"What is it?" ask the other idlers.

He tells one quietly.

"What did he say?" ask the rest, one of another.

"He says they are not dead men, but new muskets"--

"Here, clear out!" cries an officer, and the loiterers fall back and by
and by straggle off.

The exiles? What became of them, do you ask? Why, nothing; they were not
troubled, but they never all came together again. Said a chief-of-police
to Major Shaughnessy years afterward:

"Major, there was only one thing that kept your expedition from
succeeding--you were too sly about it. Had you come out flat and said
what you were doing, we'd never a-said a word to you. But that little
fellow gave us the wink, and then we had to stop you."

And was no one punished? Alas! one was. Poor, pretty, curly-headed
traitorous Mazaro! He was drawn out of Carondelet Canal--cold, dead! And
when his wounds were counted--they were just the number of the Café des
Exilés' children, less Galahad. But the mother--that is, the old
café--did not see it; she had gone up the night before in a chariot of
fire.

In the files of the old "Picayune" and "Price-Current" of 1837 may be
seen the mention of Galahad Shaughnessy among the merchants--"our