Beyond it, to southward, the open plain was dotted with country-houses, brick-kilns, clumps of live-oak and groves of pecan.

At the hour mentioned the outlines of these objects were already darkening.

At one or two points the sky was reflected from marshy ponds.

Out to westward rose conspicuously the old house and willow-copse of Jean Poquelin.

Down the empty street or road, which stretched with arrow-like straightness toward the northwest, the draining-canal that gave it its name tapered away between occasional overhanging willows and beside broken ranks of rotting palisades, its foul, crawling waters blushing, gilding and purpling under the swiftly waning light, and ending suddenly in the black shadow of the swamp.