as they went on,
forming an impenetrable tangle on either side, and pressing so closely
above that they often needed to lower their heads to avoid the blow of
some drooping branch. Then a sudden and unlooked for turn in the bayou
carried them out upon the far-spreading waters of the lake, with the
broad canopy of the open sky above them.

"Oh," cried Melicent, in surprise. Her exclamation was like a sigh of
relief which comes at the removal of some pressure from body or brain.

The wildness of the scene caught upon her erratic fancy, speeding it
for a quick moment into the realms of romance. She was an Indian
maiden of the far past, fleeing and seeking with her dusky lover some
wild and solitary retreat on the borders of this lake, which offered
them no seeming foot-hold save such as they would hew themselves with
axe or tomahawk. Here and there, a grim cypress lifted its head above
the water, and spread wide its moss covered arms inviting refuge to
the great black-winged buzzards that circled over and about it in
mid-air. Nameless voices--weird sounds that awake in a Southern forest
at twilight's approach,--were crying a sinister welcome to the
settling gloom.

"This is a place thet can make a man sad, I tell you," said Gregoire,
resting his oars, and wiping the moisture from his forehead. "I
wouldn't want to be yere alone, not fur any money."

"It is an awful place," replied Melicent with a little appreciative
shudder; adding "do you consider me a bodily protection?" and feebly
smiling into his face.

"Oh; I ain't 'fraid o' any thing I can see an on'erstan'. I can han'le
mos' any thing thet's got a body. But they do tell some mighty queer
tales 'bout this lake an' the pine hills yonda."

"Queer--how?"

"W'y, ole McFarlane's buried up there on the hill; an' they's folks
'round yere says he walks about o' nights; can't res' in his grave fur
the niggas he's killed."

"Gracious! and who was old McFarlane?"

"The meanest w'ite man thet ever lived, seems like. Used to own this
place long befo' the Lafirmes got it. They say he's the person that
Mrs. W'at's her name wrote about in Uncle Tom's Cabin."

"Legree? I wonder if it could be true?" Melicent asked with interest.

"Thet's w'at they all say: ask any body."

"You'll take me to his grave, won't you Gregoire," she entreated.

"Well, not this evenin'--I reckon not. It'll have to be broad day, an'
the sun shinin' mighty bright w'en I take you to ole McFarlane