[Footnote 3:  An over-zealous Franciscan once complained bitterly to the bishop of Havana, that people were being married in Louisiana in their own houses after dark and thinking nothing of it.  It is not certain that he had reference to the Grandissime mansion; at any rate he was tittered down by the whole community.]

But where was Bras-Coupe?

The question was asked of Palmyre by Agricola with a gaze that meant in
English, “No tricks, girl!”

Among the servants who huddled at the windows and door to see the inner magnificence a frightened whisper was already going round.

“We have made a sad discovery, Miche Fusilier,” said the overseer.  “Bras-Coupe is here; we have him in a room just yonder.  But—­the truth is, sir, Bras-Coupe is a voudou.”

“Well, and suppose he is; what of it?  Only hush; do not let his master know it.  It is nothing; all the blacks are voudous, more or less.”

“But he declines to dress himself—­has painted himself all rings and stripes, antelope fashion.”

“Tell him Agricola Fusilier says, ‘dress immediately!’”

“Oh, Miche, we have said that five times already, and his answer—­you will pardon me—­his answer is—­spitting on the ground—­that you are a contemptible dotchian (white trash).”

There is nothing to do but privily to call the very bride—­the lady herself.  She comes forth in all her glory, small, but oh, so beautiful!  Slam!  Bras-Coupe is upon his face, his finger-tips touching the tips of her snowy slippers.  She gently bids him go and dress, and at once he goes.

Ah! now the question may be answered without whispering.  There is Bras-Coupe, towering above all heads, in ridiculous red and blue regimentals, but with a look of savage dignity upon him that keeps every one from laughing.  The murmur of admiration that passed along the thronged gallery leaped up into a shout in the bosom of Palmyre.  Oh, Bras-Coupe—­heroic soul!  She would not falter.  She would let the silly priest say his say—­then her cunning should help her not to be his wife, yet to show his mighty arm how and when to strike.

“He is looking for Palmyre,” said some, and at that moment he saw her.

“Ho-o-o-o-o!”

Agricola’s best roar was a penny trumpet to Bras-Coupe’s note of joy.  The whole masculine half of the indoor company flocked out to see what the matter was.  Bras-Coupe was taking her hand in one of his and laying his other upon her head; and as some one made an unnecessary gesture for silence, he sang, beating slow and solemn time with his naked foot and with the hand that dropped hers to smite his breast: 

“’En haut la montagne, zami, Mo pe coupe canne, zami, Pou’ fe l’a’zen’ zami, Pou’ mo baille Palmyre.  Ah!  Palmyre, Palmyre mo c’ere, Mo l’aime ’ou’—­mo l’aime ‘ou’.’”

“Montagne?” asked one slave of another, “qui est ca, montagne? gnia pas quic ’ose comme ca dans la Louisiana? (What’s a mountain?” We haven’t such things in Louisiana.)”