He had followed Joseph's wake as he pushed through the throng; but as the lady turned her face he wheeled abruptly away.

This brought again into view the bench he had just left, whereupon he, in turn, cried out, and, dashing through all obstructions, rushed back to it, lifting his ugly staff as he went and flourishing it in the face of Palmyre Philosophe.
She stood beside the seat with the smile of one foiled and intensely conscious of peril, but neither frightened nor suppliant, holding back with her eyes the execution of Agricola's threat against her life.
Presently she drew a short step backward, then another, then a third, and then turned and moved away down the avenue of willows, followed for a few steps by the lion and by the laughing comment of the _marchande_, who stood looking after them with her tray balanced on her head.
"_Ya, ya! ye connais voudou bien!_[1]" [Footnote 1: "They're up in the voudou arts."] The old man turned to rejoin his companion.

The day was rapidly giving place to night and the people were withdrawing to their homes.

He crossed the levee, passed through the Place d'Armes and on into the city without meeting the object of his search.

For Joseph and the lady had hurried off together.
As the populace floated away in knots of three, four and five, those who had witnessed mademoiselle's ( ?) mishap told it to those who had not; explaining that it was the accursed Yankee governor who had designedly driven his horse at his utmost speed against the fair victim (some of them butted against their hearers by way of illustration); that the fiend had then maliciously laughed; that this was all the Yankees came to New Orleans for, and that there was an understanding among them--"Understanding, indeed!" exclaimed one, "They have instructions from the President!"-- that unprotected ladies should be run down wherever overtaken.