We had proceeded but a very short distance into the swamp before we found out the use of the torches.  The huge trunks of the cypress-trees, which stood four or five yards asunder, shot up to a height of fifty feet, entirely free from branches, which then, however, spread out at right angles to the stem, making the trees appear like gigantic umbrellas, and covering the whole morass with an impenetrable roof, through which not even a sunbeam could find a passage.  On looking behind us, we saw the daylight at the entrance of the swamp, as at the mouth of a vast cavern.  The further we went the thicker became the air; and at last the effluvia was so stifling and pestilential, that the torches burnt pale and dim, and more than once threatened to go out.

“Yes, yes,” muttered our guide to himself, “a night passed in this swamp would leave a man ague-struck for the rest of his days.  A night—­ay, an hour would do it, if your pores were ever so little open; but now there’s no danger; the prairie fire’s good for that, dries the sweat and closes the pores.”

He went on conversing thus with himself, but still striding forward, throwing his torchlight on each log or tree trunk, and trying its solidity with his foot before he trusted his weight upon it—­doing all this with a dexterity and speed that proved his familiarity with these dangerous paths.

“Keep close to me,” said he to us, “but make yourselves light—­as light at least as Britishers can make themselves.  Hold your breath, and——­ha! what is that log?  Hollo, Nathan,” continued he to himself, “what’s come to you, man?  Don’t you know a sixteen foot alligator from a tree?”

He had stretched out his foot, but fortunately, before setting it down, he poked what he took for a log with the butt of his gun.  The supposed block of wood gave way a little, and the old squatter, throwing himself back, was within an ace of pushing me into the swamp.

“Ah, friend!” said he, not in the least disconcerted, “you thought to sacumvent honest folk with your devilry and cunning.”

“What is the matter?” asked I.

“Not much the matter,” he replied, drawing his knife from its sheath.  “Only an alligator:  there it is again.”

And in the place of the log, which had disappeared, the jaws of a huge alligator gaped before us.  I raised my gun to my shoulder.  The Yankee seized my arm.

“Don’t fire,” whispered he.  “Don’t fire, so long as you can help it.  We ain’t alone here.  This will do as well,” he added, as he stooped down, and drove his long knife into the alligator’s eye.  The monster gave a frightful howl, and lashed violently with its tail, besprinkling us with the black slimy mud of the swamp.

“Take that!” said the squatter with a grim smile, “and that, and that!” stabbing the brute repeatedly between the neck and the ribs, while it writhed and snapped furiously at him.  Then wiping his knife, he stuck it in his belt, and looked keenly and cautiously around him.