"O Jools, Jools, Jools! my pore, noble, dear, misguidened friend! ef you
hed of hed a Christian raisin'! May the Lord show you your errors
better'n I kin, and bless you for your good intentions--oh, no! I cayn't
touch that money with a ten-foot pole; it wa'n't rightly got; you must
really excuse me, my dear friend, but I cayn't touch it."

St.-Ange was petrified.

"Good-by, dear Jools," continued the parson. "I'm in the Lord's haynds,
and he's very merciful, which I hope and trust you'll find it out.
Good-by!"--the schooner swang slowly off before the breeze--"good-by!"

St.-Ange roused himself.

"Posson Jone'! make me hany'ow _dis_ promise: you never, never, _never_
will come back to New Orleans."

"Ah, Jools, the Lord willin', I'll never leave home again!"

"All right!" cried the Creole; "I thing he's willin'. Adieu, Posson
Jone'. My faith'! you are the so fighting an' moz rilligious man as I
never saw! Adieu! Adieu!"

Baptiste uttered a cry and presently ran by his master toward the
schooner, his hands full of clods.

St.-Ange looked just in time to see the sable form of Colossus of Rhodes
emerge from the vessel's hold, and the pastor of Smyrna and Bethesda
seize him in his embrace.