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.
There was a heavy crashing in the undergrowth and a deer, wild with alarm,
darting within a dozen feet of Dick, disappeared in the forest, running
madly.
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