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She had peculiar notions about colors in dress, about wearing her hair; and she seemed to have already imbibed a small stock of social prejudices not altogether in harmony with the republicanism of Viosca's Point.
And at last, even Viosca's Point, remote and unfamiliar as it was, had a stranger to shelter: a good old gentleman named Edwards, rather broken down in health who came as much for quiet as for sea-air, and who had been warmly recommended to Feliu by Captain Harris. For some years he had been troubled by a disease of the heart.
In the early days of the settlement, a Spanish fisherman had died; and his comrades had built him a little tomb with the surplus of the same bricks and other material brought down the bayou for the construction of Viosca's cottages. But no one, except perhaps some wandering duck hunter, had approached the sepulchre for years.
Julien descended in his under-clothing, and opened the letter by the light of the hall lamp. It enclosed a check for a larger fee than he had ever before received, and contained an urgent request that he would at once accompany Sparicio to Viosca's Point, as the sender was in hourly danger of death. The letter, penned in a long, quavering hand, was signed, "Henry Edwards."
Persistently and furiously, at half-past two o'clock of an August morning, Sparicio rang Dr. La Brierre's night-bell. He had fifty dollars in his pocket, and a letter to deliver. He was to earn another fifty dollars deposited in Feliu's hands, by bringing the Doctor to Viosca's Point. He had risked his life for that money, and was terribly in earnest.
But they came to Viosca's landing only to obtain information; he was too well known and liked to be a subject for suspicion; and, moreover, he had one good friend in the crowd, Captain Harris of New Orleans, a veteran steamboat man and a market contractor, to whom he had disposed of many a cargo of fresh pompano, sheep's-head, and Spanish-mackerel ... Harris was the first to step to land; some ten of the party followed him.
"Who knows?" he answered, at last; "who knows? Perhaps she has ceased to belong to any one else." One after another, Feliu's luggers fluttered in, bearing with them news of the immense calamity. And all the fishermen, in turn, looked at the child. Not one had ever seen her before. Ten days later, a lugger full of armed men entered the bayou, and moored at Viosca's wharf.
He had died very suddenly, without a cry or a word, while resting in his rocking-chair, the very day after Sparicio had sailed. They had made him a grave in the marsh, among the high weeds, not far from the ruined tomb of the Spanish fisherman. But Sparicio had fairly earned his hundred dollars. So there was nothing to do at Viosca's Point except to rest.
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