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the day when our party of friends had left the city, Robert Feuardent also went into the country. The magnet which had kept him in New Orleans for so many weeks was now removed, and he took the opportunity to visit his forest-home. Many months had elapsed since he had shaken the dust of the city from his feet, and despite the heavy feeling at his heart, his spirits began to rise as he left the noise and tumult of the streets behind him. His emotions that morning had been far from enjoyable as he watched the departure of his friends for the Rondelet plantation. He had concealed himself behind a pile of cotton-bales standing conveniently near that part of the levee from which they had embarked, and had marked that they all seemed in very good spirits. Every mile that he put between himself and the scene of that annoyance seemed to lighten the jealous anger that had galled him.

What felon in his chains, what sufferer from a grievous disease, what mourner for a beloved