"Bravo!" cheered Mr. Baptiste.

"Will yez look at that damned fruit-eatin' Frinchman!" howled
McMahon. "Cheerin' the niggers, are you?" and he let fly a
brickbat in the direction of the bread-stall.

"Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" wailed the bread-woman.

Mr. Baptiste lay very still, with a great ugly gash in his
wrinkled brown temple. Fishmen and vegetable marchands gathered
around him in a quick, sympathetic mass. The individual, the
concrete bit of helpless humanity, had more interest for them
than the vast, vague fighting mob beyond.

The noon-hour pealed from the brazen throats of many bells, and
the numerous hoarse whistles of the steam-boats called the
unheeded luncheon-time to the levee workers. The war waged
furiously, and groans of the wounded mingled with curses and
roars from the combatants.

"Killed instantly," said the surgeon, carefully lifting Mr.
Baptiste into the ambulance.

Tramp, tramp, tramp, sounded the militia steadily marching down
Decatur Street.

"Whist! do yez hear!" shouted Finnegan; and the conflict had
ceased ere the yellow river could reflect the sun from the
polished bayonets.