Yet, when the reopened hatches let in the sweet smell of the land, Bras-Coupe had come to the upper—­the favored—­the buttered side of the world; the anchor slid with a rumble of relief down through the muddy fathoms of the Mississippi, and the prince could hear through the schooner’s side the savage current of the river, leaping and licking about the bows, and whimpering low welcomes home.  A splendid picture to the eyes of the royal captive, as his head came up out of the hatchway, was the little Franco-Spanish-American city that lay on the low, brimming bank.  There were little forts that showed their whitewashed teeth; there was a green parade-ground, and yellow barracks, and cabildo, and hospital, and cavalry stables, and custom-house, and a most inviting jail, convenient to the cathedral—­all of dazzling white and yellow, with a black stripe marking the track of the conflagration of 1794, and here and there among the low roofs a lofty one with round-topped dormer windows and a breezy belvidere looking out upon the plantations of coffee and indigo beyond the town.

When Bras-Coupe staggered ashore, he stood but a moment among a drove of “likely boys,” before Agricola Fusilier, managing the business adventures of the Grandissime estate, as well as the residents thereon, and struck with admiration for the physical beauties of the chieftain (a man may even fancy a negro—­as a negro), bought the lot, and, both to resell him with the rest to some unappreciative ’Cadian, induced Don Jose Martinez’ overseer to become his purchaser.

Down in the rich parish of St. Bernard (whose boundary line now touches that of the distended city) lay the plantation, known before Bras-Coupe passed away as La Renaissance.  Here it was that he entered at once upon a chapter of agreeable surprises.  He was humanely met, presented with a clean garment, lifted into a cart drawn by oxen, taken to a whitewashed cabin of logs, finer than his palace at home, and made to comprehend that it was a free gift.  He was also given some clean food, whereupon he fell sick.  At home it would have been the part of piety for the magnate next the throne to launch him heavenward at once; but now, healing doses were administered, and to his amazement he recovered.  It reminded him that he was no longer king.

His name, he replied to an inquiry touching that subject, was --------,
something in the Jaloff tongue, which he by and by condescended to
render into Congo:  Mioko-Koanga; in French Bras-Coupe; the Arm Cut Off. 
Truly it would have been easy to admit, had this been his meaning, that
his tribe, in losing him, had lost its strong right arm close off at the
shoulder; not so easy for his high-paying purchaser to allow, if this
other was his intent:  that the arm which might no longer shake the spear
or swing the wooden sword was no better than a useless stump never to be
lifted for aught else.  But whether easy to allow or not, that was his
meaning.  He made himself a type of all Slavery, turning into flesh and