Drift of rotten wood stuck to the house sides, and broken trees or stumps, jammed under gallery roofs, resented the current, and broke the surface as they rose and dipped.  Strange craft, large and small, rode down the turgid sweep.  Straw beehives rolled along like gigantic pine cones, and rustic hencoops of bottom-land settlers kept their balance as they moved.  Far off, a cart could be outlined making a hopeless ford.  The current was so broad that its sweep extended beyond the reach of sight; and perhaps the strangest object carried by this tremendous force was a small clapboarded house.  Its back and front doors stood open, and in the middle of the floor stood a solitary chair.  One expected to see a figure emerge from a hidden corner and sit down forlornly in the chair.

The slender voice of a violin stole across the water,—­an exorcism of the spell that had fallen on Kaskaskia.  As the boat reached the tavern corner, this thread of melody was easily followed to the ballroom on the second floor of the tavern, where the Assembly balls were danced.  A slave, who had nothing but his daily bread to lose, and who would be assured of that by the hand of charity when his master could no longer maintain him, might take up the bow and touch the fiddle gayly in such a time of general calamity.  But there was also dancing in the ballroom.  The boat turned south and shot down a canal bordered by trunkless shade trees, which had been one of the principal streets of Kaskaskia.  At the instant of turning, however, Father Baby could be seen as he whirled, though his skinny head and gray capote need not have added their evidence to the exact sound of his foot which came so distinctly across the water.  His little shop, his goods, his secret stocking-leg of coin,—­for Father Baby was his own banker,—­were buried out of sight.  His crop in the common fields and provision for winter lay also under the Mississippi.  His late lodger had taken to the river, and was probably drowned.  He had no warrant except in the nimbleness of his slave’s legs that he even had a slave left.  Yet he had never in his life felt so full of dance.  The flood mounted to his head like wine.  Father Olivier was in the tavern without forbidding it.  Doubtless he thought the example an exhilarating one, when a grown-up child could dance over material loss, remembering only the joy of life.

Wachique had felt her bundle squirm from the moment it was given to her.  She enlarged on the hint Colonel Menard had given, and held the drapery bound tightly around the prisoner.  The boat shot past the church, and over the spot where St. John’s bonfire had so recently burnt out, and across that street through which the girls had scampered on their Midsummer Night errand.

“But stop,” said Colonel Menard; and he pointed out to the rowers an obstruction which none of them had seen in the night.  From the Jesuit College across the true bed of the Okaw a dam had formed, probably having for its base part of the bridge masonry.  Whole trees were swept into the barricade.  “We cannot now cross diagonally and come back through the dead water at our leisure, for there is that dam to be passed.  Pull for the old college.”