Little by little our conversation lapsed into silence; for the narrow trail we followed was a most difficult one, and at times taxed our ingenuity to the utmost.  It led through dense dark woods, fortunately free from underbrush, skirted the uncertain edges of numerous marshes in the soft ooze of which the hoofs of our horses sank dangerously, and for several miles followed the sinuous course of a small but rapid stream, the name of which I have forgotten.  There were few openings in the thick forest-growth, and the matted branches overhead, interlaced with luxuriant wild vines, so completely shut out all vestige of the sun that we toiled onward, hour after hour, in continuous twilight.

What mysterious signs our guides followed, I was not sufficiently expert in woodcraft to determine.  To my eyes,—­and I sought to observe with care,—­there was nowhere visible the slightest sign that others had ever preceded us; it was all unbroken, virgin wilderness, marked only by slow centuries of growth.  The accumulation of moss on the tree-trunks, as well as the shading of the leaves, told me that we continued to journey almost directly westward; and there was no perceptible hesitancy in our steady progress, save as we deviated from it here and there because of natural obstacles too formidable to be directly surmounted.

We skirted immense trees, veritable monarchs of the ages, hoary with time, grim guardians of such forest solitudes; climbed long hills roughened by innumerable boulders with sharp edges hidden beneath the fallen leaves, that lamed our horses; or descended into dark and gloomy ravines, dank with decaying vegetation, finally halting for a brief meal upon the southern edge of a small lake, the water of which was as clear and blue as the cloudless August sky that arched it.  The sand of the shore where we rested was white as snow, yet De Croix had his man spread a cloak upon it before he ventured to sit down, and with care tucked a lace handkerchief about his throat to prevent stray crumbs from soiling the delicate yellow of his waistcoat.

“One might fancy this was to be your wedding day, Monsieur,” observed Wells, sarcastically, as he marked these dainty preparations, and noted with disgust the attentive negro hovering near.  “We are not perfumed courtiers dancing at the court of Versailles.”

De Croix glanced about him carelessly.

“Mon Dieu, no,” he said, tapping the lid of a richly chased silver snuff-box with his slender fingers.  “Yet, my dear friend, a French gentleman cannot wholly forget all that belongs to the refinements of society, even in the heart of the wilderness.  Sam, by any foul chance did you overlook the lavender water?”

“No, sah; it am safe in de saddle-bags.”

“And the powder-puff, the small hand-mirror, and the curling-iron?”

“I saw to ebery one ob dem, sah.”

De Croix gave a deep sigh of relief, and rested back upon the cloak, negligently crossing his legs.