fifty years ago, you know, and that's nothing to him. He
remembers the Indian attack."

"Ponce de Leon, too, I suppose; or, to go back to the old country,
Cleopatra. But you must give up the swamp, Carl. I positively forbid it.
The air inside is thick and deadly, to say nothing of the other dangers.
How do you suppose it gained its name?"

"Diabolus is common enough as a title among Spaniards and Italians; it
don't mean anything. The prince of darkness never lives in the places
called by his name; he likes baptized cities better."

"Death lives there, however; and I brought you down here to cure you."

"I'm all right. See how much stronger I am! I shall soon be quite well
again, old man," answered Carl, with the strange, sanguine faith of the
consumptive.

The next day Deal worked very hard. He had a curious, inflexible,
possibly narrow kind of conscience, which required him to do double duty
to-day in order to make up for the holiday granted to Carl to-morrow.
There was no task-master over him; even the seasons were not
task-masters here. But so immovable were his own rules for himself that
nothing could have induced him to abate one jot of the task he had laid
out in his own mind when he started afield at dawn.

When he returned home at sunset, somewhat later than usual, Carl was
absent. Old Scipio could give no information; he had not seen "young
marse" since early morning. Deal put up his tools, ate something, and
then, with a flask in his pocket, a fagot of light-wood torches bound on
his back, and one of these brilliant, natural flambeaux in his hand, he
started away on his search, going down one of the orange-aisles, the
light gleaming back through the arch till he reached the far end, when
it disappeared. He crossed an old indigo-field, and pushed his way
through its hedge of Spanish-bayonets, while the cacti sown along the
hedge--small, flat green plates with white spines, like hideous tufted
insects--fastened themselves viciously on the strong leather of his high
boots. Then, reaching the sugar waste, he advanced a short distance on
the old causeway, knelt down, and in the light of the torch examined its
narrow, sandy level. Yes, there were the footprints he had feared to
find. Carl had gone again into the poisonous swamp--the beautiful,
deadly South Devil. And this time he had not come back.

The elder brother rose, and with the torch held downward slowly traced
the footmarks. There was a path, or rath