man keep _all the time_ intoxicate, I think that is again' the conscien'." "Jools, Jools, your eyes is darkened--oh I Jools, Where's my pore old niggah ?" "Posson Jone', never min'; he is wid Baptiste." "Where ?" "I don' know w'ere--_mais_ he is wid Baptiste.