They stopped one evening in a cove of the river, sheltered by great mournful cypresses, and Henry and Shif’less Sol went out again to scrutinize the Spanish camp.  They returned before midnight with unusual news.  Alvarez with his whole force had turned from the Mississippi and had gone up a bayou about four miles.  There he had landed some of his small cannon and stores at a rude wharf, and showed all the signs of making a stay, but whether short or long they could not tell.

“Alvarez must have a place, a plantation, I believe they call it, near here,” said Paul intuitively, “and he’s going to stop at it.  As he wants to get Spain into a war with us he could plot a lot of mischief in a house of his own away from New Orleans.”

“Of course, that’s it,” said Henry with conviction.  “Now if we could only capture Braxton Wyatt and then carry off the fellow and his maps and plans with us, it would be a great stroke.  It might make Alvarez quit his wicked plot.”

Henry and Shif’less Sol slept briefly, and rising before daylight, went forth to investigate again.  When they arrived at the edge of the bayou, they saw that the work of removal had been resumed already.  All the boats had been tied up securely, and a mongrel lot of new men had joined the Spanish force, shiftless and half-civilized Houma and Natchez Indians, coal black negroes, some from the West Indies and some from Africa, Acadians, and fierce-looking adventurers from Europe.  Most of them seemed to be laborers, however, and they worked with the arms and baggage taken from the boats.  Among these laborers were several stalwart negro women with blazing red handkerchiefs tied around their heads.

Alvarez came off one of the boats, followed by Braxton Wyatt.  The Spanish commander had attired himself with great care, and he was a really splendid figure in his glittering uniform and plumed hat.  His gold-hilted small sword swung by his side.  He bore himself as a lord proprietor, and in fact he was such at this moment.  He was about to go, surrounded by his retainers, to his own house on a huge grant of land made to him by the Spanish King—­Spanish kings granted lands very freely in America to favorites, and the relatives of favorites.

Braxton Wyatt also showed pride.  Was he not the most trusted friend of an able man who was dreaming a great dream, a dream that would come true?  The last remnants of his border attire had disappeared and he, too, was dressed wholly as a Spanish officer, though by no means so splendidly as his chief.

Alvarez addressed a few words to a man in civilian attire, evidently his overseer, a dark, heavy West India Spaniard who carried a pistol in his sash, and then advanced through the rabble, which quickly fell back on either side to let him pass.

Horses were in waiting for Alvarez, Wyatt, and several others, and mounting, they rode off, Henry and Shif’less Sol watching from the bush as well as they could, and following.  The way of the officers led through a great plantation but partially redeemed from the ancient forest.  Cane and grain fields were on either side of the path, and presently they approached a large house of only one story, built of wood, and surrounded by a wide veranda supported with posts at regular intervals.  This house was built around a court in the center of which was a clear pool.