Miriam and Camilla watched with anguish Louis' devotion to the
Confederation, and many sorrowful conversations they had about it.

At last one day Miriam said, "Miss Camilla, I can stand it no longer;—that boy is going to lift his hand agin his own people, and I can't stand it no longer; I'se got to tell him all about it. I just think I'd bust in two if I didn't tell him."

"Well, Mammy," said Camilla, "I'd rather he should know it than that he should go against his country and raise his hand against the dear old flag."

"It's not the flag nor the country I care for," said Miriam, "but it is that one of my own flesh and blood should jine with these secesh agin his own people."

"Well, Miriam, if you get a chance you can tell him."

"Get a chance, Miss Camilla, I'se bound to get that."

Louis was somewhat reticent about his plans; for he knew that Camilla was a strong Union woman; that she not only loved the flag, but she had taught her two boys to do the same; but he understood from headquarters that his company was to march in a week, and although on that subject there was no common sympathy between them, yet he felt that he must acquaint her with his plans, and bid her and Miriam good-bye.

So one morning he came in looking somewhat flushed and excited, and said: "Sister, we have got our marching orders; we leave on Thursday, and I have only three days to be with you. I am sorry that I have seen so little of you, but my country calls me, and when she is in danger it is no time for me to seek for either ease or pleasure."

"Your country! Louis," said Miriam, her face paling and flushing by turns. "Where is your country?"

"Here," said he, somewhat angrily, "in Louisiana."

"My country," said Camilla,[7] "is the whole Union. Yes, Louis," said she, "your country is in danger, but not from the Abolitionists in the North, but from the rebels and traitors in the South."

"Rebels and traitors!" said Louis, in a tone like one who felt the harsh grating of the words.

"Whom do you mean?"

"I mean," said she, "the ambitious, reckless men who have brought about this state of things. The men who are stabbing their country in their madness and folly; who are crowding our graves and darkening our homes; who are dragging our young men, men like you, who should be the pride and hope of our country, into the jaws of ruin and death."

Louis looked surprised and angry; he had never seen Camilla under such deep excitement. Her words had touched his pride and roused his anger; but suppressing his feelings he answered her coolly, "Camilla, I am old enough to do my own thinking. We had better drop this subject; it is not pleasant to either of us."

"Louis," said she, her whole manner changing from deep excitement to profound grief, "Oh, Louis, it will never do for you to go! Oh, no, you must not!"

"And why not?"

"Because,"—and she hesitated. Just then Miriam took up the unfinished sentence,"—because to join the secesh is to raise your hands agin your own race."

"My own race?" and Louis laughed scornfully. "I think you are talking more wildly than Camilla. What do you mean, Miriam?"

"I mean," said she, stung by his scornful words, "I mean that you, Louis Le Croix, white as you look, are colored, and that you are my own daughter's child, and if it had not been for Miss Camilla, who's been such an angel to you, that you would have been a slave to-day, and then you wouldn't have been a Confederate."

At these words a look of horror and anguish passed over the face of Le Croix, and he turned to Camilla, but she was deadly pale, and trembling like an aspen leaf; but her eyes were dry and tearless.

"Camilla," said he, turning fiercely to his adopted sister, "Tell me, is there any truth in these words? You are as pale as death, and trembling like a leaf,—tell me if there is any truth in these words," turning and fixing his eyes on Miriam, who stood like some ancient prophetess, her lips pronouncing some fearful doom, while she watched in breathless anguish the effect upon the fated victim.

"Yes, Louis," said Camilla, in a voice almost choked by emotion. "Yes,
Louis, it is all true."

"But how is this that I never heard it before? Before I believe this tale I must have some proof, clear as daylight. Bring me proofs."

"Here they are," said Miriam, drawing from her pocket the free papers she had been carrying about her person for several days.

Louis grasped them nervously, hastily read them, and then more slowly, like one who might read a sentence of death to see if there was one word or sentence on which he might hang a hope of reprieve.

Camilla watched him anxiously, but silently, and when he had finished, he covered his bowed face with his hands as he said with a deep groan, "It is true, too true. I see it all. I can never raise my hand against my mother's race."

He arose like one in a dream, walked slowly to the door and left the room.

"It was a painful task," said Camilla, with a sigh of relief, as if a burden had fallen from her soul.

"Yes," said Miriam, "but not so bad as to see him fighting agin his own color. I'd rather follow him to his grave than see him join that miserable secesh crew."

"Yes," said Camilla, "It was better than letting him go."

When Louis left the room a thousand conflicting thoughts passed through his mind. He felt as a mariner at midnight on a moonless sea, who suddenly, when the storm is brewing, finds that he has lost his compass and his chart.