milky haze stretched between us and the cloudless sky above.  The sun’s rays pierced it and gathered fire; the mighty river beside us rolled listless and sullen, flinging back the heat defiantly.  And on our left was a tropical forest in all its bewildering luxuriance, the live-oak, the hackberry, the myrtle, the Spanish bayonet in bristling groups, and the shaded places gave out a scented moisture like an orangery; anon we passed fields of corn and cotton, swamps of rice, stretches of poverty-stricken indigo plants, gnawed to the stem by the pest.  Our ponies ambled on, unmindful; but Nick vowed that no woman under heaven would induce him to undertake such a journey again.

Some three miles out of the city we descried two figures on horseback coming towards us, and quickly perceived that one was a gentleman, the other his black servant.  They were riding at a more rapid pace than the day warranted, but the gentleman reined in his sweating horse as he drew near to us, eyed us with a curiosity tempered by courtesy, bowed gravely, and put his horse to a canter again.

“Phew!” said Nick, twisting in his saddle, “I thought that all Creoles were lazy.”

“We have met the exception, perhaps,” I answered.  “Did you take in that man?”

“His looks were a little remarkable, come to think of it,” answered Nick, settling down into his saddle again.

Indeed, the man’s face had struck me so forcibly that I was surprised out of an inquiry which I had meant to make of him, namely, how far we were from the Saint-Gre plantation.  We pursued our way slowly, from time to time catching a glimpse of a dwelling almost hid in the distant foliage, until at length we came to a place a little more pretentious than those which we had seen.  From the road a graceful flight of wooden steps climbed the levee and descended on the far side to a boat landing, and a straight vista cut through the grove, lined by wild orange trees, disclosed the white pillars and galleries of a far-away plantation house.  The grassy path leading through the vista was trimly kept, and on either side of it in the moist, green shade of the great trees flowers bloomed in a profusion of startling colors,—­in splotches of scarlet and white and royal purple.

Nick slipped from his horse.

“Behold the mansion of Mademoiselle de Saint-Gre,” said he, waving his hand up the vista.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I am told by a part of me that never lies, Davy,” he answered, laying his hand upon his heart; “and besides,” he added, “I should dislike devilishly to go too far on such a day and have to come back again.”

“We will rest here,” I said, laughing, “and send in Benjy to find out.”

“Davy,” he answered, with withering contempt, “you have no more romance in you than a turnip.  We will go ourselves and see what befalls.”

“Very well, then,” I answered, falling in with his humor, “we will go ourselves.”