The chief difference between this spot and any on either side, was that the mangrove boughs had apparently been trained to hang so low that the roots were invisible.
Tentatively, Brice drew aside an armful of branches, just above the waiting dog.

And, as though he had pulled back a curtain, he found himself facing a well-defined path, cut through the tangled thicket of root and trunk and bough--a path that wound out of sight in the dark recesses of the swamps.
Roots had been cleared away and patches of water filled with them and with earth.

Here and there a plank bridge spanned a gap of deeper water.

Altogether--so far as Brice could judge in the fading light--the path was an excellent bit of rustic engineering.

And it was hidden as cunningly from casual eyes as ever was a hermit thrush's nest.
Some one had been at much pains and at more expense, to lay out and develop that secret trail.