CHAPTER XII.
THE PHILOSOPHE The apothecary felt an inward nervous start as there advanced into the light of his hanging lamp and toward the spot where he had halted, just outside the counter, a woman of the quadroon caste, of superb stature and poise, severely handsome features, clear, tawny skin and large, passionate black eyes.
"_Bon soi', Miche_." [Monsieur.] A rather hard, yet not repellent smile showed her faultless teeth.
Frowenfeld bowed.
"_Mo vien c'erc'er la bourse de Madame_." She spoke the best French at her command, but it was not understood.
The apothecary could only shake his head.
"_La bourse_" she repeated, softly smiling, but with a scintillation of the eyes in resentment of his scrutiny.

"_La bourse_" she reiterated.
"Purse ?" "_Oui, Miche_." "You are sent for it ?" "_Oui, Miche_." He drew it from his breast pocket and marked the sudden glisten of her eyes, reflecting the glisten of the gold in the silken mesh.
"_Oui, c'est ca_," said she, putting her hand out eagerly.
"I am afraid to give you this to-night," said Joseph.
"_Oui_," ventured she, dubiously, the lightning playing deep back in her eyes.
"You might be robbed," said Frowenfeld.

"It is very dangerous for you to be out alone.

It will not be long, now, until gun-fire." (Eight o'clock P.M .-- the gun to warn slaves to be in-doors, under pain of arrest and imprisonment.) The object of this solicitude shook her head with a smile at its gratuitousness.

The smile showed determination also.
"_Mo pas compren_'," she said.
"Tell the lady to send for it to-morrow." She smiled helplessly and somewhat vexedly, shrugged and again shook her head.