And as we sped I could hear her murmuring to herself: "Jean Coeur! Jean Coeur! Enfin! Me voici en chemin!" North, always north we journeyed, moving swiftly on a level runway, or, at fault, checked until the Sagamore found the path, sometimes picking our dangerous ways over the glistening bog, from swale to log, now leaping for some solid root or bunch of weed, now swinging across quicksands, hanging to tested branches by our hands.
Duller grew the light as the foliage overhead became denser, until we could scarce see the warning glimmer of the bog.

Closer, taller, more unkempt grew the hemlocks on every hand.

In the ghostly twilight we could not distinguish their separate spectral trunks, so close they grew together.

And it seemed like two solid walls through which wound a dusky corridor of mud and bitter tasting water.
Then, far ahead a level gleam caught my eye.

Nearer it grew and brighter; and presently out of the grewsome darkness of the swamp we stepped into a lovely oval intervale of green ferns and grasses, set with oak trees, and a clear, sweet thread of water dashing through it, and spraying the tall ferns along its banks so that they quivered and glistened with the sparkling drops.