Vast masses of vines and creepers pulled down the trees, and on many of the vines deep red roses were blooming.

Then came areas of solemn live oaks and gloomy cypresses, where no mockingbirds were singing.
He rode for half a mile along a deep lagoon or bayou, he did not know which, and saw hawks swoop down and draw fish from its dark surface.
The whole scene was ugly and cruel, and he was glad when he left it and entered the woods again.

Once he thought he heard the mellow voice of a negro singing, but that was the only sound, save the flitting of small wild animals through the undergrowth.
He came, mid-afternoon, to a river, which he made his horse swim boldly and then entered forest that seemed more dense than ever.

But the ground here was firmer and he was glad of a chance to rest both himself and his mount.

He dismounted, tethered the horse and stretched his own limbs, weary from riding.
It was a pretty little glade, surrounded by high forest, fitted for rest and peace, but his horse reared suddenly and tried to break loose.