The great river teemed with life.  There were flocks of herons and cranes and water pelicans, and I know not what other birds, and as we slipped under the banks we often heard the paroquets chattering in the forests.  And once, as we drifted into an inlet at sunset, we caught sight of the shaggy head of a bear above the brown water, and leaping down into the cabin I primed the rifle that stood there and shot him.  It took the seven of us to drag him on board, and then I cleaned and skinned him as Tom had taught me, and showed Jean how to put the caul fat and liver in rows on a skewer and wrap it in the bear’s handkerchief and roast it before the fire.  Nick found no difficulty in eating this—­it was a dish fit for any gourmand.

We passed the great, red Chickasaw Bluff, which sits facing westward looking over the limitless Louisiana forests, where new and wondrous vines and flowers grew, and came to the beautiful Walnut Hills crowned by a Spanish fort.  We did not stop there to exchange courtesies, but pressed on to the Grand Gulf, the grave of many a keel boat before and since.  This was by far the most dangerous place on the Mississippi, and Xavier was never weary of recounting many perilous escapes there, or telling how such and such a priceless cargo had sunk in the mud by reason of the lack of skill of particular boatmen he knew of.  And indeed, the Canadian’s face assumed a graver mien after the Walnut Hills were behind us.

“You laugh, Michie,” he said to Nick, a little resentfully.  “I who speak to you say that there is four foot on each side of ze bateau.  Too much tafia, a little too much excite—­” and he made a gesture with his hand expressive of total destruction; “ze tornado, I would sooner have him—­”

“Bah!” said Nick, stroking Xavier’s black beard, “give me the tiller.  I will see you through safely, and we will not spare the tafia either.”  And he began to sing a song of Xavier’s own:—­

         “’Marianson, dame jolie,
          Ou est alle votre mari?’”

“Ah, toujours les dames!” said Xavier.  “But I tell you, Michie, le diable,—­he is at ze bottom of ze Grand Gulf and his mouth open—­so.”  And he suited the action to the word.

At night we tied up under the shore within earshot of the mutter of the place, and twice that night I awoke with clinched hands from a dream of being spun fiercely against the rock of which Xavier had told, and sucked into the devil’s mouth under the water.  Dawn came as I was fighting the mosquitoes,—­a still, sultry dawn with thunder muttering in the distance.