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Even as she spoke a quick nervous step was heard crunching up the brick walk. Sylves' paused an instant without the kitchen door, his face turned to the setting sun. He was tall and slim and agile; a true 'cajan. "Bon jour, Louisette," he laughed. "Eh, maman!" "Ah, my son, you are ver' late." Sylves' frowned, but said nothing. It was a silent supper that followed.
The Cajan crew rowed up to where Milt Rogers and Crump and the black deckhand were watching by a pool. The shrimpers listened to the cowman, who had tied the sleeve of his shirt about his bloody head. "You can get a barge down from Morgan City and take the cows off before the sea comes high," said Rogers quietly. "They're eating the lilies and they find sweet water in 'em.
He was a cowman and he couldn't swim; he had never seen anything but the dry ranges until he said he would go find the girl he had met once on the upper Brazos a girl who told him of sea and sunken forests, of islands of flowers drifting in lonely swamp lakes he had wanted to see that land, but mostly the Cajan girl of Bayou Des Amoureaux.
Tedge remembered that girl a Cajan girl whom he once heard singing in the floating gardens while Tedge was battling and cursing to pass the blockade. He hated her for loving the lilies, and the man for loving her. He burst out again with his volcanic fury at the green and purple horde.
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